Pandora's Helix

Thirteen

Lennon finished his up-date on the persons affected and asked if there were any questions or comments.

“It does look uncannily like the work of an infectious agent,” said Alan Brooks, Dean of the Medical School. The ensuing silence suggested this was not a popular comment.

“But there’s no established link between the first and second cases,” said Lennon, catching the mood of the meeting. “That’s absolutely vital and we looked hard enough, believe me. We’re pretty sure that these two girls never met.”

No one else seemed keen to promote the infectious agent argument.

“Neef said, “Dr Farro-Jones has arrived.”

Lennon turned up the lights again and turned away from the screen. “Ah, Doctor, any news?”

Farro-Jones said distantly, “I’ve spent the entire day examining uranyl acetate preps of lung secretions from Charles Morse. I found no evidence at all of any new virus being present.”

The room was filled with general murmurs of relief. Neef did not join them; he was wondering what Farro-Jones had seen earlier. He still looked preoccupied.

Lennon said, “I think I can speak for everyone when I say that I am mightily relieved to hear it, Doctor. I’m due to brief the Press after this meeting and my biggest fear was the prospect of having to announce the birth of a nightmare in the form of yet another new virus for humanity to contend with.”

There was laughter in the room as the mood relaxed.

“My findings of course, are not absolutely conclusive,” said Farro-Jones. “There’s always the possibility when looking for something entirely new that the staining conditions were not quite right or some step in the preparation wasn’t quite what it should have been.”

Neef found Farro-Jones’ rider a little puzzling. He hadn’t liked he idea of a new virus in the first place. Why was he being so guarded abut a negative finding?

“Quite so, Doctor,” said Lennon, “But I’m sure your findings are correct. We’re most grateful to you.”

“Did you find anything else in the samples?” asked Neef. He was irked at how keen the meeting had been to dismiss the virus theory.

“Like what?” asked Farro-Jones.

“Like fibrous or particulate matter.”

“A good point,” said Lennon, nodding his head.

“No, nothing,” replied Farro-Jones.”

“Nothing that looked like it might have been the carcinogen?”

“No.”

“Then we’re no further forward.”

“I’m afraid not,” agreed Farro-Jones.

“Do you have a point to make, Dr Neef?” asked Lennon.

“I’m sure we’re all relieved that there was no sign of a new virus but on the other hand there was equally no sign of any particulate matter either. We’re no nearer knowing what gave the girls cancer so we can’t afford to dismiss either notion completely. It’s essential that we keep an open mind.”

“As long as keeping an open mind doesn’t mean coming out with scare stories to the Press!” said the regional Board member who had had the run-in with Pereira. Neef now knew him to be Peter Baroda. He had asked one of the men standing beside him after Pereira left. It sounded as if Baroda had plenty of support in the room.

“We must avoid unnecessary alarm,” said a woman’s voice.

Neef didn’t recognize who it was but it made him wonder uncharitably if anyone had ever defined what necessary alarm was. He saw the woman’s comment as part of the background noise of British public life, like calls for ‘a full public inquiry’ and demands that ‘something be done’.

“Talking of unnecessary alarm, ladies and gentlemen,” said Lennon. “I will be meeting with the Press after our meeting. I will have to inform them that there are now five recorded cases and give them details of who they are but I see no point in mentioning anything about the virus theory as Dr Farro-Jones seems to have put that to rest for the moment at least. On the other hand, I’ll have to bite the bullet and admit that we have not as yet been able to identify the source of the problem. I will, of course, stress that our enquiries are continuing with vigour.”

Neef left the meeting feeling confused and apprehensive. Despite his protests that the virus theory should not be dismissed out of hand, he felt that those attending the meeting had little heart for it. They simply didn’t want to consider anything new. Even Lennon, who had earlier seemed open-minded enough to investigate it, had seized on Farro-Jones’ negative findings of the day as a basis for dismissing the notion. He felt a lot of heads were comfortably in the sand.

