‘
That’s not quite what I meant.’ I searched for words. ‘Miss Whittington, didn’t you —
don’t
you find that your experience will often tell you which patients are going to live; which to die?’
She
looked at me a moment before replying.
‘
Yes. I think all good nurses have that facility to an extent. But it can be wrong. I assume you felt that Mr Peters would live?’
‘
Yes, I did, but —’
‘
You must know that in our profession we cannot afford to be sentimental, either with the patients, or with ourselves.’
‘
Miss Whittington, Mr Peters was the seventh patient in the last six weeks who was either in — or had just left — ITU, to have died when I was certain that they would live.’
She
looked at me for longer this time.
‘
What exactly are you trying to say, Sister?’
‘
That I think we may have a serial killer in this hospital.’
*
Why does she stare at me so, I wondered. I found myself staring back, mesmerized, for some reason comparing our appearances … I’m not beautiful like Mary, or a sexpot like Emma. Or plain, that most dreadful of words, like Helen Armitage.
Those
who like me say that my face is elfin; those who don’t, say it is pointed. I have dark brown curling hair (worn up when on duty), hazel eyes and a clear skin. A good, although not sensational, figure. I don’t have to worry about men any more, although I did at one time. Girls at school used to make jokes about my surname, said it was what my boyfriends were always saying to me …
‘
Sister Farewell,’ Miss Whittington cut into my reverie, ‘I have thought of you as one of the better nurses we have trained in St Chad’s. It seems a shame that you should spoil that impression in so whimsical a way.’
‘
I assure you this is no whim,’ I said. ‘I have here’ — I held up the files I’d brought with me — ‘the details of all these patients. Perhaps, if we could go through them together, you will understand my anxiety.’
‘
Very well.’
I
took the files out.
‘
The first is Mr Hanbury, nearly six weeks ago …’
Paul
Hanbury, aged twenty — road traffic accident. It had been a miracle he’d survived in the first place, but after surgical repairs had been made and he’d been transfused with enough blood, there had been no reason for him to die, especially not from heart failure …
John
Thorpe, fifty-six — a myocardial infarction, like poor Peters, that had responded well to drug therapy. An otherwise healthy, optimistic man with everything to live for. He had died, apparently from another heart attack, the day he’d moved out of ITU to the Coronary Care ward.
David
Longford, forty-five — aortic aneurism repair. His death had seemed particularly hard. A man whose smile could light up the ward, he’d been unlucky enough to have an aneurism, doubly unlucky to die of heart failure after a successful operation.
Isaac
Goldman, sixty-five, a heart bypass patient. The operation had been successful and he’d just transferred to Coronary Care when he’d died, from heart failure.
Anne
Lawrence, fifty. She’d had a total hysterectomy and had gone into postoperative shock. After transfusion and drug therapy, she’d stabilized and had been about to return to the Gynae ward when she’d died, also of heart failure.
Henry
Newton, sixty-six. He’d nearly died of pneumonia, but had made a complete recovery after antibiotic treatment. He’d been about to transfer to the Medical ward, when he’d died — once again, from heart failure.
And
now, Mr Peters.
Miss
Whittington had shown increasing signs of impatience as I related these cases.
‘
Is that all of them?’ she asked when I’d finished.
‘
Yes, but I’ve also —’
‘
Four of these patients were postoperative, and you know as well as I that postoperative shock can cause heart failure.’
‘
That’s true, I know, but —’
‘
And that patients who have had one heart attack are likely to have others, even after we think they’ve stabilized.’
‘
I know that, but —’
‘
Sister Farewell, these things happen. Yes, there may have been a lot of deaths in a short time, but you will see that it evens up over a period.’
‘
I know that’s true generally,’ I said, ‘but I don’t believe it is in this case. We’ve had seven unexpected deaths in the last six weeks, making a total of twenty deaths altogether.’ I handed her the sheet of paper with my statistical analysis. ‘You can see the number of deaths we’ve had in the last eight six-week periods, which I’ve converted into percentages. I’ve worked out the standard deviation on the mean of them, and the ninety-five per cent confidence limits. You can see that the percentage of deaths we’ve had in the last six weeks falls outside these limits. In other words, they didn’t happen by chance.’
‘
But, Sister, being outside ninety-five per cent confidence limits is the same as a one in twenty chance, isn’t it? You know as well as I that that sort of coincidence occurs every day in a hospital.’
I
tried to explain that ninety-five per cent confidence limits and a one in twenty chance are not the same thing, but my own poor grasp of statistics wasn’t a help. At last she said, ‘Is there any specific person you think is behind this, Sister?’
‘
No, there isn’t at the moment, but —’
‘
So how do you think it was done?’
‘
I’m not sure, although there is a prec —’
‘
Are there any similarities between these seven patients?’
‘
Not that I’ve noticed, yet, but —’
‘
I’m afraid I’m not convinced, Sister. What were you expecting me to do about it?’
‘
I’m sorry about that. I was hoping that we’d both go to the police.’
‘
There certainly isn’t sufficient reason to do anything like that. Besides, we would have to go to the hospital manager first and I know that his reaction would be the same as mine.’
