by Ken McClure
Sudden death demanded an inquest unless the victim’s general practitioner felt able to sign the death certificate. A hospital doctor could also sign but would not in the case of a patient who was dead on arrival. In that instance a post-mortem would be a sine qua non for establishing the cause of death and the subsequent issuing of a death certificate. With luck Dave Moss would get a look at the PM report on Myra Archer in the morning and let him know what it said. Maybe that would shed some light on things.
Saracen had an idea. If he got a move on in the morning he could contact the undertakers, Maurice Dolman and Sons, and arrange to examine Leonard Cohen’s body himself! That would be better then just waiting for the report on the autopsy. To hell with Garten and to hell with the consequences. He had to know what was going on.
Saracen phoned Dolman’s at nine in the morning. “This is Dr Saracen at Skelmore General. I understand you have custody of the body of Leonard Cohen?”
“That is correct,” said the sombre voice, “We were asked to assist when your refrigeration system broke down.”
“I’d like to see the body,” said Saracen.
There was a pause then Dolman said, “Of course Doctor. When would you like to come?”
Saracen looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes?”
“I’ll expect you.”
Saracen put down the phone and felt deflated for the man had shown no surprise at all. It was almost as if he had been expecting the call. Was that a possibility? he wondered. Could Garten have warned him? Saracen picked up the phone again and contacted the hospital switchboard. He asked for the number of the contract engineer for refrigeration equipment in the hospital and jotted it down on the pad in front of him. He called it.
“I take it you have been informed of the compressor failure in the mortuary at Skelmore General last night?” he asked.
“No,” replied the puzzled voice. “This is the first we have heard of it.”
“My mistake,” said Saracen and put the phone down. At least he had been right about one thing.
“Is that you phoning your stockbroker again?” joked Alan Tremaine who was passing.
“I have to go out for about half an hour,” said Saracen. “Look after the shop will you.”
“Sure. Are you going up to see Chenhui?”
Saracen told Tremaine that he was going up to Dolman’s to have a look at the body Chenhui was asked to certify.
“He was a DOA wasn’t he?”
Saracen nodded.
“Do you think that had something to do with her breakdown?”
“I don’t know but I think it’s worth checking out.”
“Garten has it down in the book as a straight-forward cardiac case,” said Tremaine.
“I know,” said Saracen.
“And if our leader should call?”
“Tell him,” said Saracen.
Getting parked near Ventnor Lane in mid-morning stretched Saracen’s patience to the limit. He could not get into the lane itself because two hearses and a black Bedford van were already parked there and all the surrounding streets were etched with double yellow lines. This in itself had not prevented a caravan of lorries from stopping there with their wheels half up on the pavement as their drivers made their deliveries and obstructed traffic in both directions.
The streets in this area, the oldest part of town, were narrow and overhung with an odd assortment of two and three storey buildings which huddled together as if in mutual support, each cemented to the other with the dirt and grime of centuries.
Saracen saw a space among the rubble of a recently demolished warehouse and risked the anger of traffic behind by stopping suddenly and attempting to reverse into it. A red faced man, driving a Rover, blew his horn angrily and made a rude gesture at Saracen. Saracen noted the florid complexion as he smiled an apology and said quietly through his teeth, “See you soon old man.”
The premises of Maurice Dolman and Sons were painted black and grey and fronted with double shop windows, each blanked out to just above eye level with smoke grey paint. This had the effect of making the inside of the building artificially dark even in mid-morning and required that the lights — crystal wall lights — be kept on all the time.
There was no one at the counter when Saracen went in so he took time to take in his surroundings. A tape of solemn organ music was playing and it irked him. Unwilling to accept its celestial origins he looked for the concealed speakers and found one grille above a photograph of a hearse captioned, ‘1933’. There was another in a peg board screen on the other side of the room that carried yet more photographs of hearses and the dates when they had served with the company.
Saracen saw the polished brass bell on the counter. It sat beside a leather bound edition of the Bible and a small plate which invited him to ‘Press for Attention.’ He slapped it hard with his palm, not that he was annoyed that no one was about. He just wanted to destroy the bogus aura of reverence.
There was a movement from somewhere at the back. A series of slow footsteps seemed to go on for ever before a short man wearing black jacket and striped trousers appeared at the counter. He had his hands clasped together as if he had been disturbed at prayer.
“May I be of assistance sir?” The man inquired in a voice full of practised sympathy and concern.
“I’m Saracen. I telephoned.”
“Oh yes,” said the man, affecting an immediate change of tone. “This way.”
Saracen followed the man, whom he took to be Maurice Dolman himself, through a narrow corridor flanked by partitioned cubicles. Each was furnished in similar fashion with a desk and three chairs and was where Saracen deduced the ‘loved ones’ decided which of Dolman’s wares should accompany their departed on the final journey. An elderly typist sat in the last cubicle, her spectacles perched on her nose, hands poised above the keyboard as she read her notes before committing her fingers to the keys.