David Farro-Jones caught up with him as he walked back to his car. “We have to talk,” he said. “I’ve had a change of heart.”

“How so?”

“I think there’s something in the virus theory after all.”

“What did you see in there that changed your mind?”

“Something on Lennon’s slide.”

“What?”

Farro-Jones hesitated for a moment before saying, “I don’t want to talk here in the street.”

“Stop off at St George’s on the way back. We can talk in my office.”

Farro-Jones nodded. “See you there.”

Farro-Jones followed Neef back to the hospital and parked parallel to him outside the unit. Neef led the way inside and ushered Farro-Jones into his office.

“I realised something today at the meeting that scared me greatly,” said Farro-Jones. “It made me totally reconsider my opposition to the idea of a new virus being on the loose. In fact, I now think I even know where it might have come from.”

“What!” exclaimed Neef.

“When Lennon was running us through his overheads of the patients I noticed that Melanie Simpson lived in Langholm Crescent.”

“So what?” asked Neef, feeling let down.

“The Menogen Research labs are in Langholm Road, just round the corner.”

Neef’s’ mouth fell open. “My God, you’re suggesting that the Simpson girl was infected by something that escaped from Max Pereira’s lab?”

“Making new viruses is Menogen’s business,” said Farro-Jones.

“Yes but they’re transport vectors... they’re not...”

“As I said before, the more efficient the vector, the greater the risk and the risk is that they’ll cause cancer.”

“Yes but...”

“It could be coincidence,” conceded Farro-Jones, “but I think I should continue hunting for a virus in the meantime. What do you think?”

“Of course,” replied Neef. “But I think it would be most unfair to say anything about this until there’s any proof. Damn it, it was Max Pereira who brought up the idea. He’d hardly do that if he thought there was any chance of something having escaped from his own lab. Apart from that, I’ve seen the Menogen operation. It’s well run; they’re constantly under inspection and scrutiny.”

“You can always hide something,” said Farro-Jones. “And Menogen are under a lot of pressure to succeed.”

“Shit,” said Neef.

“But you’re quite right,” said Farro-Jones. “We shouldn’t say anything until there’s some proof. I don’t think anyone else has noticed the geographical factor yet so that gives us some time. I’ll get a team of technicians on to the scanning work.”

When Farro-Jones had left, Neef went out into Ann Miles’ office and found a street directory on the shelf behind her chair. He took it back into his own office and looked up Langholm Crescent. He made a little sketch of its relativity to Langholm Road and after checking the number of Melanie Simpson’s house from the summary notes Lennon had handed out, he added a cross to his sketch. He was doing this when a knock came to the door.

“Come.”

Eve put her head round the door. “Bad time?” she asked.

“Of course not. Come on in.”

“The Press briefing finished ten minutes ago. I’ve come to see Neil.”

Neef nodded. “How did the briefing go?”

“Lennon told us about the new case and more or less admitted they were no further forward. He appealed for our understanding and cooperation but he didn’t mention anything about Max’s virus idea. Does that mean it’s a non-starter?”

“People didn’t like it,” said Neef. “I don’t think they liked Max either, if truth be told. David Farro-Jones examined a number of samples from Charlie Morse and found no evidence of a new virus.”

“I see,” said Eve. “So we don’t have to evacuate the city after all. What’s that you’re doing?” She was looking at the sketch on the desk.

“I...”

Eve held his gaze.

“I...”

“You don’t want to tell me, right?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It’s just that you are a journalist and that makes things difficult.”

“I can’t be trusted?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that...”

“You don’t have to explain. This is always going to come between us isn’t it?”

Neef shook his head and said softly, “I don’t want it to. I really don’t. David noticed something at the meeting today. There may be nothing to it but we have to consider the implications.”

Eve’s eyes widened as Neef explained the reason for his sketch. “That is absolute dynamite!” she exclaimed.

“It is also absolutely confidential.”

“Of course. My God! I hope he’s wrong.”

