Bloodstains

by Andrew Puckett

  ‘I think that’s enough from you,’ Bennett said peremptorily. ‘I think it’s time you told us what you were doing there in the first place.’

  Ah yes, the difficult bit.

  ‘I wanted to check out an idea I’d had earlier,’ I said.

  ‘At eight o’clock on a Saturday evening?’

  ‘It was the first chance I had.’

  Bennett snorted derisively.

  Falkenham said, ‘What was this idea?’

  I hedged. ‘I believe that there’s another conspiracy taking place in the Centre.’

  ‘Such as?’

  I don’t know—’

  Bennett exhaled noisily. ‘Just tell us what it was at eight o’clock on a Saturday night that made it so important to break into the Centre and smash up its deep-freeze.’

  This was where I’d had to tell them about Hill.

  Silence.

  I couldn’t, something deep inside wouldn’t let me.

  ‘Well?’ said Bennett.

  ‘I don’t think David Brown’s death was an accident or suicide,’ I said at last. ‘I’m certain he was killed to keep him quiet.’ I realized as I spoke how feeble it sounded, but the alarm was still ringing.

  ‘Well, this is most interesting,’ purred Bennett. ‘It may interest you to know that we’ve had the forensic report on his body. It contains an incredible amount of alcohol, but shows no evidence of any other party—’

  ‘What about the cigarettes and matches I found?’

  ‘I couldn’t find them. In fact, I haven’t been able to discover anything that backs up your story.’

  ‘What about—?’

  ‘In fact, I don’t think you can distinguish truth from fiction,’ he overrode me. ‘That’s your problem, but in the meantime, I can’t take anything you say seriously.’ He stood up. ‘Naturally, we’ll be needing a statement, but if I were you, I’d think very carefully about what you put in it.’

  Falkenham said, ‘Sergeant Bennett thinks I should put the Centre — er — out of bounds to you, and I regret to say that I agree with him. The staff will be told that you are not allowed in the building.’ He stood up. ‘Stick to computers, Mr Jones, you did a good job there.’

  Bennett obviously felt that he should have the last word.

  ‘And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep out of police business in future.’

  A few seconds later they had both gone.

  It was over an hour later when the door opened, and Holly looked round.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said quietly. ‘Can I come in?’

  I tried to say yes but the lump in my throat wouldn’t let me.

  She slipped across the room. ‘The nurse said it would be all right to see you for a few minutes.’

  I said, ‘God, I’m so glad to see you.’

  She made a tiny noise, a warm arm slid round my neck and she kissed me untidily.

  I only heard an hour ago,’ she said breathlessly. ‘There’s a memo going round that you’re not allowed in the Centre. I can’t understand it, nobody could. Then George told me how he found you. Tom, what were you doing in there?’

  I looked away for a moment, wondering how much to tell her. Oh, to hell with it, if I couldn’t trust her…

  ‘You haven’t told anyone about Hill, have you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Do you remember what he was saying?’

  Her eyes slid away. ‘A bit. Something about him and Mike being in league.’

  I told her. Her eyes widened and narrowed again.

  ‘So that’s why you went back! Tom, you’ve done enough, you must leave it to the police.’

  ‘The police! They won’t believe me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They just don’t.’ I told her about Falkenham and Bennett.

  ‘Did you tell them about Hill?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

  She drew back. ‘Tom, did you find anything in the freezing-room?’

  ‘No, the door shut…’ Memory twitched, the aluminium boxes, the cold. ‘The door shut, and I was locked in.’ Needed time to let the thought settle.

  ‘Tom, let me go to the Director—’

  ‘Listen, I’ve got it!’ I caught her hand and held it. ‘Just before the door shut, I opened one of those boxes, you know, the aluminium ones marked Fresh Frozen Plasma for CPPL.’ She listened resignedly. ‘They’ve got a batch number on them, right? And a range of donation numbers?’

