Bloodstains

by Andrew Puckett

  Then he saw me and beckoned. When I saw who he was talking to, I forgot my headache for a moment. ‘Marcus!’

  ‘Hello, Tom. Thought I’d come and give you a lift back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, as in a dream. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘You’re looking a bit peaky. Are you all right?’

  ‘Vile headache, that’s all.’ I became aware of Bennett, who was staring at us.

  Marcus said, ‘Taken anything for it? I’ve got some paracetamol—’

  Bennett found his voice. ‘When you’ve quite finished… No, sorry, but could we please come to the business in hand?’

  David had died on the operating table and Bennett had spent the morning taking statements from those who had last seen him. Mine was the last.

  ‘Why didn’t you report the attack made on you last Tuesday in the Centre earlier?’ he demanded when I had finished.

  ‘I’m sorry, it didn’t seem to be important at the time.’

  ‘Wanted to sort it out on your own, I suppose.’

  I thought tiredly: Wait till he hears about last night.

  ‘You mention Adrian Hodges in your statement; he doesn’t seem to like you much either. Claims you assaulted him after intimidating David Brown. What makes you suspect him?’

  Headache or no headache, now was the time I had to show my reasoning as lucidly as possible, for Marcus’s sake as much as anything.

  I took a breath and slowly let it out.

  ‘I suspected him almost from the moment I arrived, because he is more or less in sole charge of the storage and issue of all blood. It had to be him. If he were innocent, nobody could steal blood without his knowing’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘He seems to hold a grudge against most people, me particularly—’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not prejudiced?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure,’ I said coldly, ‘which is why all the evidence I have gathered is based on statistical analysis… may I go on?’

  He gave a short nod.

  ‘The system for storage, issue and retrieval of blood here is computerized, and therefore assumed to be infallible, and yet Marcus has shown, statistically, that Tamar Centre uses more blood than it should. That’s why I looked very hard at the system. It’s riddled with loopholes. For instance…’ I told them how the fate of a pack of blood was completely unknown once it was issued.

  ‘My first idea was that Adrian was over-issuing blood to an accomplice in hospital, who sent it back at night for Hill to sort out and dispatch. Then I thought: Why have an accomplice, why not just issue it to St Dennis’s or wherever, but in reality, keep it back for Hill?’

  ‘Is this what you think happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, it would be very difficult to prove.’

  Bennett groaned.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ I swallowed. ‘We’ve assumed from the beginning that blood was being stolen, especially after Marcus found out about the Swiss firm and “Red Gold”.’ I explained these to Bennett. ‘But there is still the difficulty of its limited life. Plasma however, is a very different matter.’ I told them about returned blood and the Time-expired plasma that should be harvested from it.

  Marcus sat up. ‘West London,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  I wonder if they know about each other.’

  Unlikely, but we’ll never know—’

  ‘Just what are you talking about?’ demanded Bennett.

  Marcus explained the West London conspiracy to him.

  ‘Why didn’t we think of it before?’ he said to me. ‘It’s practically identical.’

  Bennett said, ‘Can you prove this one?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’ I told him of my discoveries in the Centre and the computer unit.

  I turned to Marcus. ‘You’re wrong on two counts about these cases being identical.’ I ticked them off on my fingers. ‘So far, this operation is peanuts compared with West London. What was it you told me they made? £150,000? This one can’t have made a tenth of that. A fiftieth, maybe. Except that they didn’t stop there.’

  I had their full attention now.

  ‘The amount of plasma they could take was always limited by the number of bags returned, which was decreasing anyway. So, they found another source.’

  ‘More than half of the blood that comes to the Centre has the fresh plasma taken off, that’s about two hundred donations a day. It’s then quick-frozen and sent to CPPL. Yesterday I worked out from the computer records all the totals of Fresh Frozen Plasma sent to CPPL by Tamar, then I compared these with the figures you sent me, Marcus, CPPL’s records of plasma received from Tamar. And guess what?’

  ‘There’s a discrepancy?’

  ‘Right. It’s another loophole. The Centre’s computer knows how much plasma has been separated, and CPPL knows how much plasma they receive, but ne’er the twain shall meet. Although I expect they will after this.’

  ‘But what on earth did they want fresh plasma for?’ demanded Marcus.

  ‘That’s what puzzled me at first. You see, the only use for fresh plasma is making Factor VIII for haemophiliacs…’ I swallowed and continued. ‘The fact is, they didn’t care whether it was fresh or not, so long as it was plasma. Perhaps the people they were supplying wanted more, perhaps they were just greedy — I don’t know.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve worked out some figures. They were probably taking about two hundred units of expired plasma a month. They’re worth about a pound each on the black market, maybe one-fifty, that’s not much between three, or even two, people. But once they got the idea of taking fresh plasma, it took them up to, say, two hundred or so a week. That’s a bit more like it, but—’

  ‘But still not that much,’ said Marcus, ‘even tax-free.’

  ‘That was the other thing I found so puzzling at first,’ I continued. ‘When we found out that Leigh had been killed, I was sure there was big money involved — must be if it was worth killing for—’

  ‘That’s right!’ cried Bennett, who had been listening intently. ‘But don’t you see, it all fits now.’