“Believe me, so do I. Max Pereira is not the most charming man on earth but I do think he’s honest and responsible when it comes to work. When he told me about the rules and regulations he had to comply with, he wasn’t complaining. He just wanted them applied universally to all researchers.”

Neef’s phone rang and Eve took this as her cue to leave. She gave a slight wave of her hand as she closed the door.

“Neef.”

“Dr Neef, my name is Jean Langtry. Dr Pereira asked me to call you. He said it was quite urgent. I understand you need information about licensing procedures?”

“Yes, Miss Langtry, good of you to call. What do we do?”

Neef made a series of notes on his desk pad as Jean Langtry spoke. He finished by thanking her for her help.

“Good luck, Doctor.”

Neef called Tim Heaton’s office but there was no reply. He tried his home number which he extracted from his desk file.

“Tim? It’s Michael Neef. I need your help. I want the hospital to make an emergency application for permission to use a new Menogen vector on one of my patients. I’ve got all the details you need for the application.”

“It’s Sunday evening, Michael.”

“Sundays are running out altogether for my patient, Tim,” said Neef. “This just might help him.”

Heaton succumbed to the moral blackmail as Neef felt sure he would. “Oh all right,” he said. “I’ll come in but what’s to say this vector will be any more successful than the other ones?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Neef.

“All right,” conceded Heaton. “Unfair question.”

Neef made out a clearer summary of what was required from his notes and used Ann Miles’ word processor to type it up for Tim Heaton’s benefit. He added patient details from Neil Benson’s file and put the two sheets of paper in a large Manila envelope. He walked over to the Admin block and left it outside Tim Heaton’s office. He knew there was no chance of the application going off that night but if Heaton became familiar during the course of the evening with all the requirements it should be ready to go off on Monday without fail. Neef returned to the Unit and sought out Eve. She was still with Neil.

Neef watched for a moment through the glass door. Eve had her back to him. He could see that she had one of Neil’s fire engines on the bed on beside her and it looked as if she was telling him a story about it. Neil was listening but he didn’t have the energy to do anything more than that. His days of playing with his beloved fire engines were coming to an end. His medication had dulled all his senses as well as the pain. Neef swallowed and took a breath before going into the room. “Hallo, you two,” he said cheerfully. “What are you up to?”

“Reading a story,” said Eve brightly, responding to Neef’s Mr Cheerful act.

“About a fireman by any chance?”

“Who else?” smiled Eve. “His name is Maxwell. Maxwell Gunn.”

“And what’s Maxwell been doing today?”

“He’s been rescuing a cat named Dolly from a tall tree overhanging a river.”

“My Dolly?” exclaimed Neef.

“Yes, but don’t worry, she’s all right. Maxwell brought her down safely on his turntable ladder.”

“Thank goodness for that,” said Neef. “I didn’t think Neil knew I had a cat named, Dolly,” said Neef.

Neil nodded his head slowly.

“He does,” said Eve. “I told him. Dolly often figures in our stories.”

“In that case, it’s about time Neil met the real Dolly. What d’you think.”

Neil nodded his head slowly again.

“As soon as you’re feeling a bit better, Tiger. I’ll... We’ll take you to see Dolly. Get some rest now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Eve followed Neef out of the room and back to his office. “He’s fading away,” she said.

“It’s partly the medication,” said Neef. “It makes him sleepy.”

“How long do you think he’s got?”

“A few weeks, not much longer.”

“Do you know what I did when you left for the hospital this morning?” asked Eve.

“Tell me.”

“I went to church.”

Neef felt uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to say.

“It’s the first time since I left school, I think, apart from weddings and funerals and the like. I prayed for Neil. Are you religious?”

“No,” replied Neef.

“Neither am I really. It just seemed like a good idea at the time, as they say. I suppose when you want something badly enough you do all sorts of strange things, try anything.”

“I suppose,” said Neef. He changed the subject because he didn’t want to say anything about Pereira’s new vector just yet. He didn’t want to raise false hopes. “I’m hungry,” he said. “How about you?”

