‘Made up her mind already,’ I said. ‘People like that don’t believe in uncertainties. She’d never admit they were wrong, I bet. Too much at stake. She was frosty, though, wasn’t she? Did you notice she never smiled, not once?’
‘It’s all happened so quickly,’ said Agnes, ‘that’s what I was trying to tell her. Lily got ill suddenly, not progressively, and today she’s much worse.’
‘You’ve never seen her like that before?’ I asked.
‘No. She’s always known me, known…’ she shook her head, grappling for words to explain, ‘known herself, even if she’s been quiet or distressed. I’m so worried.’ She broke off.
I pulled up outside her house and turned the engine off. It ticked as the metal cooled.
‘I want to see that doctor and I’d like you to be there. Sometimes people are a little dismissive because of my age. I realise you’ll want a fee and I’ll be happy to pay for your time. And I’ll ring Charles, Lily’s son. He should know. I’m sure he’d want to.’
‘Is he close to his mother?’
‘Not really. I think he functions on guilt. He sends money. He’s a very busy man.’ There was a bitter edge to her voice. ‘I must sound harsh. It just seems so unfair. Still, I shall talk to him.’
‘It might be worth contacting Lily’s former GP as well,’ I suggested. ‘The doctor I talked to said to get the whole physical history, find out the order in which things happened.’
‘Well, that’s Dr Chattaway. He’s my doctor, too. I’m sure he’ll help if he can.’
‘I’ll try and make an appointment with Dr Goulden first,’ I said. ‘Are there any days that are bad for you, any regular appointments?’
‘Nothing I can’t break.’ She smiled. ‘So you don’t think I’m being silly, wanting to know more?’
‘No, not in the least. In the end we might find that Goulden’s diagnosis is right but there’s enough doubt in my mind to ask a few more questions.’
Agnes nodded. ‘Thank you. I’d never forgive myself if there was anything…’ She sucked in a breath and let it go, unbuckled her seat belt. I got out and opened the door for her.
‘I’ll ring as soon as I’ve fixed a time.’ I waited until she’d opened the front door before turning the ignition. She waved and I drove off. It was twelve thirty, I was ravenous and a Greek feast awaited.
Rachel, my social worker contact, was one of life’s great prattlers. She burbled on over stuffed vine leaves and tzatziki, vegetarian moussaka and kebabs. I’d never worked out whether she did this to her clients as well or whether behind closed doors a listener emerged – mouth shut and all ears.
We were sipping strong coffee from dinky cups before she asked me about the case. I sketched it in for her without giving away anything that would break confidentiality.