About This Book
"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 defence 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 garbage men 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.