“A bit.”

“There’s a good Chinese restaurant in Ayton Road. What do you say?”

“I’m game,” said Eve.

The restaurant was quiet on a Sunday evening. There was only one other couple in the place. The tinkle of Chinese music was pleasantly muted. Neef had a gin and tonic and Eve a Campari as they looked at the menu. “What do you recommend?” asked Eve.

“Anything involving the black bean sauce.”

“I’ll try it,” said Eve. She glanced at her watch and Neef noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I got you here under false pretences?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Eve. “But I do have my story to write and not just for the Citizen.”

Neef raised his eyes.

“One of the nationals liked my first piece on the cancer scare so they’ve invited me to do a second. I want it to be good. This could be a big opportunity.”

“Is that what you’d like?” asked Neef, “to work on one of the nationals?”

“I’d like to edit one of the nationals,” laughed Eve.

“You’re ambitious,” said Neef. “Like Max.”

Eve’s smile faded a little. “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” she asked.

“Of course not, as long as it doesn’t drive you too hard.”

They lapsed into silence for a few moments.

“Do you think ambition’s been driving Max too hard?” asked Eve quietly.

Neef screwed up his face and replied, “He’s quite open about what he wants from life and he works extremely hard to achieve it. What worries David Farro-Jones is that we don’t know how many corners he cuts, how many short-cuts he and Menogen are prepared to take.”

“Would you buy a used car from Max Pereira,” added Eve.

“That sort of thing,” replied Neef.

“But you said yourself there are lots of inspections and safeguards in the business Max is involved in?” said Eve.

“There are,” agreed Neef. “I saw the place the other night. I was impressed. It struck me as being a well run organisation. Max has a bee in his bonnet about the universities not having to comply with all the regulations that commercial concerns do. He thinks they get off lightly.”

“Do they?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“What if the worst should happen and it turns out that the cancer outbreak has been caused by a new virus from Max’s lab? What then?”

“Max will be thrown to the wolves,” replied Neef.

“As simple as that? No mitigating circumstances?” said Eve. “His work seems to have saved young Thomas Downy’s life from what I hear.”

“None,” said Neef firmly. “If Menogen is shown to be responsible for Melanie’s death and the others, they can close it down and melt the key as far as I’m concerned.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Michael,” said Eve, “And I know you’re going to think me insensitive but if the worst should turn out to be true, would you release me from our agreement and allow me to break the story before anyone else gets it?”

“I suppose,” said Neef. “But that’s not going to happen.”

“Of course not.”

The food arrived.

Neef’s first call on Monday morning was from Frank MacSween. He was calling from home. “Betty and I are just about to leave for the Lake District,” said MacSween. “I’ve decided to take some leave. Get away for a bit.”

“I’m glad,” said Neef. “It’ll do you both the world of good.”

“I’m really calling to ask you to do me a favour.”

“Shoot,” said Neef.

“The pathology department at University College are giving Eddie Miller a retiral dinner this evening. I won’t be going but I’d be grateful if you would go along in my place. I don’t think too many people are going from St George’s, if any and it’ll be a shame if there’s a poor turn out. I know he’s leaving under a bit of a cloud but if there’s any profession that excuses a bit of an affair with the bottle, it’s pathology. I’ve known Eddie a long time. He was good in his day.”

“If that’s what you want,” said Neef.

“You do know him?”

“Not that well,” replied Neef. “But we’ve met a few times over the years.”

“The dinner is being held in the Connaught Rooms at the university. Black tie, seven thirty for eight.”

“I’ll be there. I’ll pass on your good wishes to Eddie.”

“Do that,” said MacSween.

“Damnation,” said Neef as he put down the phone and Ann Miles came in with some papers.

“Problems?” she asked.

“The last time I looked at my dinner jacket it looked like a popular holiday destination for moths.”

“Hire one,” said Ann.

“It’s finding the time,” said Neef.

“Tell me your size, I’ll call the place my husband uses. They’ll deliver it.”

