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As Paul breaks down, Shelly gives Jennie and Martin a stern look. ‘That’s enough. His heart can’t take all this. Please, think of his health, he’s been through so much.’
Haven’t we all? thinks Jennie.
As she stands up to leave, Jennie hands one of her business cards to po-faced Shelly, but looks at Paul as she says, ‘Thank you for sharing that with us. We’ll be in touch as and when we get updates, and we might need to speak to you again. In the meantime, if you think of anything else, no matter how small or seemingly unrelated, please get in touch.’
Martin tucks his notepad back into his pocket and gets up to follow. As Jennie moves back across the room, she realises there are no pictures of Hannah here. There’s a set of black-framed wedding pictures with Paul and Shelly smiling down from the wall behind the sofa, and a collection of silver-framed photos on the wall unit, but none include Hannah. If Hannah really was Paul’s ‘sweet angel’, wouldn’t he want at least one picture of her in his lounge?
Paul hurries up behind them as they reach the door. Turning, Jennie sees the anguish on his face. ‘Mr Jennings?’
‘Find them, please,’ says Paul. His eyes are damp, his voice pleading. ‘Find who did this to my little girl.’
Chapter 7
Rob
Rob Marwood climbs out of the black cab and shivers. London is a hell of a lot colder than St Lucia, that’s for damn sure. He makes the short trip across the pavement to the white stone steps of his apartment building, then picks up his wheelie case and carries it up to the front door. It feels weird to be back in crowded, dirty London again. His building’s five-storey, white-painted Georgian stone frontage, with its heavy black front door and matching iron balcony railings, is a far cry from the beach bungalow that he’s called his home for the last two weeks.
Letting himself in, he takes the lift to the top floor and enters his penthouse apartment. It’s spotless, as always, and bathed in the soft, amber glow of the setting sun. Rob smiles. He’s lived in a few places over the years, but this is definitely his favourite. And, he supposes, it should be. He’d hired the much sought-after designer, Jared Dominic, to gut the place and redesign it in a masculine yet light-filled way.
Leaving his wheelie case just inside the door, Rob walks across the dark hardwood floor of the entryway to the open living space. After all the travelling, he’s gasping for some caffeine. Thank God, his housekeeper Sandra has stocked the fridge and made sure there’s freshly ground coffee waiting for him to brew. Switching on the machine, he picks up the neat stack of post that Sandra’s left for him on the quartz countertop and flicks through the envelopes.
Credit card bill, wedding invitation to a distant cousin’s nuptials, bill, bill … His heart rate accelerates when he sees the official NHS Trust logo on the front of one of the envelopes. Ripping it open, Rob speed-reads the letter.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This is a nightmare.
His hand trembles as he dials his lawyer’s number – his mobile, not his landline. Rob doesn’t want to have to faff around being put through by an assistant. He needs advice. Now.
‘Jefferson Barclay.’ The lawyer’s plummy tone sounds as self-satisfied as always.
‘Jeff, it’s Rob Marwood. There’s a problem.’
‘Rob, I thought you were off gallivanting in the Caribbean?’ chuckles Jeff.
‘I just flew back,’ says Rob, talking fast. He needs to get Jeff’s view. Needs help. ‘Look, I’ve just received formal notice. The patient’s wife has filed an appeal. They’re saying I was negligent. That I killed him.’ He glances back at the letter in his hand; the words seem to vibrate on the paper. ‘They’re saying further evidence has come to light; apparently there are several new witness statements alleging I was under the influence while on duty.’
‘I see,’ says Jeff. His tone is even: there’s no judgement but no support either.
‘What?’ asks Rob, becoming more exasperated. ‘You see what?’
‘It’s a figure of speech, old man,’ says Jeff, amicably. ‘Obviously I need to take a look at these new statements, but we faced down the previous investigation successfully, so I don’t think you need to be losing any sleep over this.’
‘Not lose any sleep? Jesus! This isn’t a slap-on-the-wrist situation. They’re saying I was high at work, Jeff. I’m invited to a disciplinary hearing in ten days’ time.’ Rob’s hand is shaking. He sets the phone down on the countertop and puts it on speaker. ‘They’re going to strike me off and throw me to the goddamn wolves.’
‘Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ says Jeff, his voice steady, calming. ‘They have to prove the negligence.’
Rob feels anything but calm. He shakes his head. ‘But I told the board already that it was a miscalculation. I’ve already put my hands up to that. And they said they weren’t referring it on any further. They said it was done, gone away.’
‘And it will be,’ says Jeff. ‘There were extenuating circumstances, I believe?’
‘Well … I … The patient notes weren’t very clear. We had a lot of emergencies coming in, stuff was coming through to me half completed or barely decipherable. It was like a bloody war zone …’
‘Exactly. And you’d been working a double shift, and it was the fourth time that week you’d done a double,’ says Jeff, smoothly. ‘You were dog-tired, but they needed you and you’re a loyal employee. I remember you told me there was a lot of sickness in the medical team so you were thin on the ground, and the patient was in a critical situation, yes?’
Rob nods. ‘Life or death. He was bleeding out. I had to put him under quickly so they could operate.’
‘Indeed, you were doing your best in extremely challenging circumstances,’ says Jeff, his tone soothing. ‘But in high-stress situations it’s easy to make mistakes, especially when you’ve not had the legal number of rest hours. You had an old sporting injury that was playing up, so you’d taken something for the pain. If, as they allege, you made a mistake, it was tragic, yes, but a mistake none the less. And your employer is the negligent party here, they were responsible for your welfare and the patient’s – they put you, their employee, in an impossible situation. They forced you to work far more hours than the law allows when you were already below par, without proper rest periods. Mistakes in that environment are sadly inevitable, and that is what we’ll argue.’
