Fenton's winter

by Ken McClure

  "Sorry. You're here late this evening."

  "The monthly accounts," said Ross. "I didn't have time during the day."

  "Fancy a drink?"

  "Good idea," said Ross, putting down his pen and rubbing his eyes. "I've had quite enough for one day."

  The two men walked the short distance to the Thistle Arms and joined the early evening drinkers. It was a grimy little pub that relied much more on the custom of regulars than passing trade. Little or no concession had been made to decor and it remained essentially a Scottish man's pub, a place where still the presence of a woman would be frowned upon. The solid Victorian bar counter was highly polished but bore the scars of countless generations of carelessly stubbed cigarettes while the floor was covered in linoleum that had once been green but was now an indeterminate dark shade under the dim, inadequate lighting.

  Several solitary drinkers sat at tables along a wall, their faces bearing tell tale signs of a life that had been none too kind; escape lay in the amber fluid in front of them. A few small groups chatted at the bar, men on their way home, some still carrying the badges of their trade. A railway guard in his gendarme's cap, a security guard with his hat moulded to suggest that he was really Burt Lancaster in Submarine Alley, an insurance agent in grubby raincoat with battered briefcase. A noisy group of students sat in the corner, savouring the haunts of the working man but retaining their university scarves as an insurance of distance.

  The two barmen were of the old school, spotless white aprons and hands that were never idle, constantly wiping imaginary spillages from the counter, eyeing the levels in the glasses along the bar, anticipating where the next order would come from. The smaller of the two, narrow shouldered and bespectacled, looked up as Ross and Fenton approached. "Still cold outside?" he asked.

  "Freezing," said Ross. He ordered whisky for them both.

  As they stood at the bar Fenton ran his eye along the gantry noting that nearly all the space was taken up by whisky, a good range of single malts and nearly every known blended variety. Other spirits were represented by solitary bottles. The contents of the glasses along the counter reflected the stock on the gantry, and probably constituted the reason for it, with the traditional 'half and a pint' clearly to the fore. He took comfort from the fact that some things never seemed to change. It might be a sociologist's nightmare but in certain places in Scotland drinking remained a man's game.

  Ross threw back his head and drained his glass, declining Fenton's offer of a second drink and pleading 'hell from the wife' as a legitimate excuse. Fenton wished him good night and ordered another for himself. The barman handed him a copy of the evening paper to look at and said that Rangers had bought another English player.

  "Really?" said Fenton, not having any interest in football but feeling obliged to display some reaction.

  "Not that it will do them any good," said another man at the bar, taking the strain off Fenton and diverting the barman's attention.

  Fenton drank up his beer and went to the lavatory. It was a dingy, brick-built cellar that had been painted so many times that the grouting between the bricks had all but disappeared. Rust clung to the pipework and old iron cisterns fixed to the wall above the urinal. He stood there, head tilted to one side to read the graffiti and heard the door open behind him. But no one joined him at the wall.

  Feeling more comfortable Fenton zipped his fly and turned round to find two men standing there, they were looking straight at him. The older of the two, a thickset man wearing leather jacket and jeans came towards him, the other remained leaning against the exit door. Without saying anything the first man swung his fist into Fenton's stomach with a power that suggested he might once have done it for a living. Fenton's eyes opened wide as he doubled over but only in time to meet the boot that was directed up into his face. His cheek bone shattered in a haze of pain.

  The whole affair seemed to be being conducted in absolute silence, no jeers, no insults, no words, just the cold, professional application of pain. The boot swung in again, this time into Fenton's ribs, overloading his appreciation of agony; he felt consciousness slip away from him. The frustration of not even being able to protest vied with the pain for his receding attention as he slid slowly down the wall, feeling the porcelain of the urinal cold against his cheek before his face finally came to rest in the gutter at the bottom. The stench that filled his nostrils made him vomit weakly, adding to the cocktail of blood and urine. The boot thudded into him again but it was by now a long way from Fenton who had drifted off into oblivion.