They left the front shop and descended some stairs to a basement which joined with that of a neighbouring building. There was a strong chemical smell in the air and the rooms were now lit by fluorescent fittings that filled every corner with cold, hard, shadowless light.
“This is quicker than walking round the outside,” said Dolman. He stopped as they came to a closed door and half turned, saying, “I am afraid we have to pass through here but you being a doctor and all…” His voice trailed off without further explanation and he opened the door. Saracen entered to a sight that took him unawares and a smell that brought his hand up to his face.
The naked corpse of an old woman was lying on a marble slab while two men, one with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, worked on it. A series of plastic tubes led out of the cadaver and were draining away the body fluids into a number of stainless steel buckets on the floor. One of the men was preparing to replace the fluids with a chemical mix.
“Embalming,” said Dolman. “So important that the dead should look their best don’t you think?”
Saracen did not reply. He would cheerfully have blown up the place but saying so was not going to help.
Dolman spoke to the men. “Dr Saracen is here to examine the departed, Leonard Cohen. Would one of you take him through and give him every assistance.” The directive was aimed at the man with the cigarette who responded sullenly by getting up slowly from his stool and leaning over one of the buckets to release the butt from his lips without using his hands. It fell with a hiss into the stinking slop. Still without speaking, he inclined his head for Saracen to follow him. The man put Saracen’s teeth on edge. He found his fingers bunching into fists as he followed him through a narrow stone passage until they came to a room marked ‘Morgue’.
Saracen stood back as his reluctant assistant opened up a refrigerator with space for six bodies; four were in residence. Saracen read the name tags over the man’s shoulder. Carlisle, Hartley, Finnegan and Cohen. So Garten had transferred the remaining two bodies from Skelmore General after all.
The examination did
not take long and afterwards Saracen washed his hands in the grubby little sink in the corner and faced up to the fact that he had discovered nothing new. The corpse had been that of a man in his sixties with no unusual features or peculiarities at all. Unless Chenhui had actually known him personally it was difficult to see anything about the man that could have upset her so badly.
Dolman came into the room, hands still clasped together. “Quite finished Doctor?” he asked with an obsequious smile.
“Quite.” said Saracen.
Dolman turned to the man beside him and said, “Return Mr Cohen to the fridge will you and get out Miss Carlisle. She is going at noon.”
Saracen was glad to get out into the fresh air even if it was full of diesel fumes. But anything had to be better than the Hell’s kitchen atmosphere of Dolman’s. He returned to the hospital and questions from Alan Tremaine.
“So you are no further forward then?” said Tremaine when Saracen had finished telling him about Cohen.
Saracen agreed and asked about Chenhui’s condition.
“She’s not upstairs any more. She’s been transferred to the Psychiatric Unit at Morley Grange.”
“On whose say-so?” asked an astonished Saracen.
“Garten’s I suppose. I don’t really know. Why?”
Saracen did not reply immediately. He had to admit to himself that he was in danger of becoming paranoid about almost everything Garten did. Was it really so strange that Chenhui had been taken to Morley Grange? Why should he see something sinister in it? Why should he immediately jump to the conclusion that Garten was getting Chenhui out of the way, putting her some place where people, himself in particular, could not ask her questions. He became aware that Tremaine was still waiting for an answer. “Oh nothing, I suppose that’s the best place for her…if she’s ill.”
Tremaine looked puzzled but then remembered something. He said, “Dave Moss phoned while you were out. He asks that you call him back.”
Saracen called the County Hospital then had to wait while the operator paged Moss.
“You are not going to believe this,” said Moss, sounding slightly embarrassed.
“Try me,” said Saracen.
“That PM on Myra Archer…”
“Yes?”
“There never was one.”
Saracen was struck dumb.
“Are you still there?” asked Moss as the silence lengthened.
“I don’t understand,” said Saracen. “There had to be one. She was a DOA and she didn’t have a general practitioner to sign the death certificate.”
“Well I’ve been right through Wylie’s files. No Myra Archer.”
“Maybe the file has been removed?” suggested Saracen.
“I thought you would say that so I checked Wylie’s schedule from the twelfth to the fifteenth. He had a full list but Myra Archer was not among them. There simply was no PM done on her James.”
Saracen still found it hard to swallow. “So who signed the death certificate?” he asked, thinking out loud.
“If what you say is true I think I would like to know the answer to that one too,” said Moss.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Saracen, slowly replacing the receiver. As he stood there, deep in thought, Sister Lindeman came up to him and waited in silence until she had his attention.
“Yes Sister?”
“If you have a moment Doctor, I’d like a word.”
Saracen followed her into her office and she closed the door. She looked worried. “It’s about the JW you gave blood to,” she began. “The girl has developed hepatitis. She has been transferred to the County.”
Saracen rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and said, “God, that’s all I need. She must have got it from the transfusion.”
“Almost certainly.”
“How is she?”
“She’s holding her own and the parents haven’t said anything as yet but, in the circumstances, they might read more into the complication than might otherwise be the case. If that happens the ball might well land up in your court.”