  ‘Just a batch number. The range of donation numbers are on a list in the Plasma Lab.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘OK. The point is, the boxes are filled with plasma from a range of donations, a consecutive series of numbers.’

  I opened them again and she nodded.

  ‘Well, the numbers I saw on the satellite packs were all over the place, they bore absolutely no relationship to each other.’

  ‘Odd.’ Her face cleared. ‘You must have opened a box of Time-expired plasma, we send that away, too, you know.’

  ‘Then why was it marked Fresh Frozen Plasma?’

  She shrugged. ‘Clerical error. It happens.’

  ‘D’you really believe that?’

  ‘Why not? You only saw one box, didn’t you?’

  ‘Funny I should pick the one with such an outlandish error.’

  She swallowed. ‘But why should anyone want to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ But an idea began to form, a ghost on the edge of my mind.

  ‘All right, Tom, suppose you’re right, let’s tell someone. Please, please let me go to the Director so that we can check it out.’

  ‘Better if we check it out first and then tell him, Holly.’

  ‘No.’ She tried to pull her hand away, but I held it tight.

  ‘Holly, you must help me. I need to get back in there, for just ten minutes—’

  ‘You’re mad!’ She pulled again, and this time succeeded in wrenching free.

  ‘Are you on call tonight?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Make some excuse, you can let me in through the library stairwell.’

  ‘No, no, no! We’ll be caught, and I’ll be sacked.’

  ‘More ‘n me job’s worf, eh?’ I mimicked.

  ‘That’s unworthy, Tom, you just don’t understand.’ She backed away towards the door.

  ‘If you’re sacked, you can always come and live with me.’

  She stopped dead, then gave a wry smile.

  ‘If you really meant that, then it might be different.’

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  She moved slowly towards me, bent over me, gently touched my lips with hers. Her hand found mine, caught it, folded it over her breast. Her clear grey eyes promised everything.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she breathed, ‘when you’re out of here…’

  ‘You’ll help me tonight?’

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘It’s the wrong way, Tom. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve got to find out tonight.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Tom. I’ll come and see you then.’ Her cheek brushed mine and the smell of her filled my nostrils.

  She stood up and went silently to the door.

  ‘I’ll do it alone,’ I said.

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Strange and exhilarating, to have been at one moment a patient safely tucked in for the night, and now me, Tom Jones, on my way to finish the job.

  It was easy to dress and, covered with a dressing-gown, slip ghost-like between the aisles of mostly sleeping patients, past the office where a sister and houseman conferred in subdued tones. I left the gown on a laundry basket, and stepped into the brightly lit corridors, where I could pass for a late visitor or perhaps an especially workaholic NHS employee.

  I found the main lifts, and a few minutes later I was
in the spacewalk, stars and moon clearly visible through the Perspex.

  The heavy door to the stairwell boomed shut behind me, and as I clattered down. I felt curiously light-headed, almost as though I’d been drinking.

  The door leading to the Centre was locked as before, but nobody had missed the rivet in the emergency keyholder yet. I slid back the glass and reached for the key.

  Better keep it this time; the doors in the lobby would be locked now, and I didn’t know whether they could be slipped from the inside.

  The Centre enveloped me in silence and darkness that after a few moments were neither; shadows loomed, and the air clicked and buzzed with the sounds of refrigerators and incubators, and in the distance, an anonymous whine.

  I walked quickly and silently up the main corridor, checked the slit of light from the orderly’s room, then with pounding heart pushed open the door of the smaller corridor leading to the Blood Bank and freezing-room.

  God! I didn’t want to go back in there again. The realization hit me as I stood trembling in front of the massive insulated door.

  Then, abruptly, I twisted the freezing-room light and pulled the handle.

  The door swung open. I pulled it as wide as it would go and, instinctively glancing behind, stepped through the veil of mist into the crystal-hard air beyond. Sensations of pinched earlobes and frozen nostrils. I looked around, the rows of aluminium boxes were still there. But were they the same ones?