“Great,” said Neef. He told Ann what he wanted.

Tim Heaton telephoned to ask if Neef had seen Mark Louradis’ piece in the Mail. Neef replied that he hadn’t.

“It’s excellent,” said Heaton. “They gave it a good half page with diagrams to explain what the Menogen vectors were designed to achieve. This is exactly the kind of coverage St George’s needs. It let’s people know we’re right at the cutting edge of medicine.”

“Good,” said Neef without emotion.

Neef arrived at the university at seven forty-five. The Connaught Rooms were on the third floor of the oldest building in the quadrangle and were used for all formal functions where an aura of academic dignity was seen as a desirable ingredient. The retiral dinner of an academic staff member was just such an occasion. The entrance hall itself was imposing, even intimidating, thought Neef as he looked across to the uniformed man at the desk, the only living being beneath all the portraits of past chancellors and royal patrons. The man looked up from his paper, noted Neef’s black tie and waved him on up with a, “Good Evening, sir.”

“Evening,” replied Neef. He crossed the marble floor to the huge staircase leading up to the first floor. The steps were in white Italian marble and diverged in two directions after the first dozen so that they spiralled left and right up to the open first landing. High above the central well, a glass cupola allowed light to flood down during the day. At night, wrought iron chandeliers did the job.

There were about thirty to forty people in the Connaught Rooms when Neef finally got there. They were standing drinking sherry in a small area outside the main dining room. Waitresses, wearing black and looking as if they’d be more at home in a 1930’s tea room, circulated among the throng with sharp eyes and blank expressions, at all times on their guard against carelessly flung-out arms and sudden backward steps.

“Drink sir?” asked one.

Neef accepted with a smile and looked round for a friendly face. MacSween had been right; there weren’t many people here from St George’s. As if sensing his solitude, David Farro-Jones came across with his wife Jane on his arm. Jane was as pretty as Farro-Jones was handsome. She was also charming.

“I didn’t know you were coming, Michael,” said Farro-Jones.

“Hello Michael, haven’t seen you for ages,” said Jane. “I keep telling David we must have you to dinner.”

“That would be nice,” smiled Neef. “Actually I’m here under false pretences. Frank MacSween asked if I would come in his place. He’s taking some leave. He took the death of his grandson hard.”

“Poor Frank,” said Jane.

“An absolute tragedy,” said Farro-Jones.

“Actually,” confided Jane, “I think a lot of people are here under false pretences. I gather the Pathology Department will be glad to see the back of old Eddie. We’re all here just to put a brave front on things.”

For Neef, the evening took on a surreal quality as they struggled through a dinner that was largely inedible. The meat was tough, the vegetables mushy and the whole lot was cold due to the kitchens being a very long way from the dining room. People pretended that nothing was amiss, not wishing to spoil things for Eddie on his last night. Complaints did not rise beyond exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. There was a lot of silent chewing.

The same series of glances and knowing looks carried on through the speeches as the Dean praised Eddie’s distinguished service to the university and the pathology department in particular. His selfless devotion to duty was held up as an example to all, especially the young, of whom there were none present, Neef noted. The eulogy culminated in the presentation of a clock to Eddie by the Vice Principal and a bouquet of flowers to Eddie’s wife, Trudy. Eddie who had sat throughout the proceedings with downcast eyes and a beaming smile on his lips got up to reply and almost toppled over backwards. He was drunk already. It was the waitresses’ turn to exchange knowing looks. The diners waited with fixed smiles and buttocks clenched in embarrassment for Eddie to say something.

“Friends,” began Eddie, with a slur that confirmed the waitresses’ suspicions. “I dunno what to say.”

Tears of emotion ran down Eddie’s cheeks as he launched into a thank you speech which would have put an Oscar winner to shame in terms of rambling length and boredom. Everyone was profoundly grateful when the Vice Principal seized upon a pause in Eddie’s delivery and started a chorus of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. People joined in with gusto, determined to make sure Eddie would not get another word in.

