by Ken McClure
"Miss Daniels tells us that Dr Munro seemed very preoccupied, to use her word, over the last week or so. Do you have any idea why sir?" asked Jamieson.
Fenton said that he did not.
"Miss Daniels thinks it may have had something to do with his personal research work." There was a pause while Jamieson waited for Fenton to say something. When he did not Jamieson asked, "Would you happen to know what that was sir?" Again Fenton said that he did not. "But you were a friend of the deceased were you not?" said Jamieson, turning on his smile which Fenton could see he was going to learn to dislike a great deal. "Yes I was, but I don't know what he was working on."
"I see sir," said Jamieson, smiling again. "I understand from Dr Tyson that you will be tidying up the loose ends in Dr Munro's work?"
Fenton said that was so.
"Perhaps if you come across anything that might indicate the reason for Dr Munro's state of mind you might let us know?"
Fenton was nearing the limit of his patience. What possible relevance could Neil's 'state of mind' have had to the lunatic who murdered him? Were the police seriously considering suicide? Did they imagine that Neil had climbed into the steriliser and closed the door with a conjuring trick? Did they believe that he had operated the controls from inside the chamber by telepathy? A child of ten could have eliminated the suicide notion within seconds but he bit his tongue and refrained from pointing that out. Instead he said that he would pass on anything he came up with.
"Then I think that's all for the moment sir," said Jamieson getting to his feet. "But we may have to come back to you."
"Of course," said Fenton flatly.
Fenton came downstairs to join Susan Daniels in the main laboratory, a large bay-windowed room that had once been a Victorian parlour. He apologised for being late. Nigel Saxon was already there and was making an adjustment to the machine in response to something that Susan had mentioned. "Well, impress me," said Fenton.
Susan picked up one of the plastic sample spheres that Fenton had seen earlier and held it over a blood sample. "In normal times we would be doing this at the patient's bedside after a simple skin prick with a stylette, but for the moment we're using samples that have been sent in the conventional way." She touched the sphere to the surface of the blood and Fenton saw it charge. "That's all there is to it," she said, removing the sphere and introducing it into the machine. She pressed a button and the analyser began its process.
"Amazing," said Fenton, "But what happens when the temperature varies and the sampler takes up more or less blood. The readings will be all wrong."
"That's where you are wrong old boy," said Saxon with a smile. "The plastic is special. It's thermo-neutral; it doesn't go soft when it warms up and it doesn't go hard when it's cold. It's always the same. Well what do you think?"
Fenton admitted that he was impressed. Saxon beamed at his reaction.
"I suppose this stuff costs a fortune," said Fenton.
Saxon smiled again. "Actually it doesn't," he said, "It costs very little more than conventional plastics."
"But the potential for it must be enormous," said Fenton.
Saxon shook his head and said, "We thought so too at first but the truth is it's just not strong enough to be useful in the big money affairs like defence and space technology. But for medical uses, of course, it doesn't have to be. We've manufactured a range of test tubes, bottles, tubing etc from it which will cost only a fraction more than the stuff in use at present. We think the advantages will outweigh the extra cost and hospitals will start changing to Saxon equipment. "
"I take it you have a patent on the plastic?"
"Of course," smiled Saxon.
"It sounds like a winner," said Fenton.
"We think so too. We are so confident that we have gifted a three month supply of our disposables to the Princess Mary."
"That was generous," conceded Saxon.
"Well you were kind enough to put our Blood Analyser through its paces for the licensing board, it seemed the least we could do."
A printer started to chatter and Susan Daniels removed a strip of paper from the tractor feed. "All done," she said.
Fenton accepted the paper and looked at the figures. "Normal blood," he said.
"A control sample," said Susan Daniels.
"How do the figures compare with the ones given by our own analyser?"
"Almost identical and the Saxon performed the analysis on one fifth of the blood volume and in half the time."
"Maybe Saxon will gift us one of their machines as well as the Tupperware." said Fenton, tongue in cheek.