  I grabbed one and backed out. Put it on the floor, pulled off the lid and examined the contents.

  Eighteen consecutively numbered satellite packs of plasma, just as there should be.

  I swore under my breath and replaced the lid. Well, it was only to be expected, they’d had two days to remove the evidence.

  I replaced the box and took three more. They were the same.

  With a sinking heart, I took another three, this time from the back and bottom of the pile.

  By now my fingers were becoming numb, and it was with difficulty that I got the lids off the first two. They were the same.

  The third lid wouldn’t come off at all, and I nearly put it back unexamined. Instead, I felt for a coin — but found the key. Prised off the lid and with aching fingers pulled out a pack and rubbed at the number. Again.

  They were different, And another. And another.

  They were all different, they bore no relationship to each other.

  But perhaps it was time-expired plasma… I snatched at the box, rubbed away the frost from the batch number.

  No! FFP 5921! FFP, Fresh Frozen Plasma. These packs had no right to be here.

  Quickly I replaced them and pushed on the lid — how could I check out what they should be?

  The files in the Plasma Lab! I picked up the box, swung the freezing-room door shut and switched off the light before feeling my way to the connecting door.

  Not locked; only the bleed ward, stores and offices were locked at night. I put the box down on a bench, and blowing on my frozen fingers looked round — where were the files? I needed more light than the moon could give.

  I spotted an Angle poise lamp — too bright — picked up a thick roll of tissues and wound some round the bell-shaped shade before switching it on.

  The tissued light filled the walls with bizarre patterns, but it was enough to see by.

  Now where were the files? I hunted round the benches, they couldn’t be far away — Ah! A clipboard hanging on the wall, stuffed with sheets. I took it back to the lamp and brought the box over. FFP 5921. I shuffled through the sheets. Hell! The last one was FFP 6023 — where were the others?

  I went back to where I found the clipboard — no more files. In the cupboards below, perhaps — God, don’t let them be in Blood Issue, I prayed.

  I pulled at the cupboard, it was stiff. Yanked, and it gave with a snap that echoed round the eerily lit walls.

  I waited. Nothing. I looked inside.

  There they were, layers of sheets tied together with string. I took the top bundle and carried it across to the lamp.

  FFP 5950. Found the next bundle.

  FFP 5902. Flicked back through — here it was, FFP 5921!

  Below the batch number was a list of eighteen donation numbers. Eighteen consecutive donation numbers.

  I hunted round for a piece of paper and pencil, then tried to get the lid off the box. It needed the key again.

  Carefully I took each satellite pack and recorded its number. They bore no relationship to the numbers on the sheet.

  So, what were they?

  I tapped a finger impatiently on the bench as I looked around for inspiration.

  A computer terminal.

  I hurried across with the list, sat down and reached behind for the switch. The terminal hummed into life. I gave it a moment to warm up, then pressed Return. The screen flickered and invited me to log on.

  I did so.

  This not a valid password, the screen informed me.

  I stared in disbelief, then tried again. The same.

  They’d taken away my password!

  I drummed my temples — Holly, what was Holly’s password?

  It was made up of her initials and date of birth.

  Holly Jordan, what was her middle name?

  I closed my eyes — pictured myself leaning over her shoulder as she logged on.

  ‘What's the E' for, Holly? —’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  And the numbers — a six, a nine — sixteen-nine, 169!

  I tapped in HEJ.169.

  What program do you require?

  M for Menu.

  D for Donations.

  I pulled the list closer, tapped in the first number and watched as the information shunted on to the screen.

  Donation taken (Date).

  Grouped (Date).

  Issued as Whole Blood (Date).

  And that was all — this blood was not supposed to be here.

  The same loophole that Leigh had used!

  Somebody had taken the outdated plasma from the returned blood and substituted it for the Fresh Frozen Plasma that was supposed to be in the box.

  So, what had happened to that Fresh Frozen Plasma?

