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  It wasn’t until after her second cup of coffee that Jo began to feel better, and was less sharp with her poor patients who had done nothing to deserve her criticism or her possibly justified (but perhaps a little too blunt) judgements on their lifestyles. There was at least one poor man who had left her surgery convinced that if he didn’t change his ways he’d be dead within a few months. Jo just hoped that the news inspired him to give up the ten pints and an Indian takeaway every night and didn’t cause him such despair that it drove him to even worse excess. And yes, she had to admit, she felt a complete hypocrite telling him to cut down on his drinking while knowing that she was having a go at him because she had had too much alcohol the night before.

  Once the last patient had gone, Jo leant back with a sigh. At least she had finished early enough to take a brief break for lunch before visits. Then she remembered, horror of horrors, this afternoon was baby clinic. She had better get her act together before that, or all those screaming babies would completely finish her off. She washed her cof- fee mug in the sink, filled it with cold water and took a long draught. Maybe getting rehydrated wouldn’t solve every problem, but at least it was making a start on one of them.

  The District General Hospital had a mortuary set slightly apart from the main hospital buildings. The Chapel of Rest was marked clearly, but the mortuary entrance was to one side, screened by a row of sick- ly-looking Leylandii, and was left plain and unmarked so that the gen- eral public would remain unaware of its purpose. No hospital wants to be too closely associated with death. Death is always seen as a failure in hospitals, an admission that doctors are not infallible.

  Jo had to steel herself to push open the door and walk down the windowless corridor to the lift at the end. It was almost a year since she had been attacked in the subterranean mortuary and her dear friend and mentor Dr Ian Dunbar the pathologist had been killed. Al- though she had been back many times since, she would never feel as relaxed about visiting the mortuary as she had been before his death. A strangely quiet and peaceful place before, it was now filled with too many violent memories.

  A locum pathologist, or rather a series of locum pathologists, had been working in the mortuary while the hospital tried to recruit a permanent consultant. Jo sorely missed Ian with his gentle, good-humoured ways and endless patience, happy to take the time to explain the meaning of his findings to doctors, nurses, relatives or policemen, in a way that they would understand. She still felt a small pang of sad- ness that he wouldn’t be sitting at the desk, sipping Earl Grey tea and jabbing at the computer with two fingers, not least because the locum who was currently taking his place was so irritating. Lucy Cavendish was a thin, colourless woman with a pointy face and a permanent look of discontent, probably because she felt her current position was be- neath her. She had been forced to take locum posts after failing to find a permanent position where she had trained, and there was enough concern about her working practices at Hastings General to mean she was unlikely to be offered one here.

  Jo walked down the corridor, checking the stockrooms and post mortem room as she went by; they all seemed empty. When she got to the main office, she knocked on the door and poked her head in- side the room. It too was deserted, and incredibly neat. Gone was the friendly disarray that Ian had worked in; the porcelain tea set, the bis- cuit barrel, the photos tacked to the board – some family, some grue- some examples of autopsies he had done – and the piles and piles of paper that were testament to his distrust of, and inability to use, the computer. Now, that computer seemed to be the only feature of the of- fice; apart from a few text books on the shelf, and a filing cabinet, there was nothing other than a desk and chair in the room, and certainly nothing of a personal nature.

  Jo went back out into the corridor.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, hoping that some one was there and would hear her.

  ‘Hey Doc, how’s it going?’

  Jo turned to see Jim, the pathology technician, a skinny, wrinkled man, old before his time because of his addiction to cigarettes, who had more tattoos than teeth. Despite his unprepossessing appearance Jo liked him, and not just because he was a good source of information and gossip.

  ‘Hello Jim. All fine. How’s it going here?’ They both looked at the closed office door.

  ‘Is Lucy around?’

  ‘Dr Cavendish has gone to the medical meeting at the Post Grad centre. Can I help?’ Jim had come out of the laundry room and was holding several clean sheets and stretcher linens for the patient trol- leys.