“Is it really over?” whispered Jane to Neef.

“Please God,” replied Neef.

People started to circulate and Farro-Jones took the opportunity of having a word with Neef about the virus hunt.

“Nothing yet,” he confided. “But we’ve got all three electron microscopes working on it.”

“What have you told the staff?” asked Neef.

“I made the preps myself so no one knows that the samples came from Charlie. I just asked for a visual report on all viruses.”

“Good.”

“What are you two whispering about?” said a loud voice behind Neef, startling him. A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was Eddie.

“I’m not sure if you two know each other,” said Farro-Jones awkwardly.

“Don’t tell me,” said Eddie, waving an unsteady finger at Neef, “It’s Oncology One, St George’s... Neef.”

“That’s right,” smiled Neef. “We have met a couple of times before. Frank MacSween asked me to come along tonight and deliver his sincere apologies, Eddie. He and Betty have gone off to the Lake District for a bit of a break.”

“Poor Frank, losing his grandson like that,” slurred Eddie.

“Very sad,” agreed Neef.

“When are these buggers at Public Health going to trace the bloody source?” asked Eddie.

“They’re not doing too well,” agreed Neef.

“Not doing well?” repeated Eddie with a theatrical raise of the eyebrows. “A blind man on a foggy night could do better.”

“Can I tear you away for a minute, Darling,” asked Jane Farro-Jones, seemingly appearing from nowhere, taking her husband’s arm and pulling him gently to the side in a rescue mission. Neef, the only casualty of the manoeuvre, was left alone with Eddie.

“They’ve been totally unable to find out how the first patient contaminated herself,” said Neef.

“First patient?” slurred Eddie.

“Melanie Simpson,” said Neef, wondering why in God’s name he was having this conversation.

Eddie tapped the side of his nose three times and shook his head. “Not the first,” he said.

Neef felt goose bumps break out on the back of his neck but Eddie’s speech was so slurred there was a chance he might have misheard. “I’m sorry?”

“It was me,” announced Eddie with a look of quiet triumph. “I had the first patient.”

“What are you saying, Eddie?” asked Neef. “You saw a case before Melanie Simpson?”

Eddie gave an exaggerated nod of the head. “Certainly did.”

“Who?” asked Neef.

Eddie started looking round for another drink. He was becoming bored.

“Who was this patient? When was this, Eddie?” insisted Neef.

“Few weeks ago.” Eddie was becoming more agitated at not being able to spot the source of his next drink.

Neef fought off the desire to pin him to the wall and choke the answers out of him. “Why don’t I fetch you a drink, Eddie?” he said pleasantly. His mind was racing. This was not going to be easy. Nobody wanted to talk to Eddie but the moment he left him alone someone was bound to feel duty-bound to join the guest of honour and the moment would have passed. He had to get the information out of Eddie now. He couldn’t risk going to the bar; it would take too long. He glanced to the side and saw that the three people standing there had a small table beside them with drinks on it. The table sat in front of one of the marble support pillars. Neef took three steps round behind the pillar, dropped to his knees, reached round and lifted one of the drinks off the table. As he did so, he ran out of luck; the woman nearest him looked down and saw what he was doing. “Well, really!” she exclaimed.

Neef shrugged awkwardly and rejoined Eddie as the woman related to her friends what had happened. Being a university, Neef was relying on this being as far as things would go. Talk but no action was the norm. He pressed the drink into Eddie’s hand.

“Thanks, Neefy old boy,” said Eddie.

“Eddie, Did I understand you right? There was case before Melanie Simpson and you reported it as bronchial carcinoma at the time?”

“Not officially. Officially it was lung congestion but I saw the tumours. I spotted them.”

“Who was this patient, Eddie?”

“Girl.”

“A girl? Young? Melanie’s age?”

“About.”

“Why didn’t you report the tumours, Eddie?”

Eddie took a drink and looked at Neef. “Come on, Neefy,” he said, “this is my party. I’m supposed to enjoy myself. Come and meet Trudy, my wife. Stood by me through thick and thin.” He made to move forward unsteadily.

