Pulse(45)

I suppose I had been initially drawn to a career in medicine by some altruistic belief that I could do some good in the world. I think all doctors are. Otherwise why would we continue as impoverished students for so long after some of our contemporaries from school are already out in the real world earning six-figure salaries, to say nothing of the long hours and manic workload of the junior doctor.

Unlike some of my consultant colleagues in private practice, my chosen speciality of emergency medicine was never going to make me hugely wealthy but it was at the forefront of ‘doing good’ and, as such, had always been rewarding in other ways.

To have had that taken away from me over these past few months had simply compounded my problems with depression.

Various studies have shown that doctors in general are more than twice as likely to kill themselves than members of the general population, a situation that increases to five or six times for female doctors compared to other women. So why do medics, who strive to save the lives of others, kill themselves in such disproportionately high numbers?

It certainly has something to do with a greater knowledge of the methods, and an increased availability of the means to end their own lives, which result in a higher success rate. But I am convinced that it is also because we doctors tend to enjoy a more utopian view of the world, a world where we assume modern medical science can cure all ills. Hence, when reality kicks in and medicine actually fails, we are more likely to feel guilt and self-condemnation.

I had certainly suffered overwhelming guilt over the death of the unnamed man. He had arrived at the hospital alive and breathing, yet I still hadn’t been able to save him. Medical science had failed, when I’d fully expected it to win through.

But now I believed I was absolving myself from that guilt by finding out who the man was and why he had died. Yes, it had become an obsession, but I considered that it was also the road to my salvation and recovery. Some might say it was foolhardy, even dangerous, to confront the three jockeys but, for me, it was logical and necessary.

While I stood waiting, the phone rang in my pocket. It was Constable Filippos.

‘Ah, Dr Rankin,’ he said. ‘I have a message from Detective Sergeant Merryweather. We would very much like to have a meeting with you. Can you come in to the station this afternoon?’

‘I’m at the racecourse,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘so are we.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Outside the jockeys’ changing room. We’re here to conduct some interviews.’

‘With McGee, Conway and Sheraton?’ I asked.

There was a slight pause from the other end as if he was deciding whether he should tell me.

‘Among others, yes,’ replied the policeman.

‘They’re not here yet,’ I said. ‘I’m waiting for them in the car park.’

‘Dr Rankin,’ DC Filippos said seriously, ‘please leave us to do our job. There is no need for you to speak with any of them.’

‘Isn’t there?’ I said. ‘If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have a clue what to do next. I have learned more in the last three days than you lot have in four months.’

‘That is not entirely fair,’ he said. ‘We have made considerable progress ourselves.’

‘What progress?’ I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

‘If you come to the station later I will give you all the details.’

‘Why not give them to me here, after you’ve spoken to the jockeys?’

I could hear him speaking to someone else, even though I couldn’t catch the exact words because he’d placed something over the microphone.

‘OK,’ he said, eventually. ‘DS Merryweather and I will meet you here at the racecourse after we have spoken to the jockeys, on the condition that you do not speak to them first.’

That was bribery, I thought.

The only chance I had of accosting McGee, Conway and Sheraton was as they arrived. I couldn’t wait until they left later in the day – that would be impossible with everyone going home at the same time, and in the dark.

‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘I promise not to speak to them first. Where do we meet, and when?’

‘There’s a police control room in the foyer of The Centaur. Meet us there at . . .’ There was a pause as he consulted. ‘. . . half past twelve.’

I looked at my watch. It showed it was now ten-thirty.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’

Gold Cup day was always the busiest of the four days of the Festival, with an expected crowd of seventy thousand, and the car parks were beginning to fill up fast even at this early hour.

Even though I had agreed not to speak to McGee, Conway and Sheraton, it didn’t mean that I would not still wait for them in the jockeys’ reserved parking area.

However, the first person to arrive that I recognised was not one of those three. It was Dave Leigh, he with the broken collarbone, arriving in his automatic BMW. I walked over to greet him as he climbed out of his car.

‘Hi, Dave,’ I said. ‘How’s the shoulder today?’

‘Oh, hi, doc,’ he said. ‘Fine. But it’s a bugger to sleep with. Can’t get comfortable. I’ve ended up sitting in an armchair all night.’

‘It will be sore for a week or so,’ I said. ‘Until the ends of the bone begin to knit together.’