Fatal Impact (16 page)

The representative from the protesters was petite, dressed in a peasant skirt with a snug, black T-shirt. Her red, wavy hair was pulled up into a ballet bun. She could have just come from a dance class and instantly caught the attention of the TV reporter. This spokesperson was, as they say, ‘good vision’.

Before moving through the boom gate, a reporter stopped to interview her, to the irritation of one of the security team.

‘Let the invited guests pass.’

‘I’m president of the Medical Students’ Association. We care about what our children are eating and what it’s doing to the land,’ the protester shouted.

Anya moved amongst the crowd to hear better.

This was no off-the-cuff rally, it was a carefully orchestrated grab for media.

Only the security guards weren’t being compliant.

Without warning, Anya was hit from behind.

24

A
s Anya hit the bitumen she saw one of the security men dragging the medical student across the ground. The young woman squealed in pain. In response, locals surged forward. Two fellow protesters fought off the security guard. The reporter who had tried to interview her came running back, cameraman in pursuit. Just then, another woman screamed and everyone converged. Anya scrambled to her feet, having no idea who or what had hit her in the head. She saw an elderly man stumble, blood teeming down his forehead.

Anya squeezed through an opening to get to his side.

‘Give him some space,’ she urged, and felt another shove from the side. A hand steadied her. Constable Hammond. They forced and jostled through to get the man to safety. By now, a fist fight had broken out. Seemingly out of nowhere, local youths arrived in truckloads and joined in the rumble.

‘Someone’s going to get killed if I don’t stop this,’ Hammond shouted.

‘I’ll look after this man,’ Anya managed.

Another police car approached, siren wailing and lights flashing. The noise seemed to scatter the crowds.

Anya applied pressure to the man’s head with a handkerchief provided by an onlooker. He was lucid, but angry at the protesters and wanted to press charges against whoever had injured him. Drawn by the mayhem, the press had returned, abandoning the minister.

Anya looked across and saw Alison Blainey with the medical student. A coat hung over the environmentalist’s shoulders, like a cape. She could only been discharged from hospital a few hours ago. Her arm was covered in a cast and long sleeves. There was little chance of disguising her bruised cheeks, even with oversized sunglasses. She must have been in the background before the altercation broke out.

Anya couldn’t hear Alison’s exchange with the medical student but from where she stood, it looked less than friendly. The older man’s knees buckled and Anya reached out to catch his arm, before helping him to the cottage shop. The shop assistant had locked the door, but opened it when she saw them through the window.

‘This is so going viral,’ she enthused, mobile phone in hand.

‘Do you have a first aid kit?’ Anya pressed. ‘If so, can you put a dressing on the gash?’

Sallie’s initial response was incredulity.

‘It won’t take long.’ Filming and disseminating the drama outside could wait a few minutes.

Returning to the car park, Anya saw that the protesters had retreated behind their buses. Simon Hammond was questioning the medical student, and some members of the press were lining up to talk to her as well. Alison Blainey had melted into the background. The rest of the media were far more interested in a violent exchange, and interviewed some of the men who had arrived in trucks.

‘We don’t want them here. No one does.’

A TV reporter near Anya turned to face the camera. ‘The protest turned violent only metres away from where Minister Moss gave a press conference unveiling some of the largest investment ever seen in northern Tasmania. PT is donating $2 million for equipment in local schools and another $3 million for a state-of-the-art youth club in Longford. That’s in addition to their $80 million investment here. This is a coup for our state and we’ll be following the story as it develops.’

He signed off to camera. ‘That’s a wrap.’ He pumped his fist, as if he’d just won a tennis match at Wimbledon. His story may have just made the national news.

Anya saw Alison Blainey emerge from the crowd to speak to the jubilant reporter after his sound man had finished. It was as if she was working the car park like a networking conference. The man appeared receptive to whatever she was saying and handed her his card. Anya had to give the woman credit. She was turning a PR disaster into a story hook for television’s keenest reporter. Her assault injuries hadn’t impeded her ability to do her job. Anya returned inside to check on the elderly man.

The minister and his chief of staff entered the shop.

