Something stirring at the back of his mind made Macmillan look back a couple of pages to the piece on Paul Schreiber. It wasn’t the murder that had caught his attention, it was the bit about his being involved in ‘a new health initiative’. He leaned over and pressed the intercom button. ‘Jean, what was the name of that Tory MP who committed suicide the other day?’
‘John Carlisle, sir.’
Ye gods, that was it. Carlisle was the figurehead at the time of… Macmillan willed the name to come to him. The Northern Health Scheme, that was it. John Carlisle had been health secretary back then and had been credited with introducing a revolutionary, computerised new health initiative in the north of England, which by all accounts had been hugely successful.
But then… what? Macmillan found to his embarrassment that he couldn’t remember much more. Carlisle had seemed to fade from popular view although only a few months before he had been touted as a possible future leader of the Conservative Party. The new, computerised health scheme had also disappeared. ‘How very strange,’ he said aloud.
‘What is, Sir John?’ asked Jean Roberts’s voice. Macmillan had left the intercom on. He switched it off without apology. His mind was now on other things, spreading its horizons. It was all a very long time ago and the Tories had been voted out of office in ’97, but the fact that Carlisle’s career had come to such an abrupt end in the preceding parliament, and such a hugely successful health initiative had ground to a halt without explanation now struck him as very odd.
‘Jean, I need all you can get me on something called the Northern Health Scheme, operating around the early nineties in the north of England at a time when John Carlisle was Secretary of State for Health.’
‘How soon, Sir John?’
‘Yesterday.’
He knew that there would be no Sci-Med files on the subject as this was before the inception of the unit, but Jean would use press archives in the first instance and augment them with government information where necessary. He got the first of her results an hour later.
He couldn’t have told anyone what he was looking for as he leafed through the pages; he didn’t know himself, but he knew that he’d recognise it when he found it, and a few minutes later he did, in the list of people responsible for the running of the short-lived Northern Health Scheme introduced in November 1991. Apart from John Carlisle, one Charles French of Deltasoft was there: the Charles French who had just been blown to bits in Paris… along with Antonia Freeman.
‘Hell and damnation,’ whispered Macmillan, tapping his pen on the desk in a gesture of annoyance as something else occurred to him. He looked back at the material on Martin Freeman to make doubly sure. Yes, it was the same hospital: College Hospital, Newcastle.
Macmillan looked into the middle distance for a long time before realising that the dull headache that had been plaguing him for the past few days was getting worse. In fact, it was becoming unbearable. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he held his hands to his temples.
‘Jean, I need some help in here…’
FIVE
‘You seem down,’ said Steven, watching Tally play more with her food than eat it. It had gone eight o’clock on Tuesday evening and Steven had prepared dinner, although ‘prepared’ was perhaps an exaggeration: he’d opened two M amp;S ready meals and heated them up. Steven didn’t cook, never had. Food had never played a big part in his life and he couldn’t quite understand all the fuss about it, particularly the hours devoted to it on television.
‘Things on my mind.’
‘Am I allowed to ask what?’
Tally gave a slight shake of the head as if reluctant to go further, but then she reconsidered. ‘It’s my mother,’ she said. ‘She’s finding it difficult to cope. Independence in the community with support or whatever they call it is just not working out.’
Steven made a face.
‘A home would kill her. She’s always said so.’
‘Most people do,’ said Steven, aware that his words could be construed as callous but still feeling it needed pointing out. ‘It really doesn’t have to be that bad.’
‘How many of these places have you seen?’ snapped Tally.
‘Not many.’
Tally’s stare demanded more.
‘None.’
‘She’s my mother, Steven. The woman who brought me into the world, comforted me when I was down, encouraged me when I was unsure, cheered for me when I won things, found excuses for when I didn’t. She made me what I am. I wouldn’t be comforting other people’s kids on a daily basis if she hadn’t done that for me. Don’t you understand?’
‘Yup, I had one just like her,’ said Steven.
Tally digested the comment for a moment, acknowledging the truth of what Steven was saying but unwilling to give ground. She rested her head in her hands, considering other ways to get her point across. ‘I just cannot bear the thought of putting my mother into one of these places where she’ll end up watching daytime fucking television until she dies. No one deserves that.’
‘Which brings us to the alternatives.’
Tally leaned forward and let her fingers slip through her hair to the back of her head. ‘And there aren’t any… Right?’
‘My work situation is not good enough for you to give up your job to look after your mother,’ said Steven.
‘I know, I know… but thanks for the thought. Look, I don’t want to discuss it any more tonight. My sister Jackie’s coming up from Dorset at the weekend. We’ll talk about it then.’
‘I think you once mentioned having two sisters,’ said Steven. ‘But you never got round to telling me their names.’
Tally smiled. ‘I suppose there’s still quite a lot we don’t know about each other.
‘Then we shouldn’t get bored.’
‘If you say so,’ said Tally, relaxing a little. ‘You’ll like Jackie. She’s fun.’
‘Anything else on your mind?’
‘Yes, the constant struggle to get medication approved for our cancer kids. I know health budgets are not bottomless pits but come on, children are our future. We should be doing our best for them, not making endless assessments as to the likely outcome of therapy before loosening the purse strings. There are too many people pursuing too many agendas.’
‘Maybe an election will clear the air and make things easier.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘No, I just thought I’d try to cheer you up.’
‘You’re impossible.’
‘It’s a gift.’
‘Another one?’
‘You’re right. I do seem to have more than my fair share. Still, what can one do?’
Tally made to throw a cushion at him, but was interrupted by the phone ringing. She read the caller display and paused before picking up. ‘It’s John Macmillan,’ she said.
‘I’m out,’ said Steven.
Tally answered while Steven started clearing away the dinner things. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Macmillan, he’s just stepped out for a moment,’ she said as Steven left the room on his way to the kitchen. ‘Can I help?’
Steven returned from his chores to hear Tally saying, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Of course I will. He’ll be back shortly. I’ll get him to call you… Yes… Goodbye.’
