Small groups of people were discussing the tragedy in nearly every room of the Biochemistry Department but Tom Fenton did not join any of them. He cleared his work bench, washed his hands and put on his waterproof gear. The big Honda started first time and, switching on the lights, he pulled out into the early evening traffic. As he neared the City centre a double deck bus drew out sharply in front of him causing him to brake hard and correct a slight wanderlust in the rear wheel but he remained impassive. He weaved purposefully in and out of the rush hour traffic in Princes Street, not even bothering to glance up at the castle, the first time he had failed to do so in the two years he had worked in Edinburgh.
The flat felt cold and empty when he got in. "Jenny!" he called out as he pulled off his gloves. "Jenny!" he repeated, looking into the kitchen then he remembered that she was on late duty and cursed under his breath. Without pausing to take off the rest of his leathers he poured himself a large Bell's whisky and walked over to the window. He revolved the glass in his hand for a moment while looking at the hurrying figures below then threw the whisky down his throat in one swift, sudden movement taking pleasure in the burning sensation it provoked. He returned to watching the people below as they hurried homewards, heads bowed against wind and rain but he really didn't see them, his mind was too full of what had happened at the hospital.
On impulse Fenton turned and threw the glass he had been holding into the fireplace; he had to break the awful silence. But almost immediately he felt ashamed at what he had done and began picking up the pieces cursing softly as he did so. When he had finished he took off his leathers and poured more whisky into a fresh glass before sitting down in an arm chair and hoisting his feet on to the stool that lurked round the fireplace. Half way through the bottle he fell asleep.
Just after nine thirty Fenton was aroused to a groggy state of wakefulness by the sound of keys rattling at the lock and the front door opening. A blonde girl in her mid twenties with bits of nurses' uniform showing beneath her coat came into the room and stood in the doorway for a moment before saying, "God Tom, I've rushed all the way home and now I don't know what to say."
Fenton nodded.
"It's just so awful. I keep thinking it can't be true. How could anyone…Isn't there a chance it could have been some kind of freak accident?"
"None at all. It was murder. Someone pushed Neil into the autoclave and pushed the right buttons," said Fenton.
"But why? What possible reason could they have had?"
"None," said Fenton, "It had to be a lunatic, a head case." He swung his feet off the stool and sat upright in the chair.
"Have you had anything to eat?" asked Jenny.
"Not hungry."
"Me neither but we'll have coffee." Jenny leaned down and kissed Fenton on the top of his head. As she straightened up she removed the whisky bottle from the side of his chair and put it back in the cabinet before going to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with two mugs of steaming coffee. Fenton took one in both hands and sipped it slowly till the act of drinking coffee together had re-established social normality.
"Do the police have any ideas?" asked Jenny.
"If they did they didn't tell me," said Fenton.
"I suppose they spoke to everyone in the lab?"
"At least twice."
"What happens now?"
"We just go on as if nothing…" Fenton stopped in mid sentence and put his hand up to his forehead. Jenny reached out and took it. She said softly, "I know. Neil was your best friend.
Tom Fenton was twenty-nine years old. After graduating from Glasgow University with a degree in biochemistry he had joined the staff of the Western Infirmary in the same city as a basic grade biochemist. One year later he had met the girl who was to become his wife, Louise. In almost traditional fashion, Louise's parents had disapproved of their daughter's choice, frowning on Fenton's humble origins, but had been unable to stop the marriage which was to give Fenton the happiest year he had ever known. Louise's gentleness and charm had woven a spell which had trapped him in a love that had known no bounds, a love which was to prove his undoing when both she and the baby she was carrying were killed in a road accident.
Fenton had been inconsolable. He had fallen into an endless night of despair which had taken him to the limits of his reason and had threatened to push him beyond. Time, tears and a great deal of Scotch whisky had returned him to society but as a changed man. Gone was the happy, carefree Tom Fenton. His place had been taken by a morose, withdrawn individual, devoid of all drive and ambition.
After a year of being haunted by the ghost of Louise Fenton had taken his first major decision. He had applied for a job abroad and, four months later, he had been on his way to a hospital in Zambia.
Africa had been good for him. Within a year he had recovered his self confidence and could think of Louise without despairing; he could even speak about her on the odd occasion. He had enjoyed the life and the climate and had renewed his contract on two occasions bringing his stay to three years in all before he suddenly decided it was time to return to Scotland and pick up the threads of his old life. The prevailing economic climate and the perilous state of the National Health Service had made it difficult for him to find a job quickly and he had spent a year at Edinburgh University in a grant aided research assistant's post before applying for, and getting, his current position at the Princess Mary Hospital.
The sudden return to the demands of a busy hospital laboratory after a year of academic calm had been a bit of a shock but he had weathered the storm and established himself as a reliable and conscientious member of the lab team. The fact that the Princess Mary was a children's hospital and the lab specialised in paediatric techniques pleased him. Working for the welfare of child patients seemed to compensate in some way for the child he had lost.