‘Sir, I’m so sorry you were harmed in this outrageous attempt to sabotage what should have been a day for celebration.’

The elderly man shook hands with Moss. ‘You’re doing a fine job,’ he said. ‘You’ve got my vote.’

‘Thank you, sir. Ryan, see to it that this gentleman is seen safely home. Will you?’

‘Yes, minister. Were you harmed, Dr Crichton?’

The heels of both of Anya’s palms were grazed from falling. She had a small lump on the back of her head from the blow.

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

Moss pulled her aside. ‘How is your mother’s friend Dengate holding up? I heard he was threatened with arrest for obstructing health department officers.’

Anya assumed Hammond had told him. ‘I was there and he was merely advised not to obstruct the investigators. And he complied.’

‘That man has been a loose cannon for a long time. The potential damage he has caused to our export trade and tourism industry is incalculable. Holidays have already been cancelled on the basis of the outbreak of food poisoning. It’s going to take a lot of time to undo what he’s destroyed in such a short period. You and your mother would be advised to stay well clear of him and his employees.’

Anya felt her irritation rise. ‘Why do you care who my mother and I associate with?’

‘You are an intelligent woman, doctor. You should know that if you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas.’

It almost sounded like a threat.

‘They were your men watching Len Dengate’s house last night.’

‘I pride myself on knowing the people I represent. Repeat that accusation and you’ll sound as unstable as your mother.’ He leant in closer and the smell of tobacco and aftershave reviled her. ‘I hear the Medical Board may be investigating her before too long. Something about her prescribing the wrong medication.’

Anya’s blood rushed. Did he know something or was it another threat? She held her tongue. Something said on impulse could make the situation worse for Jocelyn.

‘Minister,’ Ryan Chapman interrupted, ‘it’s safe to go.’

Moss straightened his old-school tie. ‘One more thing, doctor. People around here say the walls have ears.’

Anya felt her mouth go dry. They were the words Len Dengate had used. In Jocelyn’s house. Two days ago.

25

A
nya drove back to Longford replaying the conversation with Christian Moss. What he’d said had had the desired effect. She had been rattled and he must have known it.

What did he mean by her mother being unstable? And how would he know about a possible Medical Board investigation? She wondered if Jocelyn had made some kind of error, or a patient had had an adverse outcome and decided to complain to the Medical Board through the local member of parliament. She thought about Jocelyn fainting last night. Len had said it was one of her turns, implying they had happened before. Was it possible Damien had spoken to her as her blood pressure dropped, which is why he’d heard her slurring and forgetful?

The self-prescribed Thyroxin bothered Anya even more. What else was her mother taking? She had access to pharmaceutical samples through the surgery. Also, if Len was a patient and someone thought they were involved in a sexual relationship, that could be grounds for a complaint. Was one of the other doctors in the surgery concerned? Her head ached with questions and no answers.

Len could have been known for saying ‘the walls have ears’. It didn’t mean the house was bugged. She could only imagine how paranoid that would sound if she mentioned it to anyone.

Politicians were manipulators and located weaknesses in their enemies. Moss must have viewed her as either an opponent or a threat, or he wouldn’t have said anything. He could have just been bluffing, for his own reasons, whatever they may be, to make her dissuade Jocelyn from supporting Len. Maybe it was better for his portfolios if the scandal went away with the close of Len’s business.

It still niggled that his crisis meeting had been called well before the E. coli outbreak. What crisis were they really discussing? One that had not yet become public?

Her mother was doing paperwork when Anya arrived at the group practice in Longford. Jocelyn had already heard about the violence at the protest. She’d even patched up one of the local boys, whom she suspected had fractured some bones in his hand hitting someone or something. He was apparently vague on the details.

‘Have you had any lunch?’

‘I did in between patients.’ Her mother typed computer notes while Anya sat in the patient’s chair.

Anya picked up an electronic blood pressure monitor. ‘Do you find consultations out here are more complex, given the shortage of doctors and the time it takes to get an appointment?’

‘They tend not to come in with minor complaints.’ Jocelyn stopped typing and looked over her reading glasses. ‘Why?’

