Fenton's winter

by Ken McClure

  Fenton pushed open the dark blue door and took off his leathers in the outer hall in front of a row of steel lockers. Susan Daniels, one of the technicians, saw him through the inner glass door and opened it. "Dr Tyson would like to see you," she said. Fenton buttoned his lab coat as he climbed the stairs to the upper flat then knocked on the door bearing the legend, 'Consultant Biochemist.'

  "Come."

  Fenton entered to see Charles Tyson look up from his desk and peer at him over his glasses. "What a day," he said.

  Fenton agreed.

  "We are going to have the police with us for most, if not all, of the day," said Tyson. "We'll just have to try and work round them."

  "Of course," said Fenton.

  "I've requested a locum as a matter of priority but until such times…"

  "Of course," said Fenton again.

  "I'd like you to speak to Neil's technician, find out what needs attending to and deal with it if you would. I'll have Ian Ferguson cover for you in the blood lab in the meantime."

  Fenton nodded and turned to leave. As he got to the door Tyson said, "Oh, there is one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Neil's funeral, it will probably be at the end of next week, when the fiscal releases the body. We can't all go; the work of the lab has to go on. I thought maybe you, Alex Ross and myself could go?"

  "Fine,’ said Fenton without emotion.

  He walked along the first floor landing to a room that had once been a small bedroom but had, in more recent times, been the lab that Neil Munro had worked in. He sat down at the desk and started to empty out the drawers, pausing as he came to a photograph of himself holding up a newly caught fish. He remembered the occasion. He and Munro had gone fishing on Loch Lomond in November. They had left Edinburgh at six in the morning to pick up their hired boat in Balmaha at eight. The fish, a small pike, had been caught off the Endrick bank on almost the first cast of the day and Munro had captured the moment on film.

  There had been no more fish on that occasion and the weather had turned bad in early afternoon ensuring that they were soaked to the skin by the time they had returned to MacFarlane's boatyard. Munro had ribbed him about the smallness of the fish but, having caught nothing himself, had come off worst in the verbal exchange. Fenton put the photograph in his top pocket and continued sifting through the contents of the desk. He was working through the last drawer when Susan Daniels came in. "I understand you will be taking over Neil's work," she said. "Can we talk?"

  "Give me five minutes will you," said Fenton.

  A system involving three piles of paper had evolved. One for Munro's personal belongings, one for lab documents and one for 'anything else.' The personal pile was the by far the smallest, a Sharp's scientific calculator, a University of Edinburgh diary, a well thumbed copy of 'Biochemical Values in Clinical Medicine,' by R.D. Eastham, a few postcards and a handful of assorted pens and pencils. Fenton put them all in a large manila envelope and marked it 'Neil's' in black marker pen. The 'anything else' pile was consigned mainly to the waste-paper basket, consisting of typed circulars advising of seminars and meetings and up-dates to trade catalogues. Fenton started to work his way through the lab document pile while he waited for Susan Daniels to return. Much of it was concerned with a new automated blood analyser that the department had been appraising for the past three months. Neil had been acting as liaison officer with the company, Saxon Medical and the relevant licensing authorities and from what Fenton could see in copies of the reports there had been no problems. The preliminary and intermediate reports that Munro had submitted were unstinting in their praise.

  Fenton turned his attention to Munro's personal lab book and tried to pick up the thread of the entries but found it difficult for there was no indication of where the listed data had come from or what they referred to. Munro, like the other senior members of staff, had been working on a research project of his own, something they were all encouraged to do although, in a busy hospital laboratory, this usually had to be something small and relatively unambitious. Fenton stopped trying to decipher the figures and went over to look out of the window. It was still raining although the sky was beginning to lighten. He turned round as Susan Daniels came in.

  "Sorry I'm late. The police wanted to talk to me again."

  Fenton nodded.

  "It all seems a bit pointless really. Who would want to kill Neil?" said the girl.

  Fenton looked out of the window again and said, "The point is, somebody did kill him."

  "I'd better brief you on what Neil was doing," said Susan Daniels.

  "Do you know what his own research project was on?" asked Fenton.

  "No I don't. Is it important?"

  "Maybe not, I just thought you might have known."

  "He didn't speak about it although he seemed to be spending more and more time on it over the past few weeks."

  "Really?"

  "Actually he seemed so preoccupied over the last week or so that I asked him if anything was the matter."

  "And?"

  "He just shook his head and said it probably wasn't important."

  Fenton nodded. That would have been typical of Munro. Although he had been a friend, Neil Munro had been a loner by nature, never keen to confide in anyone unless pressed hard. He himself had not seen much of him over the past few weeks, in fact, since Jenny had moved into the flat, they had seen very little of each other socially although that would have changed when the fishing season had opened in April.

  "You've been running the tests on the Saxon Blood Sampler I see," said Fenton picking up the relevant papers.

  "In conjunction with Nigel. He’s been showing us how to use it."

  'Nigel' was Nigel Saxon, the chief sales rep from Saxon Medical who had been attached to the department for the period of the trial. Like most reps, he had a pleasant, outgoing personality which, when combined with a generous nature and the fact that he had the financial clout of being the boss' son, had made him a popular figure in the lab.