  ‘How?’ said Marcus, frowning.

  ‘All this time we’ve been assuming that Hill killed Leigh and wondering why. Well, in David Brown we have a young man who by all accounts was neurotic, unstable, in debt and couldn’t cope with his life or job. Those peanuts must have come in very handy for him, but then he’s caught. And who by? His old boss, who could see immediately that he was up to no good.’ The weasel leaned forward, poised for the kill. ‘But he’s neurotic, unbalanced, and this pushes him over the edge. Don’t you see? He killed Mike Leigh!’

  ‘He can’t run, so he stays and pretends that everything’s normal. Then you turn up, Mr Jones, he somehow guesses who you are, which makes him even more unstable.’

  ‘That’s right!’ cried Marcus. ‘One minute he wants to confess to you, the next, he belts you over the head.’

  ‘You were lucky it wasn’t worse,’ said Bennett.

  I touched the bruise on my scalp and wondered.

  ‘And then,’ he continued, ‘he realizes you’re going to get him anyway and he can’t face it, he cracks up. Has a skinful of drink and goes up to the roof.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Who knows why? Perhaps he went there to think things out and fell by accident. Or realized it was the end, and jumped who knows? Let’s say the former, for the sake of his family.’

  After a short silence I said carefully, ‘That’s good thinking, but where’s Hill?’

  ‘Perhaps Brown killed Hill as well,’ suggested Marcus.

  ‘It would fit,’ said Bennett slowly. ‘If a person’s missing for more than a week, they’re usually dead. Perhaps he had time to get rid of one body but not the other.’

  Marcus was nodding in agreement, they had the case wrapped up between them and the moment I’d been dreading had arrived.

  ‘There’s something else,’ I said.

  Bennett fumed like a pressure-cooker, as I tol
d them about the previous night.

  ‘You were told not to interfere,’ he said with the calmness of impotent fury.

  ‘David’s fall was just too damned convenient, that’s why I went. So, who pushed me, and more to the point, why?’

  Another silence.

  ‘Who do you think pushed you?’ said Bennett.

  ‘Adrian Hodges.’

  ‘Why? Oh, you still think he’s part of the blood conspiracy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Marcus. ‘Isn’t he the one who loathes you anyway, because of that girl?’

  ‘What girl?’ demanded Bennett.

  I told him briefly about Holly.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ said Marcus.

  I gazed at him blankly.

  ‘Jealousy. He’s so eaten up with it, especially after you tenderized his balls and walked off with his girl, that he followed you down from the disco. We know he was looking for you and that Holly told him where you were. What was to stop him following you up and shoving you off the roof on impulse?’

  ‘Nothing, Marcus, nothing!’ I cried impatiently. ‘He pushed me, but not because of Holly—’

  ‘You think he pushed David?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When? From your account, you were both squabbling over Holly at the time David fell.’

  He had a point. I put my head in my hands and tried to think, but it hurt too much.

  ‘I’ll have Hodges back this evening and question him,’ said Bennett, ‘but it sounds like good reasoning to me.’

  I looked up and their faces told me they thought it was all over.

  There’s got to be more to it than that,’ I said tiredly, more to myself than to them.

  The pain in my head had eased by the time we started back for London in Marcus’s Rover. Bennett hadn’t attempted to chew up my neck, but this was probably because he thought he had seen the last of me. I’d had every intention of disappointing him until half an hour later, when I couldn’t have cared less.

  Marcus hadn’t said much, and I was watching the sun settle on the edge of the moor and thinking about Holly when at last he spoke.

  ‘Tom, I came down because I have something to tell you.’

  I stiffened. ‘What?’

  He hesitated. ‘Your brother.’

  Something inside turned over. ‘What d’you know about my brother?’

  ‘He’s ill.’

  My tongue touched my lips. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The Social Services have been trying to find you. They eventually got on to me.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ he lied, ‘but I think it’s pretty bad.’

  He hadn’t so much glanced at me, yet I knew he was lying.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ I repeated.

  ‘He’s in St Mary’s, Paddington.’ A pause. ‘They say he has AIDS. You know what that is, don’t you?’

  ‘Who fucking doesn’t?’ I shouted. ‘It’s smeared over the bloody Press every day. Well, whatever else he is, he’s not a fucking queer.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was,’ Marcus said quietly. ‘He’s a haemophiliac.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I demanded.

  ‘I’ve known for some time. It’s my business to—’

  ‘So, you’ve been playing fucking games with me. “Oh, I can’t imagine why you’re so scared of blood,”’ I mimicked.

  ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll stop the car and chuck you out.’

  ‘You do that.’

  He braked so hard that I was flung forward against the safety strap of the seat-belt.

  He turned and faced me. His lips were white. ‘Before you go,’ he said slowly, and my inner respect for him made me pause. ‘Before you go, I want you to know that it’s not your contempt for me that makes me so angry, it’s your contempt for your brother.’

  ‘You think I feel contempt for him?’

  ‘You haven’t said “How is he?” or “Is he in pain” or “Will he live?” None of them. Not once.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Get out.’

