Mary was my auntie. Hers was the last funeral I took, months ago, as a family favour. She was quite old - in her eighties. When she was only in her seventies she lost confidence in her GP. There was, she said, something about him she didn't trust. She thought he was out to do her harm. We all thought the same thing: She's going funny: It's her age: Poor Mary.
Her doctor was Harold Shipman.