Nigel Saxon smiled and said, "There has to be a limit even to our generosity."
Susan Daniels handed Fenton a sheaf of papers. "These are the results of the final tests. You'll need them for the report."
Saxon said to Fenton, "I hate to press you at a time like this but have you any idea when the final report will be ready?"
"End of next week I should think."
Fenton left the room to return upstairs but paused at the foot of the stairs when he saw a small puddle of water lying in the stair well. He looked up and saw a raindrop fall from the cupola and splash into the puddle. "All we need," he muttered, going to fetch a bucket from glassware preparation room. He placed the bucket under the drip before calling in to the chief technician's room. "The roof's leaking Alex."
"Again?" said Alex Ross with a shake of the head. "It's only two months since they repaired it." He made a note on his desk pad and said he would inform the works department.
When he got back to his own lab Fenton found Ian Ferguson, one of the two basic grade biochemists on the staff, hard at work. He looked up as Fenton entered and said, "Dr Tyson asked me to cover for you."
"He told me. Thanks. How's business?"
"Brisk," smiled Ferguson. "But I think everything's under control. There are a couple of things I think you better look at but apart from that it's been largely routine."
Fenton picked up the two request forms that Ferguson had put to one side and nodded. "I'll deal with them," he said. “You can go back to your own work now if you like. I can manage now."
Ferguson got up and tidied the bench before leaving. As he turned to go Fenton said to him, "Did Neil mention anything to you about requesting blood from the Transfusion Service?"
Ferguson turned and shook his head. "No, nothing,"
Fenton made his third attempt at phoning Dr Ian Michaelson. This time he was successful. He asked about the special blood monitoring that had been requested and Michaelson explained what he had in mind. "We could postpone the tests for a week or two if you can't cope after what's happened," said Michaelson.
"But it would be better for the patient if they were done this week?" asked Fenton
"Yes."
Fenton did some calculations in his head, equating the required tests to man hours. "We'll manage," he said. Next he contacted the cardiac unit about the proposed by-pass operations and learned that there were now three on the schedules instead of two. "This is not good news," he said. Once again he was asked if the lab could cope. "Some of us won't be going home too much," he replied, "But we'll manage."
Despite the fact that Ferguson had cleared most of the morning blood tests Fenton found himself busy for most of the afternoon. He found it therapeutic for it was impossible for him to dwell on anything other than the work in hand but at four thirty he was disturbed by the sound of raised voices coming from downstairs. He looked out from his room and asked one of the junior technicians, what was wrong.
"It's Susan," the girl replied, "She's been taken ill."
TWO
Fenton ran downstairs to find Susan Daniels lying on the floor outside the ladies' lavatory. She was surrounded by people giving conflicting advice. Help her up! No, don't move her. Loosen her clothing! Keep her warm!
"What happened?" he asked.
"She fainted when she came out the toilet," said a voice.
"She's bleeding!" said a
nother voice.
"I've sent for Dr Tyson," said Alex Ross. Tyson was the only member of the staff to be medically qualified, the others being purely scientists.
Fenton knelt down beside the prostrate girl and felt her forehead; it was cold and clammy. "Who said she was bleeding?" he asked.
Liz Scott, the lab secretary knelt down beside him and said quietly, "There's blood all over the floor in the toilet."
Fenton reached his hand under the unconscious girl's thighs and felt her skirt wet and sticky. "She's haemorrhaging!" he said, "Get some towels!" The crowd dispersed. "Was Susan pregnant?" Fenton asked Alex Ross.
"If she was she never said," replied the chief technician.
"She seems to be having a miscarriage," said Fenton.
"Poor lass."
Someone handed Fenton a bundle of clean linen towels. He folded one and pushed it up between Susan Daniels' legs then followed it with another. He was relieved when Charles Tyson arrived on the scene to take over. He stood up and noticed one of the juniors wince at the sight of his blood soaked hand.
"She's lost a lot," said Tyson, "We'll have to get her over to the main hospital."