  ‘I just wanted to know when I was likely to get the report on the sudden death at the residential home,’ Jo asked, although they both knew she was really asking if Giles Townsend had been autopsied.

  ‘I’m not sure if the report’s finished yet.’ Jim gave her a look that told Jo that he knew the report wasn’t finished, in fact it probably wasn’t even started yet, and yes, he was aware that this delay was not really acceptable. Jim was experienced enough to know that reports needed to be done whilst the autopsy was still fresh in the patholo- gist’s memory, even though Lucy Cavendish would have talked into a Dictaphone whilst doing the procedure and would have most of the information she needed there. But if she didn’t write the report until several days later, it would be hard to go back and check on something wrong, or do something that had been forgotten. ‘We’ve got a couple of outstanding cases from the hospital,’ he finished, offering what was, at best, a very lame excuse.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Jo answered, although it wasn’t, but it was hardly Jim’s fault.

  ‘And she did the autopsy on the auto-asphyxiation this morning,’ he added, which pleased Jo as she now didn’t have to bring the subject up herself.

  ‘Was everything as expected?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He nodded happily. ‘Textbook case of auto-erotic asphyxiation.’

  ‘And the kit’s been sent to forensics?’ Jim looked embarrassed again.

  ‘Dr Cavendish hasn’t signed it off yet.’

  ‘Why ever not? Is she running tests of her own on it?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Jim sighed. ‘She’s so behind with the paperwork she hasn’t even got everything together for the Hayes case and the inquest is next week.’

  Jo wasn’t impressed.

  ‘How can she be that far behind?’ Jim shrugged.

  ‘I don’t think she can be arsed to do it. It’ll come back and bite her one day though. You mark my words.’

  Jim went off to do some work and Jo was left thinking that she hoped Lucy Cavendish did get caught out one day, just so long as it wasn’t on one of her cases. Maybe she should speak to Mike Parton. Perhaps he would be able to get the evidence on Giles Townsend sent off faster.

  Jo was just getting into her midnight blue Audi TT when her phone rang. She inwardly groaned as she saw that it was the surgery number. She was usually allowed to go home early as a perk when she did the afternoon baby clinic as nobody else wanted that particular chore and they were happy to let her go so long as she carried on facing the red-faced screaming horde of infants. She had planned an early evening catching up on household chores but it looked like she wasn’t going to get away with it.

  ‘Hiya, Jo here, what’s up?’ She answered the call.

  ‘Hi Jo,’ Linda replied. ‘We’ve had Mr Springfield on the line about his mother. He wants you to call him back, says it’s urgent.’

  Jo sighed.

  ‘Okay, thanks Linda. I’ll call him. See you tomorrow.’

  Jo didn’t call Ben Springfield straight away, but sat in the car and thought about how best to handle it. June Springfield was a long-term, barely functioning alcoholic who had refused all help for her problem ever since Jo had inherited her as a patient when she started at the surgery. Fiercely independent, her current, and more pressing prob- lem, wasn’t her alcohol intake, or even the anxiety and depression that Jo knew was the underlying problem but that she had recently been diagnosed with cancer of the head of pancreas. True to form, she
was refusing all treatment for the cancer, which didn’t worry Jo greatly because, according to the oncologist, it was terminal and she had a matter of months, or possibly only weeks, to live and, true to form again, she was also refusing to allow Jo to tell her son. Jo had tried her very best to get June to tell Ben what her diagnosis and prognosis were, but she had point-blank refused and wasn’t going to let Jo tell him either. Meanwhile, Ben thought her only problem was her alcohol intake and increasing age, and he kept trying to persuade his mother to go into a home. Despite Jo’s attempts, June refused all help and often told Jo that it would be best for everyone if she died now rather than later, and no, she wasn’t depressed and no, she didn’t want to see a psychiatrist. For all that she was a difficult patient, Jo had a soft spot for her. She was intelligent, witty and, despite wanting to die, came across as sane, so it was hard to know what a psychiatrist would be able to do, even if June allowed one to see her.