Saracen nodded and said, “No pun intended on the word ‘court’ I hope Sister.”
Sister Lindeman smiled and said, “Let’s pray it won’t come to that. For what it’s worth I’m with you all the way. You did the right thing in the circumstances.”
Saracen said, “It’s worth a great deal Sister…Let’s go stitch some heads.”
Saracen was sitting on his own in the hospital canteen wondering whether or not to eat the mess in front of him or perhaps underseal his car with it when Jill Rawlings came in and sat down beside him. She joined him in a silent appraisal of what was on the plate before saying quietly, “Give me a stick and I’ll kill it.”
Saracen managed a wan smile and said, “I think somebody already did, a very long time ago.” He pushed the plate away and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“Problems?”
“And how.”
“That bad?”
“Damn near it.”
“My friend Mary is off home for a week; I’m staying in her flat. Why don’t you come round this evening? Bring a bottle of wine and I’ll make you a decent meal.”
Saracen looked at her and smiled. “That sounds good,” he said. “I’d like that.”
“Then it’s settled.” Jill gave Saracen the address and they agreed on eight o’clock.
At four in the afternoon Saracen called the County Hospital and asked Dave Moss about the condition of the girl who had been transferred there with hepatitis.
“She’s OK for the moment. What’s your interest James?”
Saracen told him.
“Ye gods Saracen, you certainly have some kind of professional death wish don’t you.”
“What would you have done?”
“The same…I hope.”
“Do you think she’s going to be all right?”
“If nothing else happens she’ll be fine and if the parents should ask how she got it I’ll tell them the ways of the Lord are strange.”
“Thanks, I owe you.”
Saracen left A amp;E at seven. He stopped at an Off License on the way home to pick up some wine and found the experience less than cheering for he always found such places depressing at night. After a slow saunter along the wine shelves he decided on a litre of Valpolicella and joined the check-out queue behind a man in dungarees carrying a six pack of beer and a very small woman, almost lost inside a purple mohair coat. The woman hugged a half bottle of port to her breast as she counted out the exact amount from the clutches of her purse and paid without comment. Saracen hard to work hard to stop himself imagining the woman’s life. For the moment he had enough troubles of his own.
He felt better after a bath and a change of clothing and made a conscious effort to free his mind from thoughts of the hospital before setting out to have dinner with Jill. He was pleasantly surprised that the prospect of spending the evening with Jill made him feel so good and wondered about it as he drove. What were his feelings about Jill Rawlings? It was something he hadn’t given much thought to until the night they had dined with Alan Tremaine and his sister. After that evening he had found himself thinking about her quite a lot. There was something about her that disturbed him but not in an unpleasant way. It wasn’t just that she was attractive and fun to be with. There was something more, a feeling that he was reluctant to define for the moment but it made him think of his days with Marion.
Saracen slowed as he arrived at the street and crawled along the kerb till he came to the right number. Jill answered the door and kissed him on the cheek. Had he come by car? she asked. Saracen said that he had and was scolded. “You should have left it. What you need is to relax and have a few drinks. Still, you can always leave it and get a taxi home if you feel inclined. I’ll bring it to the hospital in the morning.”
Saracen settled himself on the sofa and said with a smile, “I offer no argument.”
Jill poured the drinks and joined Saracen on the
sofa. “I take it it’s this Myra Archer business that’s getting you down?” she said.
Saracen nodded.
“Would you like to talk about it? A trouble shared and all that.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Saracen told her all that was on his mind.
“You’re convinced that Myra Archer’s death and Leonard Cohen’s are linked?”
“Absolutely. I must have disturbed the men who had been sent to move Myra Archer’s body on the night I got clobbered.
Jill sighed and shook her head.
Saracen shrugged and said, “So there you have it, two dead on arrival, both bodies transferred out of the hospital as quickly as possible on the pretext of the refrigeration having broken down. Chenhui Tang knows what has been going on but she has a nervous breakdown and finishes up in Morley Grange on Heminevrin. Any ideas?”
“Did the patients have anything in common?” asked Jill.
“Not that I can see. A woman in her late fifties who has spent the last twenty years in Africa and a man in his sixties who has never been out of the country. It’s hard to spot a connection.”
Jill nodded and said, “How about blood and tissue types?”
Saracen smiled as he followed the line of Jill’s thoughts. “Are you going to suggest that Garten has been selling bodies for spare parts?” he asked.
“Just an idea,” said Jill. “Not on huh?”
“Not on,” agreed Saracen. Cohen had been dead for some hours before he was brought in. Transplant organs have to be fresh and, apart from that, Myra Archer had a Salmonella infection; that would have ruled her out. Besides, removing organs is a job for experts not butchers in Dolman’s cellars.
“So who else would want the corpses?”
“No one,” replied Saracen. “I think Garten was trying to cover up something about their deaths.”
Jill looked sceptical and said, “Possibly with the Archer woman, because of the ambulance nonsense, but not with Leonard Cohen. You said yourself that he had been dead for several hours before he was brought in? What could Garten possibly have to cover-up?”