Responsibility passed from Tyson to two nurses in casualty who wheeled Susan Daniels into a side room leaving Tyson and Fenton waiting in the long corridor outside where they sat on a wooden bench in silence. Fenton leaned his head back against the wall and turned to look along the length of the corridor. An orderly was buffing the linoleum with an electric polisher in a steady side to side motion some forty metres away at the other end. A nurse, dressed in the pink uniform of a first year student, flitted briefly across his field of view. Distant sounds of children's voices echoed along the high Victorian ceilings. He turned his attention to the posters of characters from Disney which had been stuck up at intervals along the walls to lighten the atmosphere. The sheer height of the walls swamped them making them pathetic rather than effective.
A figure hurried towards them, white coat billowing open. His eyes fell on Tyson, "Sorry sir, 'couldn't get here any sooner, we've got a mini-bus accident to contend with."
Tyson nodded. "She's in there," he said.
Fenton noticed Tyson visibly swither whether or not to join the registrar in the treatment room and decide not to. It had been over twenty years since he had last been involved in direct patient care.
A heavy trolley, being pushed by two porters, swung erratically to the side as it passed them and made them draw in their feet. Each porter blamed the other. Tyson looked at his watch and displayed uncharacteristic irritation. "Come on…come on," he muttered. Another two minutes had passed before a nurse accompanied by an orderly appeared. They were carrying transfusion equipment, the orderly weighed down on one side by a green, plastic crate containing six blood packs. They almost collided with the registrar who chose that moment to emerge from the room. He ignored the new arrivals and came directly towards Tyson. Fenton thought he looked embarrassed and had a sense of foreboding.
"I'm sorry," said the registrar, as if unable to believe what he was about to say, "We've lost her."
Fenton felt pins and needles break out all over his skin. 'We've lost her.' That's what they had said on that awful night when Louise had died. The words echoed inside his head rekindling every second of that hellish moment. After the phone call he had run through the streets in the pouring rain desperately trying to wave down a taxi but the weather had made sure that they were all occupied. He had ended up running the entire three miles to the hospital to stand there, dripping wet under the daylight glare of the lights in casualty to be told that his wife and child were dead. He remembered every pore on the face of the house officer who had told him, the way he had touched the frame of his glasses, the way he had looked at his feet. Now he waited for the next line, 'We did all we could,' but it didn't come. Instead, Tyson's voice broke the spell. "What do you mean, 'lost her'?" he asked hoarsely.
The registrar had gone a little red in the face, "I'm sorry," he said, making a gesture with open palms. "We couldn't stop the bleeding in time. It's as simple and as awful as that."
"But why not?" insisted Tyson.
The registrar made another helpless gesture with his hands. "I'm afraid we really won't know the answer to that until after the post-mortem.
Tyson got slowly to his feet and walked past the registrar into the treatment room; Fenton followed. The nurses melted back from the table to reveal the body of Susan Daniels, very still and very white. Fenton thought that she looked more beautiful than he had ever realised, like a pale delicate flower that had been cut and left lying on its side. Soon it would wither and fade. He was filled with grief and looked for some mundane object to focus his eyes on while he regained control of his emotions. He settled his gaze on a steel instrument tray and kept it there.
On looking up he saw tears running down the face of one of the nurses. He squeezed the girl's shoulder gently and indicated to her that she should leave the room. He himself followed a few moments later. He pretended to look at one of the Disney posters while he waited for Tyson.
In the background Fenton could hear Tyson and the registrar discussing the post-mortem arrangements then he had the feeling that he was no longer alone. He looked down to see a little boy dressed in pyjamas staring up at him. His nose was running. The child did not say anything but had a questioning look on his face. Fenton said, "Now where did you come from?"
The child continued to stare at him then said, "I want my mummy."
Fenton gently asked the boy his name but before he could answer a distraught nurse appeared on the scene. "Timothy Watson! So there you are!" She swept the child up into her arms and said to Fenton, "You just can't turn your back on this one for a moment or he's off!" The boy put his thumb in his mouth and snuggled down on the nurse's shoulder."
