What the Dead Want, page 10
‘Sorry to hear it was so bad for you.’
‘You win some, you lose some.’
Emily checked her notes from the briefing. ‘Why didn’t you check the register of local sex offenders?’
‘I did. It’s the first thing you do when a child goes missing. I even visited two of them living on the estate but both had alibis.’
‘It’s not in the case notes.’
‘There’s a lot not in the notes.’
‘Why?’
‘A combination of me falling ill and the new bloody computer system they implemented then. Half the time I couldn’t log on. But I passed my written notes to the officer who took over the investigation.’
‘Ramsden?’
‘That’s him. Didn’t he put them in?’
Emily shook her head.
‘This looks bad, doesn’t it?’
Emily didn’t reply.
‘I’m going to be stuck here until hell freezes over, aren’t I?’
‘If you have a record you passed your notes on, it shouldn’t be a problem.’
Fiona Barton went straight to her notebook and then checked with her diary on the computer. ‘There you are. I passed them across on June 14, two weeks after I went ill with Covid. I did it from home as soon as I was able.’
‘Can you send me a screen grab of your diary and notebook?’
‘Will do. What’s your email address?’
Emily gave it to her and within twenty seconds Fiona Barton had said, ‘Done.’
‘Great. You’ll also be helped by the fact the family thought you did a great job.’
‘That’s something, at least. But I didn’t find Andy, did I? How is Sharon?’
‘Holding up and still campaigning. Enough to put the wind up my bosses anyway.’
‘Good, they need it. Anybody who was involved in introducing PoliceWorks before it was ready should have been made to apologise to each and every copper who had to use it.’
Emily closed her notebook. ‘Anything else you can think of not in the files?’
Fiona Barton stared into the distance. ‘Only one thing. The grandfather said Andy was close to the grandmother. Used to visit her in the residential home even though he wasn’t supposed to go there during lockdown. I never got round to see the grandad again before I got ill. I always felt there was something there, a lead I could have followed up. I put it in the notes I sent to Bert Ramsden. I bet he didn’t use it.’
‘You’d be right. What was the name of the residential home again?’
‘Sunny something. SunnySide that was it. Big old house in West Didsbury.’
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
Ridpath walked through the portico of the SunnySide Residential Home into the reception area. A desk was unmanned in the corner but a bell placed on top suggested he would have to ring it. He did and stood there, waiting.
The house was one of the classic big old Edwardian mansions built to house the rich cotton merchants who had made their fortune in Manchester. Of course, it had been extensively remodelled over the years plus an enormous concrete extension had been added at the rear.
At the front though, the house remained pretty much as it had been for the last hundred years. The gardens particularly had been well kept. Ridpath noticed a large Japanese maple and numerous multicoloured rhododendrons fighting for space in the large grounds.
‘Can I help you?’
A young woman in a light blue uniform covered by a stained plastic apron and wearing a face mask and gloves had appeared from nowhere.
‘I’d like to see the manager of the facility please.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
The last thing Ridpath wanted to do was make an appointment and warn people he was coming. ‘No, but I’m sure he’ll see me.’
‘Mrs Staunton never sees anybody without an appointment.’
‘She’ll see me.’ He passed over his card.
‘Thomas Ridpath, Coroner’s Officer.’ The girl read the words aloud as if convincing herself. ‘Shall I give this to her?’
‘That would be a good idea. You might also want to add I’m investigating on behalf of the coroner.’
‘Okay,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but I still don’t think she’ll see you.’
‘Just give her the card.’
The girl vanished behind a large pot plant. Ridpath walked over and discovered a door hidden behind it obviously leading to the interior of the residential home. He was about to go exploring, when it opened and a large woman stood in the doorway.
‘Mr Ridpath, how can I help you?’
‘And you are?’
‘Mathilda Staunton, manager of SunnySide. How can I help?’
‘I have a few questions I need to ask, is there anywhere we can go?’
‘Come through to my office, we can have a chat there.’
They walked down a short corridor. Immediately Ridpath smelt the aroma of the aged; a peculiar mix of baby powder, urine and disinfectant.
The corridor led to a large room dotted with comfortable armchairs and tables. Three staff stood to one side, two men and the young woman. All were dressed in the same blue uniform, wearing purple masks and plastic gloves. Only the girl wore the stained, plastic apron.
A few residents sat at the tables playing a card game. Others sat in front of a large television in the corner which was showing one of those interminable Escape to the Country programmes. Funny, Ridpath thought, these are the people who have no escape to anywhere, least of all some unattainable British countryside. A few more sat in their chairs staring into mid-air, their eyes blank and their mouths open.
‘The resident bedrooms are off to the right.’ She waved in the general direction of the extension. ‘Each resident has their own bedroom and we are manned twenty-four hours a day. Most of our residents are DOLs—’
‘DOLS?’
‘Deprived of Liberty. In other words, a social worker and a doctor has made an order the person is no longer able to care for or look after themselves. Usually, it’s because they have Alzheimer’s, dementia or some other illness where they can no longer care for themselves at home safely.’