  Fenton emerged sporadically from the darkness to snatch an occasional sight or sound, a flashing blue light was reflected in glass somewhere, rain drops caressed his forehead, a hand touched him gently. There was a moustache…a cap…a siren that never faded into the distance, search light beams on a low ceiling, voices, but far away…very far away.

  Fenton surfaced from the blackness and opened his eyes to find everything still and bright. He stared upwards till the object he had elected to focus his attention on resolved itself into a light fitting. There were dead flies in it. He took a deep breath and, in doing so, attracted the attention of a nurse who now saw that his eyes were open. Her voice was soft and gentle. "So you're back with us," she said

  Fenton opened his mouth to ask where he was and a flight of burning arrows tore into his cheek. His gasp brought a gentle chide from the nurse; the soft voice said, "Lie still…rest…don't try to speak."

  Three days had passed before Fenton could sit up and concern himself with the more humdrum matters of life like the itch that persisted inside the heavy strapping on his ribs, the whereabouts of his motor bike, his jacket, the unpaid electricity bill in the pocket. He attempted to smile when Jenny came to see him but immediately wished that he had not when his broken cheek bone did not see the funny side of things. He had been able to give the police good descriptions of his attackers but no clue as to motive. It had been just a mindless act of violence.

  The novelty of grapes, Lucozade and get well soon cards began to wear thin after a couple of days; Fenton was now well enough to feel bored stiff and said so with increasing frequency to the nursing staff who, had heard it all before. But his persistent badgering paid off on Friday when he was allowed to go home by taxi after promising to take things easy. He was just in time to see Jenny's brother Grant who was on the point of leaving for home with his son Jamie who was wearing a patch over one eye. Fenton asked how the boy had got on at the hospital.

  "The surgeons decided that they should delay operating until he's a little older, maybe next year." said Grant.

  Fenton looked down at the little boy who was staring up at the plasters on Fenton's face. It was as if they both suddenly realised that they had a lot in common and an instant rapport was struck. Fenton bent down and asked the boy about the toy fire engine that he was carrying.

  Grant looked at his watch and announced that he and Jamie would have to be off. He thanked Jenny and shook Fenton's hand before ushering Jamie out the door.

  Jenny closed the door and looked at Fenton. "You should still be in hospital," she accused.

  Fenton smiled and said, "It's good to be home."

  Jenny kissed him. "It's good having you home."

  By the following Wednesday Fenton was climbing the wall with boredom. Still confined to the flat he made endless cups of tea, pacing up and down between times with occasional pauses to look out at the rain. He telephoned Charles Tyson at the lab to be told that he was out at a meeting. He did speak to Ian Ferguson for a while but ran out of things to say after being assured that the lab was coping well despite his absence.

  In mid- afternoon Fenton answered a ring of the door-bell to find Nigel Saxon standing there.

  "How's the invalid?" asked Saxon.

  The conversation, as most conversations involving Saxon usually did, degenerated into talk of women, cars and booze but it did cheer Fenton up and made him smile for the first time in days. In addition Saxon announced tha
t he was giving a dinner party for everyone in the lab to celebrate the successful conclusion to trials on the Saxon Analyser.

  "When?" asked Fenton.

  "Saturday evening."

  "Where?"

  "The Grange Hotel. It's not too far from the lab so the duty staff will be within bleeper range and can flit back and forth if necessary.

  Jenny arrived home with the news that she would be going on night duty after the week end. "But I'm off all this week end," she added in response to Fenton's expression.

  "Good, then we can go to the party." said Fenton. He told her about Saxon's invitation.

  On Friday morning Fenton visited his general practitioner to be declared fit to return to work. Having had no need of a doctor in the past year he had neglected to re-register with a practitioner nearer his home and so had to cross town to the doctor he had originally been listed with when he had first arrived in the city.

  Was this really the system envied by the world? he wondered as he sat in a crowded room surrounded by peeling wall paper and coughing people. The windows hadn't been cleaned for decades by the look of them and there was a strong smell of cats' urine about the place. Three back copies of Punch, a two minute consultation and he was free of the system but not the despondency it inspired.

