Double Blind by Carrie Bedford Page B

other vaguely as they both worked in Whitehall.”
    She stopped when the previously shunned cat jumped on to her lap. She let it settle in before going on. “In our final year, Simon offered to proof-read a paper for me. It was really important, so I was thrilled that he was willing to help. I wasn’t quite so happy when he pointed out what he called some specious arguments. But I knew he was right, so I made the revisions he’d suggested. That took a couple of weeks. Not long after handing it in, my professor called me to his office. He accused me of cheating.”
    Eliza’s hand started shaking. She slammed her mug down on the rickety table, which trembled under the onslaught. “Cheating. Can you believe it? He said my paper was almost a copy, and not a very good one at that, of a thesis submitted the previous week by Scott. I was given a fail and that meant a couple of residency positions I’d applied for were revoked.”
    She stood up suddenly, and the cat adroitly jumped to the back of the chair, where it perched with its tail bushed out in annoyance. “I’ll be back,” she said.
    Alone, I checked that my recording app was still working. It was, but I considered turning it off. Everything Eliza had said sounded like the rantings of a failed scholar. This trip was beginning to feel like a waste of time.
    She came back with a glass of red wine in her hand and settled back into the chair. “Want one?” she asked lifting the glass up. I shook my head.
    I really didn’t want to hear any more of her ramblings. The story was pathetic. A plagiarized paper from twenty-five years ago was hardly likely to deal a fatal blow to Scott’s political ambitions.
    “I’m not sure I see where this is going,” I said. “Some academic cheating, even if it happened—”
    “It did happen,” she said. “But that’s not the point. I told you about it to explain why I dislike Scott so much. And it illustrates his character, not that people seem to care much about character nowadays. They only care that whoever is in power promises to cut taxes and the price of petrol.”
    I didn’t want to get drawn into a discussion about politics so I asked her what had happened after the debacle with her final paper.
    “I couldn’t get into the cardiology residency program I was trying for,” she replied. “I ended up being a general practitioner.” She made it sound as though she’d become a child molester.
    “Family care is very important,” I said. “Think of all the people you’ve looked after. I’d think that would be a wonderful way to practice medicine.”
    She threw me a look of utter disdain. “Try it,” she said. “Snotty-nosed kids, obese mothers, rashes, coughs, sprained wrists. It’s not the stuff of dreams for someone who wanted to save lives in a cardiac unit.”
    I shifted on the scarred sofa. Her self-pity grated on me. “I’m sure you could have worked your way into a cardiology program if you cared that much about it,” I said, then tried to soften my words. “I mean, there must be ways to do that?”
    She shrugged, the movement causing wine to splash out of her glass and on to the brown velour. She didn’t seem to notice. We were losing direction.
    “So—?” I prompted.
    “Two years ago, I made a mistake. I gave a kid the wrong dose of a vaccine and it made him sick. Not dangerously ill, but the parents complained and the press got hold of it. Within a day, I was splashed all over the papers, made to look like a monster. They said I was a drunk and unfit to practice. I was fired, my license was taken away. That’s why I hate the tabloids. The only newspaper that gave me a fair trial was Colin Butler’s. He wrote a piece about the pressure of overworked family doctors. He stood up for me. So I want him to handle this story because I trust him to do it properly. Otherwise it will be a twenty-four hour extravaganza of tabloid sleaze that no one with any intelligence will read.”
    A little shocked,