  I scrawled down the donation details next to the number and tapped in the next one.

  The same. And the next.

  The same. They were all the same.

  I sat back, chewed the pencil and thought.

  The substituted plasma would be sent to CPPL and processed as though it were Fresh Frozen. They’d he certain to notice, surely?

  But why?

  They’d have a batch number, and eighteen packs of frozen plasma. And workers used to handling hundreds of frozen bone-chilling packs would scarcely pause to check each number against the list before dipping them into liquid nitrogen to shatter the plastic. So long as the batch numbers matched, why query what the Various Centres had sent them?

  I jerked as from an electric shock as another revelation hit me. Of course!

  That day at the computer unit, when the records showed that Tamar had a lower Factor VIII output than the other centres, a statistically significant lower output. Naturally, when some of the FFP sent from Tamar wasn’t Fresh Frozen at all, but outdated. Nobody would notice until months of results had been put together, and even then, it would be assumed that it was something to do with the way Tamar harvested the plasma.

  Why Fresh Frozen Plasma?

  Why not? Leigh had found a black market for it, so could someone else.

  But who? My brain went round the familiar list of suspects. Wickham, Chalgrove, Falkenham.

  Or Steve, or Pete. Adrian? Perhaps someone I hadn’t thought of. Perhaps, perhaps…

  Better hide the evidence. I folded the paper and stuffed it into a pocket, re-packed the aluminium box and hid it in the most inaccessible cupboard I could find.

  As I clambered to my feet, a wave of giddiness swamped me. I’d done enough, time for bed. Think up some excuse for the sister, if she catches me.
>
  I switched off the terminal and Anglepoise lamp and waited for my eyes to adjust before slipping through the door into the corridor with its stippled light, electrical clicks and the distant whine of machinery.

  I was suddenly glad that it was nearly over, that I was leaving the Centre for the last time, glad to be going back to bed -

  It hit me, and the shock sent me reeling to the wall.

  What do you make with Fresh Frozen Plasma? Factor VIII, of course.

  Machinery! The Fractionation Lab.

  I could feel the vibration of the ultra-centrifuge as I leaned back against the wall and snatches of conversation came back to me like an edited tape-recording.

  Frank, holding up the little bottle with the freeze-dried powder stuck to the bottom: ‘This is a shot of Factor VIII. It costs anything between thirty and sixty pounds…’

  Trefor, speaking of CPPL: ‘They make over six million pounds’ worth every year, you know, and it’s still less than half of what we need…’

  Valuable stuff, Factor VIII.

  And it was being made now, just a few yards from where I stood, shaking.

  Shaking not from tiredness or fear, but with rage, a purple fury as I realized that people were making money from my brother’s misery…

  Were they selling it to the Arabs?

  Recycling it back to this country?

  My brother.

  If they’d been straight, maybe Frank wouldn’t have needed the American muck, maybe he wouldn’t have AIDS…

  I wasn’t thinking logically.

  In a red haze I thrust myself from the wall, walked automaton-like round the corner and grasped the handle of the door to the Fractionation Lab. It opened.

  I didn’t stop to ask myself why, just had to know who…

  The whine grew louder as the door opened.

  Across the office, I looked through the glass panels of the two dead-bolted doors — couldn’t see anyone.

  Drawn as though by a magnet, I pushed my way into the gowning lobby.

  A gowned figure was loading tubes into a pack, it turned at the click of the dead-bolt… Steve!

  I thought: He might be here legitimately, but then our eyes met, and as though by telepathy, we knew, and both knew that we knew. My rage evaporated. I was in no state to take on Steve.

  The dead-bolt clicked free as the door behind me swung shut. He put down his rack of tubes before throwing himself at his door, and that’s what saved me. I lunged for mine and the dead-bolt shot up again as he crashed into it. I snatched a chair from under a desk and thrust it into the gap, so long as it was there, the deadbolt would hold Steve’s door locked.