‘So they are sent here?’
‘Placed here and we look after them. The local council pays or, if they have assets of more than £23,000, then they pay. Most have no family members, or if they do, the family neither wants them nor can care for them.’
‘It sounds depressing.’
‘We try not to make it so. My staff work extremely hard to make sure they are happy and we have things happening most days. As you can see, people often enjoy better lives here than they would do alone at home.’
Ridpath scanned the room. The residents did seem comfortable even though the place had a terribly institutional atmosphere.
‘This way, Mr Ridpath.’
Mrs Staunton opened a door on the right which revealed another short corridor at the end of which was a small but comfortably furnished office.
‘Would you like some tea?’
Ridpath shook his head and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs facing the desk. It felt like the headmaster’s study he had spent far too much time being told off in when he was young.
‘How can I help you and the coroner?’
It was the third time she had asked the question. She was either extremely nervous or over-keen to help. Either way, Ridpath was going to string her along a bit more.
‘As you know, the coroner takes a personal interest in all the residential care facilities in his area.’
Not exactly true, but she wouldn’t know Clarence Montague was not at all concerned about the aged.
‘Even more so since the pandemic.’
‘We have been recently assessed by the Care Quality Commission and our facilities were rated as good by them. What can be concerning the coroner? There have been no inquests into any of our residents who have passed away. Certainly not while I have been in charge.’
It was time to put her on the back foot.
‘There are a few matters I would like to discuss with you. Recently, the coroner received a letter which we believe to be from one of your residents. The letter made serious allegations about a situation in your home.’
‘Can I see the letter?’
Ridpath passed over a copy made by Sophia.
Mrs Staunton looked at it before pursing her lips and exclaiming, ‘This is ridiculous. Anonymous letters sent to the coroner. “They are killing us. Help us. We don’t want to die.” How can you take this seriously? Obviously whoever wrote this is deranged.’
‘I’m afraid, after the Shipton case, the coroner has to take all allegations of this sort seriously. This is your headed notepaper, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but anybody could have written this. We have thirty-eight residents in our facility at this moment in time. Clearly one of them has a grudge against this establishment or against me.’
Ridpath found it interesting how quickly she had made the allegations personal. ‘But you do realise we have to look into this matter. Particularly when we see the number of deaths in your home has hardly changed from during the height of the pandemic.’
‘Mr Ridpath,’ she smiled condescendingly, ‘this is an old people’s residential home. People die all the time. They have had fruitful lives and then they pass on. To suggest either myself or any of my staff are killing them is absurd.’
Ridpath made a note in his book, making her wait for his next question. ‘There is one other thing I would like to ask you, Mrs Staunton. It concerns the death of one of your residents, a Mrs Irene Golding.’
‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me, Mr Ridpath.’
‘She died in July 2020.’
‘Sorry, I still can’t recall her. That was during lockdown wasn’t it? We had many deaths around then.’
‘Could you check your files? I presume you keep files on all your residents?’
‘As we are bound to do by law.’
Ridpath sat silently, waiting for her to move. Finally, she got up and walked over to a metal filing cabinet in the corner. ‘What name did you say?’
‘Irene Golding, date of death July 22, 2020.’
She rifled through the files finally pulling out a thin brown folder and began reading it. ‘Now I remember Mrs Golding. She wasn’t with us for a long time and she died during lockdown. Another one of our Covid fatalities, I’m afraid.’
‘Were there a lot of deaths during the pandemic?’
‘No more than any other residential home. You have to understand it was a difficult time for the industry, Mr Ridpath, old people were being discharged from hospitals all over the country to make bed space. Most weren’t tested before they were sent to us. Pretty soon, the disease made its way into the homes, leading to deaths. We weren’t helped by blanket DNR notices issued by the government.’
‘DNR notices?’
‘Do not resuscitate. If our residents became ill, they weren’t to be treated by doctors, just given palliative care. It’s why so many died, particularly if they had co-morbidities such as diabetes.’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘They weren’t given medical treatment?’
She frowned. ‘Come on, Mr Ridpath, you were a coroner’s officer during that period. Are you telling me you didn’t know?’
‘I swear nobody told me. Nobody knew…’
She smiled, like a cat who had been presented with a bowl of cream. ‘And how many inquests have you opened into those deaths?’
‘There was a government instruction no inquests were to be opened if the cause of death was from Covid-19.’
‘And you wonder why nobody knew?’
Ridpath pursed his mouth. He should have known what was going on in the care homes. Why didn’t he know? Was it a sort of collective amnesia? And why hadn’t there been any newspaper reports on what had happened? Didn’t the nation want to know what had happened to our old people or was the truth too difficult to hear?
He made a mental note to do more research. Perhaps read the transcript from the Covid inquiry, particularly the section on care homes.