  "Neil seemed to like the machine," said Fenton, looking at Munro's intermediate report.

  "We all do," said Susan.

  "What's so special about it?"

  Susan Daniels opened one of the wall cupboards and took out a handful of what appeared to be plastic spheres. "These," she said, "These are the samplers. They are made out of a special plastic. You just touch them against the patient's skin and they charge by capillary attraction. All you need is a pinprick, no need for venipuncture."

  "But the volume?"

  "That's all the machine needs to do the standard values."

  "I'm impressed," said Fenton. "What stage are the tests at?"

  "They are complete. It just requires the final report to be written up and signed by Dr Tyson," said Susan.

  "Is all the information here?" asked Fenton.

  "I've still got the data from the last set of tests in my note-book. I'll bring it up after lunch."

  "I'll come down; I'd like to see the machine working. Anything else I should know?"

  "Neil was running some special blood tests for Dr Michaelson in the Metabolic Unit; perhaps you could contact him and have a chat."

  Fenton nodded and made a note on the desk pad. "Anything else?"

  "There are a couple of by-pass operations scheduled for next week Neil was supposed to organise the lab cover."

  Fenton made another note. He looked at his watch and said, "Why don't you go to lunch? If you think of anything else you can let me know." He got up as Susan left the room and returned to the window to check on the weather. It had stopped raining.

  Fenton pulled up his collar as he felt the icy wind touch his cheek. He decided to give the hospital canteen a miss, knowing that it would still be buzzing with talk of Neil's death and a new day's crop of rumours. Instead, he walked off in the other direction, not at all sure of where he was going. He paused as he came to the entrance to a park and entered to find himself alone beneath the trees. The wide expanse of gra
ss that would be crowded with lunch-time picnic makers in July was, on a cold day in February, utterly deserted.

  A bird wrestled a worm from the wet, windswept grass and flew off with it in his beak. That's the awful thing about death, thought Fenton; life goes on as if you had never existed, the ultimate in searing loneliness. He reached the far end of the park and let the iron gate clang shut behind him as he returned to the street and paused to look for inspiration. He saw the beckoning sign of the 'Croft Tavern' and crossed the road.

  A sudden calm engulfed him as he went in through the door and made him aware of the wind burn on his cheeks. He ran his fingers ineffectually through his hair as he approached the empty bar counter to pick up a grubby menu. The barmaid tapped her teeth with a biro pen in readiness.

  "Sausage and chips, and a pint of lager."

  "I'm only food; you get your drink separately,’ said the sullen girl with an air that suggested she had said the same thing a million times before.

  Fenton looked to the other barmaid. "Pint of lager please."

  "Skol or Carlsberg?"

  "Carlsberg."

  A plume of froth emanated from the tap. "Barrel's off."

  "All right, Skol."

  Fenton looked behind the bar at a poster on the wall which proudly announced, 'This establishment has been nominated in the Daily News pub of the year competition.' By the landlord, thought Fenton.

  "Hello there," said a voice behind him. He turned to find Steve Kelly from the Blood Transfusion service. "Didn't know you came here for lunch," said Kelly.

  "First time," said Fenton.

  "Me too," said Kelly. "I'm sitting over there by the fire. Join me when you get your food."

  Fenton joined Kelly in sitting on plastic leather seats in front of a plastic stone fireplace. They watched imitation flames flicker up to plastic horse brasses.

  "The breweries really do these places up well," said Kelly without a trace of a smile. Fenton choked over his beer. Kelly smiled.

  Fenton's fork ricocheted off a sausage causing chips to run for cover in all directions; one landed in Kelly's lap; he popped it into his mouth.

  "You can have the rest if you want," said Fenton putting down his knife and fork.

  "No thanks, I've just tasted it."

  "What brings you here?" asked Fenton.

  "I was looking around for a nice quiet wee place to bring that nurse from ward seven to one lunch time."

  "You mean somewhere where the wife wouldn't be liable to find you?"

  "You've got it."

  "Well this place seems quiet enough."

  "Aye, but it wasn't exactly food poisoning I was planning on giving her."

  "Point taken."

  They sipped their beer in silence for a few minutes before Kelly said, "So who's the loony Tom?"

  Fenton kept looking into the flames. "I wish to God I knew," he said.

  "Munro was a friend of yours wasn't he?"

  Fenton nodded.

  "I'm sorry."

  Fenton sipped his beer.

  "Who will be taking over his projects?" asked Kelly.

  "Me for the moment."

  "Then you’ll be wanting the blood?"

  Fenton was puzzled. "What blood?"

  "Munro phoned me on Monday; he wanted some blood from the service."

  "Better hold on that till I find out what he needed it for."

  "Will do."

  "Another drink?"

  "No."

  They got up and moved towards the door. "Would you mind returning your glasses to the bar?" drawled the lounging barmaid.

  "Aye, we would," said Kelly flatly. They left.

  Fenton waited while Kelly finished buttoning his coat up to the collar. He hunched his shoulders against the wind. Kelly said, "So you'll let me know about the blood?" Fenton said that he would and they parted.