After a year he had scraped together the deposit for a flat of his own in the Comely Bank area of the city and, on a bright May morning, assisted by Neil Munro and two of the technicians from the lab, he had moved in. The flat was on the top floor of a respectable tenement building that had been built around the turn of the century and featured high ceilings with cornice work that had particularly attracted him to it in the first place. It had south facing windows which, on the odd occasion that the skies were clear in Edinburgh, allowed the sun to stream in from noon onwards. The undoubted reward he reaped from having to climb four flights of stairs up to the flat was the magnificent view. As Autumn had come around he had watched the smoke from the burning leaves hang heavy in the deep yellow sunshine and had come to understand fully what Keats, who had once lived in the same area of the city, had meant by 'mists and mellow fruitfulness.'
In the last year Fenton had met Jenny, a nurse at the hospital. She was very different from Louise but he had been attracted to her from the moment they met. Their relationship was easy, undemanding and good. Marriage had not been mentioned but Jenny had moved in to the flat and they were letting things take their course.
…
Jenny Buchan was twenty-four. She had been born in the small fishing village of Findochty on the Moray Firth, the youngest of three children to her father, George Buchan, a fisherman all his life. He had died in a storm at sea when she was fourteen leaving her mother, Ellen, to fend for the family but luckily it had not been too long before her two older brothers, Ian and Grant, had reached working age and had followed their late father into the fleet fishing out of Buckie. They now had their own boat, the Margaret Ross, and, between them, they had provided Jenny with three nephews and two nieces. Jenny herself had travelled south to Aberdeen after leaving school and had trained as a nurse at the Royal Infirmary before moving further south to Edinburgh and the Princess Mary Hospital where she had settled in happily. She had spent her first year in the Nurses' Home before moving into a rented flat with two other nurses and living in traditional, but pleasant chaos.
She had met Tom Fenton at a hospital party and had been drawn to him in the first instance because he had seemed genuinely content to just sit and talk to her. His dark, sad eyes had intrigued her and she had resolved to find out what lay behind them until, after their third date, he had told her about Louise and alarm bells had rung in her head. If Tom Fenton had decided to dedicate his life to the memory of a dead woman then she, Jenny Buchan, had not wanted to know any more. She need not have worried for, after an idyllic picnic in the Border country, Fenton had taken her home and made love to her with such gentleness and consideration that she had fallen head over heels in love with him. Despite this she had still decided to make her position clear. One night as they lay together in the darkness she had turned to him and said, "I am Jenny, not Louise. Are you quite sure you understand that?" Fenton had assured her.
The rain assisted by a bitter February wind woke them before the alarm did. "What's the time?" asked Fenton.
"Ten past seven."
"What duty do you have?"
"Start at two."
"You mean I've got to get up alone?"
"Correct."
"Good God, listen to that rain."
"Jenny snuggled down under the covers.
Fenton swung himself slowly over the edge of the bed and sat for a moment holding his head in his hands. "I feel awful."
Jenny leaned over and kissed his bare back. "The whisky," she said.
"Coffee?"
"Please,"
Fenton returned to sit on the edge of the bed while they drank their coffee.
"Are you on call this week-end?"
"Tomorrow."
Jenny put down her cup on the bedside table and put her hand on Fenton's forearm. "You will be careful won't you?"
Fenton looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"You said yourself it must have been a lunatic who did what he did to Neil. Just take care that's all."
Fenton was taken aback. "You know," he said, "I didn't even think of that."
The rain drove into Fenton's visor as he wound the Honda up through the streets of Edinburgh's Georgian 'New Town', streets crammed with the offices of the city's professional classes. The road surface was wet and the bike threatened to part company with the cobbles at every flirtation with the brakes. The infatuation with two- wheeled machinery that most men experience in their late teens and early twenties had proved, in Fenton's case, to be the real thing. Apart from a brief period when he had succumbed to the promise of warmth and dryness from an ageing Volkswagen beetle his love for motor cycles had remained undiminished. There was just no car remotely within his price range that could provide the feeling he got when the Honda's rev counter edged into the red sector. Tales of being caught doing forty-five in the family Ford paled into insignificance when compared with Fenton's one conviction of entering the outskirts of Edinburgh from the Forth Road Bridge at one hundred and ten miles an hour. The traffic police had shown more than a trace of admiration when issuing the ticket but the magistrate had, however, failed to share their enthusiasm and had almost choked on hearing the charge of 'exceeding the speed limit by seventy miles per hour.' His admonition that a man of Fenton's age should have 'known better' had hurt almost as much as the fine.