"Good-bye Timothy," said Fenton as the nurse walked away. He decided to walk back to the lab on his own without waiting any longer for Tyson who was still deep in discussion with the Casualty registrar.
It was already dark outside and the sodium street lights glistened in the puddles of rain water as he walked back towards the old villa. As he drew nearer he saw three figures standing in the bay window of the main lab and knew that they were waiting for news of Susan. One of them, Ian Ferguson, came to the door to meet him. "How is she?" he asked. Fenton stepped inside the hallway and saw everyone standing there. "Susan's dead," he said softly, "She bled to death."
Ferguson and Alex Ross, the chief technician, followed Fenton into the 'front room', closing the door and leaving the others out in the hall. Fenton crossed the floor and put his hands on the radiator by the window. "God, it's cold."
"Did they say what it was?" Ross asked.
"No, I don't think they know. They are going to do a post-mortem on her." Fenton sensed that his answer had failed to satisfy Ross; he turned round to face him.
Ross said, "It was natural, wasn't it? I mean, she wasn't murdered like Neil?"
Fenton was shocked. "Christ, I hadn't even considered that. I assumed it was some gynaecological thing."
"Me too," said Ferguson.
"You're probably right," said Ross. "It was just a thought."
"What a thought," said Fenton turning back to look out at the rain that had just started again.
On Saturday the lab staff finished at one pm leaving Fenton as duty biochemist till Sunday morning. He picked up the internal phone and gave the hospital switchboard his name and 'bleep' number, adding that he was about to go to lunch. He hurried up to the main hospital leaning forward against a fiercely gusting wind and climbed the stairs to the staff restaurant; it was half empty. He looked around for a familiar face but failed to find one save for Moira Kincaid from the Sterile Supply Department who was just leaving. He nodded to her as she passed.
Fenton paid for a cellophane wrapped salad and took it to a table by a window where he could watch the trees bend in the wind. It seemed to be blowing more strongly than ever.
'Want some company?" asked a voice behind him.
Fenton turned to find Jenny and smiled.
Jenny laid down her tray and Fenton held the edge of it steady while she extracted her fingers. "What a morning," she complained, "The ward's going like a fair."
Fenton smiled, paying scant attention to what she was saying but thinking that Jenny Buchan was the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time. "I didn't hear you leave this morning," he said.
"You were asleep. It seemed a shame to wake you."
Jenny joined Fenton in looking out of the window at the rain as it lashed against the blackened stone in wind-swept frenzy. "Do you think you will manage home tonight?" she asked.
Fenton shrugged his shoulders without taking his eyes off the rain and was about to reply when the bleeper in his jacket pocket went off. He shrugged again and Jenny nodded as he got up to leave. Outside in the corridor he picked up the phone and called the switchboard. "Fenton here."
Although the biochemistry lab was primarily concerned with the patients of the Princess Mary Hospital, it also carried out paediatric work for other hospitals in the city. Fenton had been informed that a blood sample was on its way from the maternity unit at the Royal Infirmary, a sample from a jaundiced baby for bilirubin estimation. He sat in the front room until the clatter of a diesel engine outside told him that it had arrived. Taking the plastic bag from the driver he signed the man's book and took the sample upstairs for analysis.
With the blood sample in the first stages of assay Fenton turned on the radio and tuned it to Radio 3. The sombre music seemed appropriate to a grey Saturday afternoon in February. He changed the settings on the analyser for the next stage and, with a fifteen minute wait in prospect, went along the corridor to Neil Munro's lab to collect Munro's research notes. He settled down to read them as, yet again, the rain began to hammer on the windows. The sound made him appreciate of the warmth of the lab. He wondered for a moment if the house had ever been this comfortable when it had been home to a well-to-do Victorian family. No trace of a fireplace could now be seen along any wall, in fact, the only trace of the original fittings lay in the ceiling where a plaster repair had failed to conceal the rose from which a chandelier had once hung. Fluorescent fittings were now bolted to the ceiling, incongruous against the cornice.