  I might have gone then, gone out of his life for ever, and maybe out of mine before the night was through. But I didn’t. For some reason I wanted to make him understand.

  But what could I say, other than sorry? And that would be backing down and Tom Jones doesn’t back down, not for no one.

  ‘Well, are you going?’ His face was a white mask.

  ‘I want to try and make you understand—’

  ‘Not a hope!’

  ‘I’m… I’m sorry.’ I pushed the door open and swung out a leg into the warm evening air. He caught my arm.

  ‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’

  I faced him. ‘Well, I mean it. You’re right and I’m sorry and if you’ll excuse me I’ll go now.’

  He released my arm.

  ‘OK,’ he said, and then released his own seat-belt. ‘I’ll come with you. It’s a lovely evening and perhaps the air will bring some sense between us. I’m sorry, too, Tom.’

  We walked in silence up a small stony path towards some ponies grazing on the skyline. They looked up, then as one skittered away over the horizon.

  ‘I always wanted to ride, as a boy,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Is he in pain? Will he live?’

  I don’t know, that’s something you must find out. And you must do it, Tom,’ he added. ‘For your own sake.’

  The last chord of the sun vanished beneath the inky black skyline and a chill struck the air.

  I turned to Marcus. ‘Why didn’t he contact me himself?’

  ‘Why haven’t you contacted him all these years? He was afraid you wouldn’t care.’

  ‘I do care.’

  ‘He didn’t know that. Did you really hate your father that much?’

  ‘Yes.’ I stopped, turned on him in something like desperation. ‘You don't understand, you don’t know what it was like.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He — he—’ I swallowed. ‘He blamed me for Frank. He somehow twisted things round so that it was my fault.’

  Marcus slowly resumed walking. ‘Sure, you didn’t blame him?’

  ‘Well, it was his fault, both of them. They knew the risks — it could have been me that was the haemophiliac. It wasn’t, but they bloody well had to go on and have one that was. And then he blamed me. Me!’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He kept hitting me, didn’t he? Every time poor Frankie had a bleed he thought I’d done it. “You’ve-got-to-bloody-well-learn,”’ I grated between my teeth, ‘That’s what he always said as he hit me. “You’ve-got-to-bloody-well-learn” again and again and… at last I couldn’t stand it, not after the last time. That’s why I buggered off into the Army.’

  We walked in silence for a while.

  Marcus said, ‘Did you resent him? Your brother?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, of course I did. I knew he was sick, but everything had to revolve around him. All the time.’

  ‘And did you take it out on him?’

  ‘No,’ I mumbled at the rugged pathway. ‘At least, I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  Shoes crunching on stones.

  Marcus said, ‘You will go and see him, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I muttered.

  ‘Good man.’ There was real warmth in his voice as we topped the horizon; we saw the sun again, a last chord, a lost chord as we stood in silence and watched it disappear.

  ‘It’s not every day you see the sun set twice,’ said Marcus.

  A few minutes later, we started back.

  Getting out of a car at the end of a journey is like climbing out of a bath you should have left ten minutes ago. The unreality pressed against my eyes and scalp as the sodium-lit pavement pressed up against my feet.

  ‘Would you like me to come up for a spell?’ said Marcus.

 
; ‘No, it’s all right, thanks.’

  ‘OK then.’ He couldn’t quite keep the relief out of his voice, he was very tired. ‘Oh, don’t forget your case.’

  I hauled it from the back seat and stood for a moment, hand on the open door. ‘See you Monday, then.’ And then: ‘Thanks, Marcus.’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Take a couple of days off, I’ll see you Wednesday. Oh, and good luck tomorrow.’

  The air in the flat wasn’t damp or musty, yet it held the staleness that comes from stillness. I dropped my case on the bed, turned the immersion heater to full and then threw open some windows. The curtains billowed like parachutes and I shivered slightly in the night breeze as I unpacked my case. Then to the living-room where I poured a large whisky, sipping it as I skimmed through the mail. Bills, bank statement, and a letter from one of my nouveaux country-house friends inviting me to stay for a few days.

  Closed all the windows and then bathed with some difficulty, trying to keep my bandaged hand dry. Then another whisky, this time with a rare cigar.

  Thinking about him was unbearable, yet I couldn’t stop. Every line of thought seemed to lead back to him, back to tomorrow.

  Getting unfit, I thought, coughing slightly on the cigar, need some exercise. Can’t go to the gym, not with this hand, I’ll have a run in the park tomorrow, after… after…

  After seeing my brother.

  More whisky. Scared of not sleeping.

  I didn’t give Holly or the Centre a thought until I was lying in bed and the pain in my hand reminded me. Sod them, I thought, sod all of them if that’s what they want to think. Except Holly. No. I didn’t include Holly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There’s something about trains, any train, that plays on your anxieties like piano-wires, perhaps because no matter how often it stops, it’s going to get there.

  It was at Baker Street I came nearest to running away, after that came a kind of dull acceptance… Marylebone.

  I don’t have to see him, even if I get as far as the hospital… Edgware Road.

  But I am going to see him — do I still blame him for Dad, for me? … Paddington.