Neef stopped him gently. “Just tell me why you didn’t report the tumours, Eddie?”

“Let me tell you something, Neefy,” confided Eddie, “the secret of a quiet life is... tell them what they wanna hear. That’s it my son... tell them what they wanna hear. He didn’t wanna hear anythin’ ’bout tumours so I didn’t report anythin’ ’bout tumours. Nice and simple. Didn’t make any difference. Eddie gave a giant hiccup before continuing his slurred monologue. Little kid was dead anyway. Wasn’t gonna bring her back.”

“Who didn’t want to hear anything about tumours Eddie?”

Eddie looked at Neef as if he was simple. “He didn’t,” he exclaimed.

“Who’s he, Eddie?”

“Excuse me old boy,” said a waspish, male voice behind Neef. This was accompanied by a tap on the shoulder. “My wife says you took her drink. The bar’s over there you know.”

“Piss off,” hissed Neef through gritted teeth and the man recoiled backwards. “I say,” he exclaimed.

“What’s this about you taking someone’s drink?” inquired Eddie. He pushed Neef aside with his forearm and called to the waspish man, “What’s this, Harold? Let me get you all a drink. This is my party. No one goes without a drink at my party.”

Neef saw the moment slip away as Eddie lumbered towards the three people who were looking daggers at him. He felt acutely embarrassed and turned away. He walked over to the bar and bought himself a large gin and tonic which he downed in two gulps.

“That bad?” said a voice at his shoulder. It was David Farro-Jones.

Neef shook his head but couldn’t say anything.

“What you need is a wife like Jane,” said Farro-Jones. “She’s trained to rescue me from all such occasions.”

“I noticed,” said Neef.

“Come and join us.”

“Eddie says that Melanie Simpson was not the first patient,” said Neef.

“What?” exclaimed Farro-Jones.

“He says there was an earlier one but he didn’t report it.”

“Why not, for God’s sake?”

“He says someone didn’t want to hear it.”

“Who? Why?”

“I couldn’t get any real sense out of him. He’s as pissed as a newt.”

“He’s been permanently pissed for the last eighteen months,” said Farro-Jones. “Are you sure he’s not just talking rubbish?”

“Maybe,” conceded Neef. “But I think we have to follow it up.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Farro-Jones. “He said earlier he was coming in tomorrow to clear out his desk and make his last farewells. We should get hold of them then while he’s relatively sober and see if we can get any sense out of him.”

“I’ll come over about ten,” said Neef.

“What are you two plotting?” asked Jane Farro-Jones as she joined them and linked her arms through theirs.

“How to bring an end to this fun evening,” replied Farro-Jones in a stage whisper.

“Make it soon,” pleaded Jane.

Eddie was now being physically supported by two of his colleagues from the Pathology Department, one on either side. They brought him to the centre of the floor and the Vice Principal commanded in the loud voice that goes with being a vice principal and driving a Volvo estate car, that everyone form a circle.

Strange hands were linked nervously and the Dean led off the singing of Auld Lang Syne. Eddie hung between his supporters like a de-boned chicken while a tide of academics swept in and out on him. All it needs is for him to throw up now, thought Neef but mercifully it didn’t happen and the evening ended in general back slapping, coat donning and the sounds of ‘Splendid evening!’ through the marble halls. The air outside smelt good to Neef as he walked off into the night. He’d get a taxi soon but right now he needed to be alone.

There was a note behind the door from Eve. She had come round to the cottage earlier but had found him out. She had left a copy of the newspaper carrying her story on the cancer scare. Neef berated himself for not having told Eve that he was going to Eddie’s retiral dinner but if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that it had not been entirely an oversight. He had been a little peeved about Eve having rushed off the previous evening to work on her story. He knew it was childish but he had felt the need to express his independence. Now after the awful evening he’d just had, he no longer felt the need. He wished she was here. He picked up the paper and settled down to read her work.