The answerphone light blinked. Moira had left me a message. ‘Sal, sixty beds at Kingsfield. Thirty-five continuing care, the rest acute, that includes assessment beds.’
It was bigger than I’d guessed but even so, Goulden’s patients had taken a tenth of the available beds in one year. On the other hand if they hadn’t stayed long perhaps it wasn’t that unusual. Then think of all the other GPs, all the other old people’s homes – there was one of them on every corner around Withington and Didsbury. The big redbrick villas that no one could afford to buy were ideal for conversion and there was no shortage of people looking for residential care. A lot of the homes had people with Alzheimer’s and continued to care for them. Was I making a mountain out of a molehill? Were six transfers in a year over the top, par for the course, or just a statistical blip?
I made a strong coffee and sat at my desk, feet up. I’d no motive, no connection. Why had my suspicions been aroused? The six referrals, the chance sighting of Goulden and Simcock together and the fuss around the tablets, Goulden’s tantrum and Mrs Knight’s lies. Innocent explanations could probably be found for any of those.
Connections. I sipped my coffee, it had no taste; catarrh had joined my list of symptoms…I could always try Harry. He was an old friend whose career in journalism and love for information had led him into the world of data bases, data retrieval and the supply of information. He was now a popular contact for investigative reporters and researchers. He specialised in the business and commercial sectors and could find out more or less anything factual about people, companies, deals and contracts. It was a long shot – I didn’t know whether his range covered the world of medicine but I’d no other ideas pending.
I got through straight away.
‘How’s it going with Sheila?’
‘Fine. I think she likes it here. She’s nice.’
‘She was over the moon when you offered her it, she rang us later. That place she was before – horrendous. So what can I do for you?’
I explained that I was looking for anything that might link any of the names Dr Kenneth Goulden, Mr Matthew Simcock and Dr Douglas Montgomery together. I already knew they were all in medicine and all worked in Manchester. ‘There’s probably nothing,’ I warned him, ‘but I’m short on ideas.’
‘It’ll be a joy,’ he said. ‘I’m up to my eyeballs in share dealings in the major utilities so this’ll be a doddle. You sound terrible,’ he commented.
‘I feel terrible, a cold.’
‘Get to bed then,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’