  Fenton was grateful that the wind was now behind him, supporting him like a cushion, as he walked slowly back to the hospital. This time he avoided the park and opted instead for the streets of Victorian terraced housing, black stone houses that looked cool in summer but dark and forbidding in winter, the bare branches of the trees fronting them waved in the wind like witches in torment. As he reached the lab he had to pause to let a silver grey Ford turn into the lane beside the lab. One of its front wheels dipped into a pot hole splashing water over his feet. He raised his eyes to the heavens then saw that the driver was Nigel Saxon and that he had realised what had happened. Saxon stopped and wound down the window looking apologetic, "I say, I'm most frightfully sorry."

  Fenton smiled for it was hard to get angry with Nigel Saxon. He waited while Saxon parked his car then watched him attempt to side-step the puddles as he hurried to join him. Saxon was everyone's idea of a rugby forward running to seed, which indeed he was. He had played the game religiously for his old public school till, at the age of twenty-five or so, he had discovered that it was possible to have the post-match drink and revels without actually having to go through the pain of playing. Now at the age of thirty-two he was beginning to look distinctly blowzy, a fact of which he seemed cheerfully aware. He had managed to scramble a poor degree in mechanical engineering before joining his father's company, Saxon Medical, where his engineering skills had been completely ignored in deference to his amiable personality and confidence that had made him invaluable in sales and customer liaison. Fenton thought it ironic that Saxon would never appreciate what his greatest talent was in that direction; he made the customers feel superior.

  "You've got lipstick on your cheek," said Fenton

  Saxon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, scattering as he did so, some loose change over the pavement. Fenton helped pick it up and paused to look at something that turned out not to be a coin. It appeared to be some kind of silver medallion with a tree engraved on it. "Very nice," he said and handed it back to Saxon only to be surprised at the intense way Saxon was looking at him. It was as if Saxon had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer.

  Saxon dabbed absent-mindedly at his cheek.

  "Other one," said Fenton.

  There were three policemen in the hallway when they entered the lab. "Mr Fenton?" said one. Fenton nodded. "Inspector Jamieson would like to see you again sir if that's convenient?

  "Of course. I'll be in one-oh-four."

  "You know I still can't believe it," said Saxon as he and Fenton climbed the stairs to the first floor, "I keep expecting to see Neil." Fenton nodded but managed to convey to Saxon that he did not want to speak about it.

  "I was wondering if we might have a talk about the Blood Analyser,” said Saxon.

  Fenton said that he was about to suggest the same thing himself and told Saxon that he had arranged with Susan Daniels to see the machine in action that afternoon. Saxon said that he would join them and asked when. "As soon as I finish with the police," said Fenton

  As Fenton closed the door he heard the rain begin to lash against the windows once more He glanced out at the sky and saw that it was leaden. Mouthing a single expletive he turned to Munro’s personal research book and started through it again. He wanted to know why Munro had asked the Blood Transfusion Service for a supply of blood and what exactly he had planned to do with it. Kelly had not said how much blood Neil had asked for and he had neglected to ask. He picked up the internal phone and asked the lab secretary to check the official requisition.

  As he waited for a reply a knock came to the door. It was Inspector Jamieson and his sergeant, whose last name Fenton could not remember. He motioned them to come in and said that he would be with them in a moment.

  "What day did you say?" asked the secretary's voice on the phone.

  "Monday."

  "That's what I thought you said. There isn't one."

  "Are you quite sure?"

  "I've checked three times."

  "Perhaps I misunderstood," said Fenton thoughtfully. He put down the phone. So Neil had made the request privately without going through channels. Cur
iouser and curiouser. He became aware of the policemen looking at him and put the thought out of his mind for the moment.

  Fenton had taken a dislike to Jamieson after their first meeting but had been unable to rationalise it, thinking perhaps that he might have taken a dislike to anyone who had appeared to be asking such apparently pointless questions.

  "I thought we might just go through a few of these points again sir?" said Jamieson.

  "If you insist," said Fenton.

  "I'm afraid I do sir," said Jamieson with an ingratiating smile.

  So, thought Fenton, the dislike was mutual.

  Jamieson at five feet ten was small for a policeman in the Edinburgh force but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth and his shoulders filled his tweed jacket, providing a firm base for a thick neck and a head that appeared to be larger than it actually was because of a thick mop of grey hair. He sported a small clipped moustache and this, together with the twill trousers and checked shirt, gave him the appearance of an English country gentleman in week-end wear. The voice however belied the image. It was both Scottish and aggressive.

  As the interview proceeded Fenton was convinced that he was answering the same questions over and over again. It irritated him but, not knowing anything of police procedure, he concluded that this might be a routine gambit on their part. Annoy the subject till he loses his temper then look for inconsistencies in what was being said. It annoyed him even more to think that he might be being treated as some kind of laboratory animal. His answers became more and more cursory while, silently, he became more and more impatient. Of course Neil had not had any enemies. He had no earthly idea why anyone would want to kill him. Wasn't it obvious that some kind of deranged psychopath had committed the crime? Why were they wasting time asking such damn fool questions? Did the police have no imagination at all?