Go Not Gently - [9]

‘Nothing I can’t break.’ She smiled. ‘So you don’t think I’m being silly, wanting to know more?’

‘No, not in the least. In the end we might find that Goulden’s diagnosis is right but there’s enough doubt in my mind to ask a few more questions.’

Agnes nodded. ‘Thank you. I’d never forgive myself if there was anything…’ She sucked in a breath and let it go, unbuckled her seat belt. I got out and opened the door for her.

‘I’ll ring as soon as I’ve fixed a time.’ I waited until she’d opened the front door before turning the ignition. She waved and I drove off. It was twelve thirty, I was ravenous and a Greek feast awaited.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rachel, my social worker contact, was one of life’s great prattlers. She burbled on over stuffed vine leaves and tzatziki, vegetarian moussaka and kebabs. I’d never worked out whether she did this to her clients as well or whether behind closed doors a listener emerged – mouth shut and all ears.

We were sipping strong coffee from dinky cups before she asked me about the case. I sketched it in for her without giving away anything that would break confidentiality.

‘Check it out with the doctor,’ she agreed. ‘But there could well be a lot of denial going on, you know, from the friend. Alzheimer’s is the new scare, worse than cancer. People are very frightened. It’s understandable – you have to watch someone lose their identity, their personality. How do you keep loving someone who’s not there any more?’

‘She’s no fool, the friend,’ I defended Agnes.

‘I’m not saying she is. You could always get a second opinion – ask her old GP to come and see her or get a referral to a consultant.’ Rachel fished a sugar cube out of the bowl on her spoon.

I nodded. ‘What about her social worker?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I think there was a social worker involved with the move. Would they have made reports on the woman at the time, her state of mind and so on?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She lowered the spoon into the tiny cup, the sugar cube turned brown. ‘There’d be case notes. Probably just the standard things, a general outline of the case, assessment of needs. But from what you’ve said the social worker might only have seen her once. She’s not at risk. I wouldn’t rely too much on finding anything very illuminating there.’ She tipped the coffee-soaked cube into her mouth and sucked.

‘Wouldn’t they do any follow-up?’

‘No need. The home’s registered, they take responsibility for her care. Which one is it?’

I hesitated.

‘It’s all right,’ Rachel laughed at my caution, ‘I can keep a secret. It’s just that there’s a couple of places have got a bad name for themselves.’

‘Homelea, on Wilbraham Road.’

She shook her head. ‘Nope. Did it look OK?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Smell all right?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a good indicator. If it stinks of piss or even boiled cabbage you know they’re not doing all that they can.’

‘No, it was fine, nice. People looked busy, you know. Well, apart from the TV lounge.’

Rachel laughed. ‘There’s always a TV lounge. Mind you, we’ve all got them, haven’t we? Just looks different if you’ve a dozen people sat in high-backed chairs watching it.’

I asked Rachel a few more questions about the role of Social Services in the care of older people. She told me that in the situation I’d described it would be peripheral. My research complete I sat back and listened while Rachel chuntered on and sucked sugar cubes.

I paid the bill wondering whether it hadn’t been a rather pricey way of finding out virtually nothing. On the other hand I had enjoyed my time with Rachel. She was lively company, and when you work alone it’s fun to have lunch out. Later, though I didn’t know it then, her help was going to be invaluable. In a totally unexpected way.

There was a van parked outside the Dobsons’, a white Transit with the words ‘Swift Deliveries – Swinton’ emblazoned in vivid red along the side and an arrow in flight underlining the message. A man sat in the front seat, reading a tabloid and smoking. He flicked his eyes from the paper to me as I turned to walk up the drive. A black guy with a serious haircut. A precisely honed wedge.

He wound down the window and called to me, ‘Kilkenny’s?’

‘What is it?’ I asked. I hadn’t ordered anything, no deliveries due. Swift or otherwise.

‘I rang you.’ He cocked his head towards the house. ‘The answerphone.’

Aahh! Of course, the young man with no name. ‘Yes. Come on in.’

He locked up the van and followed me up the path. In the office he agreed to coffee and introduced himself as Jimmy Achebe.

It was hard to judge his age, though he had a very young face, unlined coppery skin, black hair. Closer to I saw the sides and the back were shaved and the wedge section glistened with oil or gel. He wore gold rings in his ears and a gold wedding ring. He was drenched in eau de nicotine. I wondered whether he’d light up without asking. I don’t keep an ashtray in the office. It’s a deliberate policy to prevent people smoking there. You’d be amazed how many chronic smokers still try, offering desperately to ‘use the bin/cup/saucer if you haven’t an ashtray’. Jimmy Achebe wore a pale blue nylon zip-up boiler suit with the legend ‘Swift Deliveries’ embroidered on the back in red.