  Ben Springfield, June’s only son, and only relative as far as Jo knew, wanted his mother to live and be well again. He was in his early thirties and had spent recent years as his mother’s carer, when she let him. Jo had his number in her contacts because he had called on many occasions although there was only so much she could tell him. Until his mother gave her permission to help, there was nothing more she could do apart from the few supportive measures she already gave and which were accepted. As she dialled his number, she ran through everything she had done and tried to do in the past to see if there was anything she had missed. She had tried to persuade his mother to let Jo refer her to the Palliative Care Team, she had tried to get her to see a psychiatrist, and she had tried prescribing antidepressants and painkillers, but so far, June had not cooperated with anything she did and had refused all help, because she just wanted to be left alone to die. Try as she might, Jo wasn’t sure there was anything else she could do.

  ‘Hello, Dr Hughes here, Ben,’ Jo said when he picked up.

  ‘Dr Hughes, thank you so much for calling back. It’s my mother.’ As if it was going to be about anyone else. ‘I’ve suggested, again, that she come and stay with me and my wife for a while, as she seems to be getting weaker, but she won’t have it.’ Jo could have told him that. ‘And I’m sure she’s in pain from somewhere, although she denies it, of course, but shouldn’t she see a specialist or something? I mean there’s definitely something wrong, more than just the alcohol, I mean.’

  And so the phone call with Ben went along predictable lines with a discussion about his worries, which were legitimate, and what she could and couldn’t do for his mother. It ended with her once again agreeing to visit his mother in the next few days, if she could persuade Mrs Springfield to let her in. No matter that the visit would make no difference; she knew it would make Ben feel better that someone was at least responding to his concerns even if no one except his mother could actually tell him the truth of the situation.

  Once she was back at her home, Jo would have liked nothing more than to pour herself a glass of ice-cold Pinot Grigio, but the thought of June Springfield, not to mention her morning hangover, changed her mind and she made herself a mug of lemon and ginger tea instead. She took her tea and looked out of her living room windows at the view of Hastings old town below her.

  It only took a few minutes for the view, and the tea, to work their magic and make her feel more relaxed and content. Studiously ignor- ing the flashing of her answer phone, she took her mug over to the sofa and switched on the television. Jo was pretty sure any phone messages would be from her mother, who would be well into her second G&T by now. If she didn’t want to get into an argument, she needed to wait until morning before responding. If it was anything urgent, her fa- ther would have called her work mobile, a number she had made him promise never to give to her mother. Because Jo knew she would never get a moment’s peace if he did.

  She had missed the six o’clock news and the local news had just started.

  ‘Good evening.’ The programme anchor, a man in his thirties, smiled before putting on his serious face. ‘Tonight, an unexpected turn in the case of the senior Crown Prosecution Service lawyer, Doreen Ponting, found over the drink drive limit behind the wheel of her car last week.’ A picture of a Honda Civic flashed up on the screen, parked in a wooded area with the driver’s door open. There was a woman in the seat but the details of her face and body were heavily pixilated, but not heavily enough that you couldn’t see that she was pretty much na- ked. The picture then cut to footage of Ms Ponting leaving the police station after she had been charged. She looked dreadful, as if she had the hangover from hell.

  ‘Vanessa Cardham is at Ms Ponting’s home.’ The anchor said, giving his audience the benefit of his best serious-but-interested look.

  The camera cut to a young woman clutching a microphone and standing outside a good-sized family home.

  ‘I’m standing outside the home of Doreen Ponting, the Head of East Sussex Crown Prosecution Service, who earlier made a statement regarding the charge made against her of drink driving.’

  The report cut to a pre-recorded segment.

  Doreen Ponting was dressed in the formal and severe black suit that she always wore for work and she looked haggard, although not as haggard as she had looked when filmed leaving the police station. Jo thought she would have done better to soften her look a bit, even if just with a scarf or some jewellery. It might have got her more sympathy than the hard-nosed career woman look. Jo was interested to see a middle-aged man standing behind her, immaculately dressed in a grey suit and blue tie, hands behind his back and staring resolutely at his feet. Mr Ponting, Jo decided, and if the situation was embarrassing for his wife, how hard must it be for him?