  The return bus took an age to cross town and Fenton had to keep clearing the window with his sleeve to see where he was for the atmosphere on the top deck was heavy and damp and reeked of stale cigarette smoke. A fat woman, weighed down with shopping bags plumped herself down beside him, her face glowing with the exertion of having climbed the stairs. The smell of sweat mingling with the tobacco proved to be the last straw for Fenton. He got off at the next stop and walked through the rain; he was soaked to the skin by the time he reached the flat.

  FIVE

  The party at the Grange Hotel was a disaster. But then, as Fenton reasoned afterwards, it was always going to be in the circumstances. Their host, Nigel Saxon, tried his best to foster a spirit of light-heartedness and jollity and the generosity of the company in terms of food and drink could not be faulted but Neil Munro and Susan Daniels were just too conspicuous by their absence. In addition the knowledge that the killer had not yet been identified was still uppermost in most peoples' minds. Pulling together and presenting a common front in times of adversity was all very well when you were certain of your neighbours but when it was possible that the murderer might be sitting at the same table introversion and circumspection became the order of the day.

  Alex Ross was the exception to the rule. He drank too much whisky and, to his wife's obvious embarrassment, had quite a lot to say for himself. Jenny, whom Ross was very fond of, did her best to humour him and tried to prevent him becoming too loud in his opinions by diverting his attention to other matters. Ross' wife Morag, a woman of large physical presence and wearing for the occasion a purple dress smothered in sequins and a matching hat which she kept on throughout the dinner, tried to minimise the damage to her pride by smiling broadly at everyone in turn and asking where they planned to spend their summer holidays.

  Ross eventually grew wise to Jenny’s intervention and decided to bait Nigel Saxon about the speed with which Saxon Medical had obtained official approval for their product. For the first time since he had met him Fenton saw Nigel Saxon lose his good humour. Ross, despite his inebriation sensed it too and was inspired to greater efforts. He said loudly, "If you ask me the funny handshake brigade were involved!"

  There was uneasy laughter and Jenny leaned across to Fenton to ask what he meant.

  "Free masonry," whispered Fenton in reply.

  Saxon managed a smile too but Ross was still intent on goading him. "Or maybe it wasn't," he said conspiratorially, "They're too busy running the police force!"

  There was more laughter but then Ross suddenly added. "I think it was more like the Tree Mob."

  Fenton had no idea what Ross meant and gathered that many other people were in the same boat but it certainly meant something to Saxon for the colour drained from his face and his hands shook slightly as they rested on the table. "I think you have said enough Mr Ross!" he whispered through gritted teeth.

  Jenny and Fenton were mesmerised by the change that had come over Saxon and a complete silence came over the table before Ross who like many drunks seemed absolutely amazed that he had managed to offend anyone said loudly, "What's the matter? It was only a wee joke man."

  Ian Ferguson quickly stepped in to defuse the situation by getting to his feet and saying, I've no idea what this is all about but I'm going to have some more wine. Anyone else?"

  Glasses were proffered and the moment passed.

  "A fun evening," whispered Jenny in Fenton's ear.

  "We'll go soon," Fenton promised.

  As the table was cleared Jenny was engaged in conversation by Liz Scott the lab secretary and Fenton found himself standing beside Ian Ferguson.

  "Have you had any more thoughts about the stuff we found in Neil's cupboard?" asked Ferguson quietly.

  Fenton shook his head and said, "No. You?"

  "No, but it's worrying me," said Ferguson.

  "In what way?" asked Fenton

  "I think we should have told someone."

  "Who?"

  "You know, someone in authority, the police."

  "Why?" asked Fenton, knowing full well that he was being obtuse but perversely wanting to hear his own fears expressed by somebody else.

  "We know that the killer is using anticoagulants and we know that Neil Munro had a whole cupboard full of them hidden away in his lab."

  "Neil couldn't have been the killer."

  "I know that but it's an uncomfortable coincidence don't you think?"

