“Yes.”
“When do you think these patients attended the clinic?”
“Approximately twenty-three years ago.”
He looked at her. “Oh, dear,” he said, and he blinked hard.
“Then I’m afraid you’ve made a wasted journey.”
“Why?”
“We don’t keep records from that far back. It’s our corporate document management strategy.”
Jeannie narrowed her eyes at him. “You throw away old records?”
“We shred the cards, yes, after twenty years, unless of course the patient has been readmitted, in which case the record is transferred to the computer.”
It was a sickening disappointment and a waste of precious hours that she needed to prepare her defense for tomorrow. She said bitterly: “How strange that Mr. Ringwood didn’t tell me this when I talked to him last night.”
“He really should have. Perhaps you didn’t mention the dates.”
“I’m quite sure I told him the two women were treated here twenty-three years ago.” Jeannie remembered adding a year to Steve’s age to get the right period,
“Then it’s hard to understand.”
Somehow Jeannie was not completely surprised at the way this had turned out. Dick Minsky, with his exaggerated friendliness and nervous blink, was the caricature of a man with a guilty conscience.
He turned his screen back to its original position. Seeming regretful, he said: “I’m afraid there’s no more I can do for you.”
“Could we talk to Mr. Ringwood, and ask him why he didn’t tell me about the cards being shredded?”
“I’m afraid Peter’s off sick today.”
“What a remarkable coincidence.”
He tried to look offended, but the result was a parody. “I hope you’re not implying that we’re trying to keep something from you.”
“Why would I think that?”
“I have no idea.” He stood up. “And now, I’m afraid, I’ve run out of time.”
Jeannie got up and preceded him to the door. He followed her down the stairs to the lobby. “Good day to you,” he said stiffly.
“Good-bye,” she said.
Outside the door she hesitated. She felt combative. She was tempted to do something provocative, to show them they could not manipulate her totally. She decided to snoop around a bit.
The parking lot was full of doctors’ cars, late-model Cadillacs and BMWs. She strolled around one side of the building. A black man with a white beard was sweeping up litter with a noisy blower. There was nothing remarkable or even interesting there. She came up against a blank wall and retraced her steps.
Through the glass door at the front she saw Dick Minsky, still in the lobby, talking to the chirpy secretary. He watched anxiously as Jeannie walked by.
Circling the building in the other direction, she came to the garbage dump. Three men wearing heavyweight gloves were loading trash onto a truck. This was stupid, Jeannie decided. She was acting like the detective in a hard-boiled mystery. She was about to turn back when something struck her. The men were lifting huge brown plastic sacks of trash effortlessly, as if they weighed very little. What would a clinic be throwing away that was bulky but light?
Shredded paper?
She heard Dick Minsky’s voice. He sounded scared. “Would you please leave now, Dr. Ferrami?”
She turned. He was coming around the corner of the building, accompanied by a man in the police-style uniform used by security guards.
She walked quickly to a stack of sacks.
Dick Minsky shouted: “Hey!”
The garbagemen stared at her, but she ignored them. She ripped a hole in one sack, reached inside, and pulled out a handful of the contents.
She was holding a sheaf of strips of thin brown card. When she looked closely at the strips she could see they had been written on, some in pen and some with a typewriter. These were shredded hospital record cards.
There could be only one reason why so many sacks were being taken away today.
They had destroyed their records
She dropped the shreds on the ground and walked away. One of the garbagemen shouted at her indignantly, but she ignored him.
Now there was no doubt.
She stood in front of Dick Minsky, hands on hips. He had been lying to her, and that was why he was a nervous wreck. “You’ve got a shameful secret here, haven’t you?” she yelled. “Something you’re trying to hide by destroying these records?”
He was completely terrified. “Of course not,” he managed. “And, by the way, the suggestion is offensive.”
“Of course it is,” she said. Her temper got the better of her. She pointed at him with the rolled-up Genetico brochure she was still carrying. “But this investigation is very important to me, and you’d better believe that anyone who
“Please leave,” he said.
The security guard took her by the left elbow.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “No need to hold me.”
He did not release her. “This way, please,” he said.
He was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a pot belly. In this mood Jeannie was not going to be mauled by him. With her right hand she grasped the arm he was holding her with. The muscles of his upper arm were flabby. “Let go, please,” she said, and she squeezed. Her hands were strong and her grip was more powerful than most men’s. The guard tried to retain his grasp on her elbow but the pain was too much for him, and after a moment he released her. “Thank you,” she said.
She walked away.
She felt better. She had been right to think there was a clue in this clinic. Their efforts to keep her from learning anything were the best possible confirmation that they had a guilty secret. The solution to the mystery was connected with this place. But where did that get her?
She went to her car but did not get in. It was two-thirty and she had had no lunch. She was too excited to eat much, but she needed a cup of coffee. Across the street was a cafe next to a gospel hall. It looked cheap and clean. She crossed the road and went inside.
Her threat to Dick Minsky had been empty; there was nothing she could do to harm him. She had achieved nothing by getting mad at him. In fact she had tipped her hand, making it clear that she knew she was being lied to. Now they were on their guard.
The cafe was quiet but for a few students finishing lunch. She ordered coffee and a salad. While she was waiting, she opened the brochure she had picked up in the lobby of the clinic. She read:
And suddenly it was all clear.
34
JANE EDELSBOROUGH WAS A WIDOW IN HER EARLY FIFTIES. A statuesque but untidy woman, she normally dressed in loose ethnic clothes and sandals. She had a commanding intellect, but no one would have guessed it to look at her. Berrington found such people baffling. If you were clever, he thought, why disguise