‘From what I can tell, you’re under even more pressure than before.’

Her mother peeled off the glasses. ‘Who’s been talking to you?’ She raised her voice. ‘What have you heard?’

‘I’m talking about last night when you fainted. Len said it’s happened before.’ Anya peeled a sticky note from a pad. ‘I’m concerned about you.’

‘Well don’t be. I’m fine.’ Jocelyn started typing again.

There was a tap on the door before it opened. A male doctor asked if Jocelyn could review a patient she’d seen the day before. A rash had developed after she had given samples of an antibiotic for a sore throat. Anya could hear the discussion with the doctor outside the room.

‘It was most likely glandular fever, Epstein Barr virus,’ Jocelyn announced. ‘Haven’t you seen the rash before?’

The male doctor spoke quietly but firmly. ‘I have. I was wondering why you gave the teenager antibiotics if you thought it was viral. I mean, is there a reason you didn’t order viral antibody tests? For diagnostic purposes?’

‘One dose of amoxicillin from a sample pack gives you the diagnosis. The virus interacts with the antibiotic and causes a non-allergenic rash. You diagnose glandular fever more quickly and cheaply than with a barrage of unnecessary blood tests. The government didn’t have to subsidise a prescription. And the patient avoided pathology bills they could ill afford. You should be thanking me,’ Jocelyn argued. ‘The boy was grateful he didn’t have to have a needle.’

‘Not anymore with a rash on top of his other symptoms. Jocelyn, we’ve been through this. For medico–legal reasons, we have to do what is considered best practice. And he’s sitting final exams soon. He needs the diagnosis confirmed with blood tests anyway.’

‘I can still write a certificate. You have to treat the whole patient, not a disease. Did you know his mother lost her job and is alone supporting three kids?’

Anya sensed the tension in her mother’s voice.

‘What is really going on here?’ Jocelyn demanded.

The male doctor remained calm. ‘If he’d had an allergic
reaction, giving him that antibiotic would have been
indefensible.’

After that, a door slammed and there was silence outside.

The mobile phone on the desk rang. Anya thought it could have been Len, or a patient, and answered it.

‘Jocelyn Reynolds’s phone.’

The caller paused then surprised Anya by asking who she was.

‘This is her daughter.’ Anya looked for a pen and grabbed the sticky note to take a message.

‘Excellent.’ The caller’s enthusiasm was evident. ‘This is Eloise Johnson, from the
Hobart Sentinel
. We’re running a feature on child murders in the state and wanted to talk about the disappearance of Miriam Reynolds.’

The woman’s insensitivity jarred. Despite the years, the scars still felt raw when opportunists like reporters tried to capitalise on the family’s misery and Miriam. As if time had meant the family could talk about it like a bodily function, or reveal something that implicated one of them as a killer.

‘The readers would really love to know how the family is doing, what everyone is up to, and how the disappearance affected your lives. And how you feel when you hear about other cases like Mia and Jenny Quaid.’

From the sounds of the caller, she hadn’t even been born when Miriam disappeared. Anya tightened her grip on the handset. ‘No comment!’

‘I understand that like Jenny Quaid, the family was under suspicion, and the readers would appreciate–’

Anya hung up, hands shaking. She had been caught off guard. Being back in Tasmania made what had happened to Miriam so much uglier and more .
. .
real. There was no escape from it.

Her mother’s obsession went far beyond normal grief. From what she had just overheard, Jocelyn’s medical decisions were questionable at times too. Anya had never known her to cut corners or take risks with patients. Maybe Christian Moss was right. Jocelyn was facing a Medical Board investigation and was keeping it a secret. It might explain why she was obsessively going over all of her patient notes – attempting to defend herself.

It still left the fainting episodes and supposedly abnormal thyroid function unanswered. Last night was not an anxiety attack. There was something medically wrong with her mother and she was self-medicating with who knew what. On top of that, she was supporting Len Dengate and his farm. If patients were being placed at unnecessary risk, Anya had little choice.

She knew that Jocelyn would never forgive her.