  Fenton didn't get a chance to reply for they were joined by Charles Tyson and Nigel Saxon who asked them if they were having a good time. He held up a bottle of whisky in front of them. Fenton declined but Ferguson offered his glass to have it topped up.

  "Dr Tyson tells me you are on duty on Sunday morning Ian is that right?" asked Saxon.

  "All too true I'm afraid. Why do you ask?"

  "I have to dismantle the Saxon analyser some time in the afternoon. I wondered if you might be willing to stay on to give me a hand?"

  Ferguson made an apologetic gesture. "If only you'd said sooner," he said. "But I've arranged to meet my girlfriend in the afternoon. Maybe I could put her off if I…"

  "I'll do it," interrupted Fenton.

  "You're sure?" asked Saxon.

  "Of course. I've been idle for so long it'll be a pleasure."

  "Well, if you're quite certain…"

  Fenton arranged to be at the lab by two o'clock on Sunday afternoon.

  On the way home Jenny asked Fenton, "What did Alex Ross mean by the 'Tree Mob'?"

  "I've no idea," replied Fenton.

  "Charles Tyson knew," said Jenny. "I read it in his face."

  Nigel Saxon was waiting outside the lab when Fenton arrived on Sunday afternoon. He was stamping his feet and throwing his arms across his chest to keep warm as he patrolled the kerb near his parked car.

  "Not late am I?" asked Fenton, checking his watch to find out it had just gone two.

  "Not at all," smiled Saxon. "I'm grateful to you for helping out. The company is a bit short of demo models and this one has to be shown at Glasgow Royal tomorrow. You can have it back afterwards for a few more days."

  The two men set about dismantling the Saxon Analyser with Saxon concentrating on the hardware and Fenton disassembling the supply lines and removing the reagent reservoirs. Fenton came to a blue plastic container among the tubing and asked Saxon what it was.

  "Be careful with that," warned Saxon. "It's the acid sump."

  "I'll get rid of it down the drain in the fume cupboard," said Fenton disconnecting the blue cylinder from its manifold and removing it carefully.

  Saxon said, "I'm just going to nip out to the car for a moment to get my socket set."

  The door banged behind Saxon a
nd Fenton carried the blue container slowly across the lab to the fume cupboard to place it inside the chamber. He turned on the fan motor and heard the extractor whine into life. The fan would suck any toxic fumes up through a flu and vent them to the outside through an aluminium stack on the roof of the building.

  Fenton had unscrewed the cap of the acid bottle and was about to start pouring the contents down the drain when suddenly he froze. There was a bottle of benzene sitting inside the cupboard and he realised that he could smell it! He could smell benzene!

  How could that be? he asked himself. The bottle was on the other side of the glass screen and the fan was running. How could the fumes escape? He put the cap back on the acid container and took a few steps backward. Everything looked and sounded normal but there was something very wrong. He lit a piece of scrap paper in a Bunsen burner and held it to the mouth of the fume cupboard. The flame did not flicker. The extractor fan was running but there was absolutely no air movement through the flu. As a safety device it was totally useless.

  Puzzled as to what the fault could be Fenton brought some step ladders across to the fume cupboard and climbed up to inspect the motor housing. It seemed in good condition. He then moved on to the filter block in the chimney stack and found the source of the problem. The fire damper had closed. Fire dampers were fitted as a safety measure to fume cupboards. In the event of a fire in the lab they isolated the chamber and prevented flames from reaching highly volatile chemicals via the flu. In this case the damper had apparently closed of its own accord and rendered the fan ineffectual.

  The satisfaction that Fenton felt at discovering the cause of the problem was immediately replaced by distinct unease when he saw why the damper had closed. The retaining clips were missing. He searched the area at the base of the filter block but failed to find them. There was a chance that they had snapped and fallen down inside the flu but there was also a possibility that they had been removed deliberately.

  Fenton came down the ladders and rested his foot on the bottom rung for a moment while his mind raced to find a motive for sabotaging the fume cupboard. After all nothing drastic would have happened if he had gone ahead and poured the acid down the drain — an unpleasant whiff of acid fumes perhaps but nothing too serious unless…