  Doreen Ponting cleared her throat and rattled the paper she was holding.

  ‘I am here today to tell you that I absolutely deny the charges against me and that I will strenuously fight them. I have been set up by someone for reasons as yet unknown, but I wish to make it clear that I have never driven whilst under the influence of drink or drugs, that I do not frequent places such as the one where I was found and that I am not in the habit of...’ Her voice broke slightly and her husband looked up briefly before returning to the examination of his shoes. ‘I am not in the habit of sitting unclothed in my car. I believe the fact that the press were called before the police and that photographs were taken before the arrival of either support my belief that this was a carefully staged scene for the purpose of undermining my reputation and I intend to find out who is responsible. Thank you.’ She turned and took her husband’s hand, giving him a small anxious smile.

  There was a sudden outburst as journalists fired questions at her.

  ‘Is your husband standing by you, Ms Ponting?’

  ‘Who would want to set you up like this?’

  ‘What does Mr Ponting think about dogging?’

  Doreen Ponting turned back to the camera. Jo held her breath. She hoped the poor woman wasn’t going to answer that final question.

  ‘I have put a lot of bad people away in my time,’ she answered and Jo heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I think it is highly likely that one of them is trying to humiliate me as an act of revenge or to prevent me from continuing to prosecute them. I want to be absolutely clear to that person that I will find them and that I won’t be intimidated.’ And once again Doreen Ponting turned away from the camera and walked firmly up her front steps, back ramrod straight, husband in tow, and closed the door against the rush of further questions being hurled after her. A good performance, but was it good enough and was it the truth? Jo had no doubt that there were indeed many people who would like to get their own back on the prosecutor, but to set this up they would have had to get her drunk and drive her to the dogging site in her own car and then undress her. That seemed an awfully difficult set of actions to complete without her knowing it was happening and without anyone witnessing it. Surely it was more likely that she had gone there under her own steam and met up with someone who perhaps had give
n her some more alcohol or drugs? Jo wasn’t sure she was convinced Ms Ponting was completely innocent and what was more, in that brief moment when her husband looked up, Jo was pretty sure he didn’t think so either.

  Chapter 5

  Morning surgery had been something of a nightmare and Jo was cross and running late as she hurried into the office and collided with Richard, the latest new registrar to do his GP training with them. As they both stooped to pick up the files and reports that had fallen everywhere as a result of the collision, Richard apologised profusely. Several times.

  ‘I’m s-s-so sorry, Dr Hughes,’ he stuttered, blushing dreadfully. ‘It was all my fault.’

  ‘Please call me Jo, Richard, and I think you’ll find it was my fault for rushing through the door without looking. You just happened to be standing there.’

  Jo’s admission of guilt didn’t stop him from apologising.

  ‘Sorry Dr Hu... Jo,’ he said quickly, as if he wasn’t at ease using her first name. ‘I wondered if I could have a word, but obviously you won’t have time now. I quite understand.’

  Having answered his own request, he turned to go and Jo had to call him back.

  ‘Richard! Of course I have time,’ she lied. ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘A patient,’ he replied tentatively.

  ‘Yes?’ She had to bite her lip to stop herself from asking him to narrow it down a bit. She had more than two thousand patients on her list so she could hardly be expected to guess which one it was. She honestly wondered if Richard would ever make it as a GP.

  ‘A, um, Mr Herring.’ He finally managed to say and fished around in the bag he was carrying, pulling out a very thick wad of paper that was, she saw to her dismay, a print out of Mr Herring’s notes. She glanced at her watch. She really didn’t have time to discuss Mr Her- ring’s long and convoluted interactions with herself and pretty much every other doctor in the practice and a fair number at the hospital as well. It had to be said that Mr Herring was well known to health service providers across Hastings and beyond.