Hospital and the surrounding GP practices simply punched in details of their patients and their recommended medicines, and the computer did the rest.
Steven found himself admiring the system. Like many good ideas, it had simplicity at its core and, as a bonus, the money saved through streamlining the process was ploughed back into the budget. Unlike the situation in many health authorities, no drugs were off limits in the Newcastle area, even the most expensive anti-cancer ones. If the computer accepted the diagnosis and the doctor’s recommendation, and could find no better alternative, it would supply the drug. Everyone appeared to be thoroughly satisfied with the new scheme, and voices were raised in favour of its being extended across the nation. The only question lingering in Steven’s mind as he got up to make more coffee was why on earth that hadn’t happened.
As he read on, Steven could see that the fate of the Northern Health Scheme was inextricably linked to the fortunes of its designer, John Carlisle. At the height of its success, Carlisle was being mooted as a future Tory leader, and then, without any discernible reason, it all seemed to wither and die. The Northern Health Scheme was wound up – the ‘end of its experimental period’, according to the press releases. Carlisle was switched to another ministry in which he became totally anonymous before being dropped from cabinet altogether, and becoming an equally anonymous backbencher, finally hitting the skids and being exposed in the expenses scandal before taking his own life – the meteoric rise and fall, as John Macmillan had said.
Daylight was fading fast and Steven had nothing to eat in the flat, so he thought he’d eat at a new Thai restaurant he wanted to try. After that, he would call Tally to swap tales of the day, and then spend the rest of the evening going through the files. If he felt up to it, he might wind up by going late-night shopping at an all-night supermarket to stock up with the essentials of life: bacon, eggs, cheese, bread, gin, tonic, beer and lots of frozen ready meals.
SEVEN
It was two a.m. before Steven stopped reading. He put out the light and rested his head on the back of his chair to look up at the clouds drifting across the moon. Although he agreed there was a puzzle in John Carlisle’s sudden change of fortune and in the abrupt ending of an excellent and innovative health scheme, he couldn’t quite understand why John Macmillan was so worried about it. An awful lot of water had passed under the bridge since those far-off times, even if Carlisle’s suicide was more recent.
There was the Paris bomb, of course, and the past involvement of one of the dead in Carlisle’s health scheme – maybe a second if Lady Antonia was in some way implicated – but that didn’t give him a handle on anything to cause alarm.
It was unfortunate that Macmillan hadn’t been able to be any more specific about his fears. It all seemed to be down to gut feeling, but John Macmillan’s gut feelings were not to be taken lightly. If Macmillan smelt a rat it was time to get out the traps. But even extrapolating to the worst possible scenario and considering for a moment that the Paris deaths had been linked to the health scheme, why would anyone want to kill those people twenty years after the event? Steven yawned. He’d had quite enough for one day. It was time to turn in.
A new day started with bacon sandwiches and coffee, something that made Steven glad he’d gone shopping the night before, even though it was something he didn’t enjoy doing. He saw late-night visits to supermarkets as something akin to visiting restaurants at the end of the universe, but at least his fellow travellers had been few and far between and the check-out was quick.
He’d steeled himself to spending the whole morning reading through more of the files, this time concentrating on the other things that had been happening in the north of
Steven found himself admiring the system. Like many good ideas, it had simplicity at its core and, as a bonus, the money saved through streamlining the process was ploughed back into the budget. Unlike the situation in many health authorities, no drugs were off limits in the Newcastle area, even the most expensive anti-cancer ones. If the computer accepted the diagnosis and the doctor’s recommendation, and could find no better alternative, it would supply the drug. Everyone appeared to be thoroughly satisfied with the new scheme, and voices were raised in favour of its being extended across the nation. The only question lingering in Steven’s mind as he got up to make more coffee was why on earth that hadn’t happened.
As he read on, Steven could see that the fate of the Northern Health Scheme was inextricably linked to the fortunes of its designer, John Carlisle. At the height of its success, Carlisle was being mooted as a future Tory leader, and then, without any discernible reason, it all seemed to wither and die. The Northern Health Scheme was wound up – the ‘end of its experimental period’, according to the press releases. Carlisle was switched to another ministry in which he became totally anonymous before being dropped from cabinet altogether, and becoming an equally anonymous backbencher, finally hitting the skids and being exposed in the expenses scandal before taking his own life – the meteoric rise and fall, as John Macmillan had said.
Daylight was fading fast and Steven had nothing to eat in the flat, so he thought he’d eat at a new Thai restaurant he wanted to try. After that, he would call Tally to swap tales of the day, and then spend the rest of the evening going through the files. If he felt up to it, he might wind up by going late-night shopping at an all-night supermarket to stock up with the essentials of life: bacon, eggs, cheese, bread, gin, tonic, beer and lots of frozen ready meals.
SEVEN
It was two a.m. before Steven stopped reading. He put out the light and rested his head on the back of his chair to look up at the clouds drifting across the moon. Although he agreed there was a puzzle in John Carlisle’s sudden change of fortune and in the abrupt ending of an excellent and innovative health scheme, he couldn’t quite understand why John Macmillan was so worried about it. An awful lot of water had passed under the bridge since those far-off times, even if Carlisle’s suicide was more recent.
There was the Paris bomb, of course, and the past involvement of one of the dead in Carlisle’s health scheme – maybe a second if Lady Antonia was in some way implicated – but that didn’t give him a handle on anything to cause alarm.
It was unfortunate that Macmillan hadn’t been able to be any more specific about his fears. It all seemed to be down to gut feeling, but John Macmillan’s gut feelings were not to be taken lightly. If Macmillan smelt a rat it was time to get out the traps. But even extrapolating to the worst possible scenario and considering for a moment that the Paris deaths had been linked to the health scheme, why would anyone want to kill those people twenty years after the event? Steven yawned. He’d had quite enough for one day. It was time to turn in.
A new day started with bacon sandwiches and coffee, something that made Steven glad he’d gone shopping the night before, even though it was something he didn’t enjoy doing. He saw late-night visits to supermarkets as something akin to visiting restaurants at the end of the universe, but at least his fellow travellers had been few and far between and the check-out was quick.
He’d steeled himself to spending the whole morning reading through more of the files, this time concentrating on the other things that had been happening in the north of
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