Mrs Staunton read more of the folder and said, ‘Anyway, returning to Mrs Golding. I remember her. An older woman, always unkempt. Her grandson kept visiting here even though it was illegal at the time.’
‘A grandson. Was his name Andrew Golding?’
She glanced at the file. ‘We never found out the boy’s name. A member of my staff had to escort him off the premises a few times. I seem to remember having to call the police once. By the time they arrived, the boy was long gone.’
‘Can I see the file?’
She stared at him before closing it. ‘I don’t think I can allow it. These files contain confidential patient and resident information.’ She stood up and walked back to the metal cabinet. ‘Actually, I will have to get guidance from the legal department of my head office before I release any of them. I hope you understand.’
‘I don’t, actually. This person has already died, letting me see her file will not affect you, or her, in any way.’
Mrs Staunton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you so interested in this particular death?’
And then her eyes flashed and a knowing look crossed her face. ‘Golding? Golding? Wasn’t that the name of the boy who went missing? Why would the coroner be interested in a missing boy?’
Ridpath knew he had to tell her. ‘I am a coroner’s officer but I also work for Greater Manchester Police. They have tasked me to look into this missing boy and the coroner has asked me to look into your residential home. Unfortunately, both investigations have brought me here.’
Mrs Staunton closed the file and placed it carefully back in the metal cabinet, locking it with a small key. ‘I am going to have to ask you to leave Mr Ridpath. I need to hold discussions with my head office. You will have to get their agreement if you want to come here again.’
‘Why are you being so difficult? I am here now.’
‘I am not being difficult. I am protecting the rights and personal information of my residents. If you want to find out about them, please get permission from my head office. I think it is time you left.’
‘I can get a search warrant, Mrs Staunton, but I wouldn’t like to disturb your residents.’
‘Are you threatening me, Mr Ridpath?’
‘Not at all, but I will get that information. It is pertinent to my investigations both for the coroner and for Greater Manchester Police.’
‘I will repeat myself, Mr Ridpath. Please leave.’
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
As he left SunnySide, Ridpath checked his watch.
Three p.m.
Another interview he hadn’t handled particularly well. Not like him at all. But he did need the information and nobody was going to stop him from getting it.
An allegation had been made against the residential home and it seemed Andy Golding had visited there. Two of his investigations had converged on one location. That immediately sent a red light flashing in his head.
He checked his watch again.
Did he have time to go back to the coroner’s office before the meeting at HQ? His decision was helped by a text from Sophia.
His Lordship wants to know the outcome of your meeting at SunnySide. Can I tell him anything?
He immediately replied:
I’m coming back to brief him right now
He took one last glance at the residential home. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Something wasn’t right there and he was determined to find out what was going on.
He drove back to Stockford, cursing the traffic lights, slow drivers and aged cyclists in skintight lycra who seemed to be hogging the road. What was it about seventy-year-old men and colourful lycra? It seemed to be the fashion choice of the prematurely senile.
Finally, he parked up at the Coroner’s Court and immediately went to Clarence Montague’s office, knocking on the door.
No answer.
He knocked again and heard a voice behind him.
‘He’s not there.’ It was Jenny Oldfield, the office manager, who these days eschewed her usual colourful retro outfits and dazzling eye make-up in favour of black pinstripe twinsets. ‘He’s gone to get his teeth cleaned. Said it was urgent.’
Ridpath sighed. ‘I’ve just driven like a madman to brief him on an issue that’s come up.’
‘He’s back tomorrow morning and you know he won’t answer his phone once he leaves the office. Insists we do though…’
She rolled her eyes and turned to walk back to her office. Ridpath followed her to the entrance.
‘How are you managing, Jenny?’ Ridpath asked her.
She stopped. ‘I’m not. I put in my notice. I’ll be leaving at the end of the month. I’ve had enough and a great job has come up in the Mayor’s office. Apparently, they think I’m worth employing.’
The office was losing another key member of staff. Why didn’t Montague understand what he was doing?
For once, Ridpath was at a loss for words. He mumbled, ‘We’ll all miss you, Jenny.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Do you have to leave now? The office needs you.’
‘I’ll miss you too, Ridpath.’ She looked all around her at all the old files lining the shelves. ‘This place has been my life for the last fifteen years and I’ve loved working here but I won’t work for anyone who doesn’t appreciate what I do or who I am. Life’s too short to spend with arseholes. I’ve accepted the job with the Mayor.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Jenny. I’ve loved working with you. Can I convince you to stay? Just till we find out when Mrs Challinor is coming back?’
The woman ambled over and gave him a hug. ‘Thank you, Ridpath, your words have made my day. But I don’t think she’s ever coming back and I’ve just typed his lordship’s application to become the head of this office.’
Then she stepped back obviously embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, how indiscreet of me.’ She indicated over her shoulder. ‘I need to get back to my laptop. His Lordship wants an inventory of the office supplies on his desk by tomorrow morning. I’m now counting boxes of paper clips. Still, it keeps me out of trouble.’