‘
Miss Whittington —’
‘
If there are any further deaths that worry you, come and tell me about them and I’ll consider speaking to the hospital manager. Until then, we do nothing. Is that clear?’
‘
Further
deaths? But I’m the one who has to —’
‘
Until then, we do nothing.
Is
that
clear
?’ She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
‘
Yes, Miss Whittington.’
‘
I’m quite sure you’ll find that we now have a period with an unnaturally low death rate. It’s the way things happen. Meanwhile, I suggest you attend to the other matter we discussed, and also write me a full report on how Mr Peters came to die unsupervised.’
As
I walked angrily back down the corridor, I tried telling myself that she was a good nurse and a good administrator (both true) and that her reaction was only to be expected. It didn’t help.
Back
in the Duty Room, Mary told me that Mr Peters was now on life support for the purposes of transplant and that everything else was running smoothly. I decided not to talk to her about the ‘other matter’ until my temper had improved.
That
night, I couldn’t sleep for thinking about things. The next morning — Saturday — I left Mary in charge and went to the city’s main police station.
Other than to produce my driving documents once, I’d never been in a police station before — sheltered upbringing, I suppose. It was so unwelcoming.
Cream
and brown paint and grubby tiles on which my shoes clacked.
A
youth in a leather jacket and filthy jeans trendily torn at the knees sat on a chair with one foot balanced on the other leg, absently picking his nose. His eyes registered my arrival, otherwise he made no reaction. There was a counter with a glass hatch and a bell push with a notice: Please ring for attention. I rang.
After
a few moments, a sergeant pulled back the sliding glass.
‘
Can I help you’ — his eyes took in my uniform — ‘ah, miss?’ He was in his late thirties, plump, with a face that might once have been good-looking, but was now puffy and dissipated, with receding hair.
I
lowered my voice. ‘I’d like to speak to someone, in confidence, about a crime that may be — er — being committed.’
‘
A crime that may be being committed,’ he repeated patronizingly. ‘And what crime might that be, miss?’
‘
Murder,’ I snapped. ‘Can I speak to somebody, please?’
‘
Oh!’ His eyebrows went up. ‘I see. To whom would you like to speak, miss?’ He had a flat Midlands accent.
‘
I don’t know. Somebody in authority. And in confidence.’
‘
And you are …?’
I
told him my name.
‘
If you’d like to take a seat, Miss Farewell’ — he indicated to where trendy knees was sitting — ‘I’ll see if there’s anybody available at the moment. Anybody in authority, that is.’
There
were only three chairs and trendy knees was sitting in the middle one. I walked slowly over to the opposite wall and waited. Glanced at my watch. Shouldn’t leave Mary on her own for too long.
I
looked round. Trendy knees was staring at me, not looking away when our eyes met. I looked above his head, at a picture of a villainous-looking man and next to it, a young woman. I was too far away to read the writing, but I could hazard a guess as to what it said …
If
someone doesn’t come soon, I thought, I shall walk out of here. Glanced at my watch again. Five more minutes, I thought.
After
three, a man in plain clothes looked round the door. ‘Miss Farewell? Would you like to come through?’ He held the door open and led me down a corridor. ‘In here, please.’ It was a tiny room, just two chairs and a formica-topped table with a battered tin ashtray.
‘
Have a seat.’ He indicated one of the chairs and we sat.
‘
I’m Detective-Inspector Anslow and I believe you want to talk about a possible murder.’ He, too, had a Midlands accent, but not so pronounced — more pleasant.
‘
Inspector, I’m in a difficult position. I believe that a crime — murders — may have been committed in the hospital where I work. I went to my senior — my boss — about it. She wasn’t very impressed and told me to do nothing. Told me not to contact the police. But I’m here and I’m asking for an assurance that our conversation is in complete confidence.’
He
regarded me in silence for a moment. He had widely-spaced grey eyes, I noticed, and fair hair over a square, chunky, rather pleasant face.
‘
That could place us in a difficult position,’ he said at last. ‘If I were to agree with you that a crime — murder — may have been committed, how could I remain silent?’
I
glanced at the ashtray between us again, opened my bag and bought out my cigarettes.
‘
I hope you don’t mind, Inspector. I don’t usually smoke during the day, but that waiting room of yours got to me.’
He
grinned. ‘And its occupant, I daresay.’ He pushed the ashtray towards me. When my cigarette was alight, he said, ‘So what are we going to do, Miss Farewell?’
‘
If you were to go to my boss,’ I said slowly, ‘and tell her what I’d said, it would do me no good at all.’
‘
That wouldn’t be the case if you were right, surely?’ he said. Then, before I could answer, ‘The best I can do for you is to give you my word that we won’t speak to your superiors unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Will that do?’
I
looked at his face. Could I trust him?
‘
I suppose it’ll have to,’ I said. Then, I told him my story. It sounded even less convincing in my ears than it had when I’d told Miss Whittington.
He
listened without interrupting, other than to ask me to slow down once or twice while he took notes. When I’d finished, he looked at me pensively for a few moments, tapping his teeth with the end of his pen.
‘
Miss Farewell, is there anyone that you suspect might be doing this?’
I
shook my head. ‘No.’
‘
Someone on your ward perhaps who gives you a bad feeling, the creeps?’
‘
There’s no one like that.’