Fenton reached the hospital at two minutes to nine and edged the bike up the narrow lane at the side of the lab to park it in a small courtyard under a canopy of corrugated iron. The Princess Mary Hospital, being near the centre of the city, had had no room to expand over the years through building extensions and had resorted, like the university, to buying up neighbouring property as a solution to the problem. The Biochemistry Department was actually one of a row of Victorian terraced villas that the hospital had acquired some twenty years previously. The inside, of course, had been extensively altered but the external facade remained the same, its stone blackened with the years of passing traffic.
Fenton pushed open the dark blue door and took off his leathers in the outer hall in front of a row of steel lockers. Susan Daniels, one of the technicians, saw him through the inner glass door and opened it. "Dr Tyson would like to see you," she said. Fenton buttoned his lab coat as he climbed the stairs to the upper flat then knocked on the door bearing the legend, 'Consultant Biochemist.'
"Come."
Fenton entered to see Charles Tyson look up from his desk and peer at him over his glasses. "What a day," he said.
Fenton agreed.
"We are going to have the police with us for most, if not all, of the day," said Tyson. "We'll just have to try and work round them."
"Of course," said Fenton.
"I've requested a locum as a matter of priority but until such times…"
"Of course," said Fenton again.
"I'd like you to speak to Neil's technician, find out what needs attending to and deal with it if you would. I'll have Ian Ferguson cover for you in the blood lab in the meantime."
Fenton nodded and turned to leave. As he got to the door Tyson said, "Oh, there is one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Neil's funeral, it will probably be at the end of next week, when the fiscal releases the body. We can't all go; the work of the lab has to go on. I thought maybe you, Alex Ross and myself could go?"
"Fine,’ said Fenton without emotion.
He walked along the first floor landing to a room that had once been a small bedroom but had, in more recent times, been the lab that Neil Munro had worked in. He sat down at the desk and started to empty out the drawers, pausing as he came to a photograph of himself holding up a newly caught fish. He remembered the occasion. He and Munro had gone fishing on Loch Lomond in November. They had left Edinburgh at six in the morning to pick up their hired boat in Balmaha at eight. The fish, a small pike, had been caught off the Endrick bank on almost the first cast of the day and Munro had captured the moment on film.
There had been no more fish on that occasion and the weather had turned bad in early afternoon ensuring that they were soaked to the skin by the time they had returned to MacFarlane's boatyard. Munro had ribbed him about the smallness of the fish but, having caught nothing himself, had come off worst in the verbal exchange. Fenton put the photograph in his top pocket and continued sifting through the contents of the desk. He was working through the last drawer when Susan Daniels came in. "I understand you will be taking over Neil's work," she said. "Can we talk?"
"Give me five minutes will you," said Fenton.
A system involving three piles of paper had evolved. One for Munro's personal belongings, one for lab documents and one for 'anything else.' The personal pile was the by far the smallest, a Sharp's scientific calculator, a University of Edinburgh diary, a well thumbed copy of 'Biochemical Values in Clinical Medicine,' by R.D. Eastham, a few postcards and a handful of assorted pens and pencils. Fenton put them all in a large manila envelope and marked it 'Neil's' in black marker pen. The 'anything else' pile was consigned mainly to the waste-paper basket, consisting of typed circulars advising of seminars and meetings and up-dates to trade catalogues. Fenton started to work his way through the lab document pile while he waited for Susan Daniels to return. Much of it was concerned with a new automated blood analyser that the department had been appraising for the past three months. Neil had been acting as liaison officer with the company, Saxon Medical and the relevant licensing authorities and from what Fenton could see in copies of the reports there had been no problems. The preliminary and intermediate reports that Munro had submitted were unstinting in their praise.
Fenton turned his attention to Munro's personal lab book and tried to pick up the thread of the entries but found it difficult for there was no indication of where the listed data had come from or what they referred to. Munro, like the other senior members of staff, had been working on a research project of his own, something they were all encouraged to do although, in a busy hospital laboratory, this usually had to be something small and relatively unambitious. Fenton stopped trying to decipher the figures and went over to look out of the window. It was still raining although the sky was beginning to lighten. He turned round as Susan Daniels came in.
"Sorry I'm late. The police wanted to talk to me again."
Fenton nodded.
"It all seems a bit pointless really. Who would want to kill Neil?" said the girl.
Fenton looked out of the window again and said, "The point is, somebody did kill him."
"I'd better brief you on what Neil was doing," said Susan Daniels.
"Do you know what his own research project was on?" asked Fenton.
"No I don't. Is it important?"
"Maybe not, I just thought you might have known."
"He didn't speak about it although he seemed to be spending more and more time on it over the past few weeks."
"Really?"
"Actually he seemed so preoccupied over the last week or so that I asked him if anything was the matter."
"And?"
"He just shook his head and said it probably wasn't important."
Fenton nodded. That would have been typical of Munro. Although he had been a friend, Neil Munro had been a loner by nature, never keen to confide in anyone unless pressed hard. He himself had not seen much of him over the past few weeks, in fact, since Jenny had moved into the flat, they had seen very little of each other socially although that would have changed when the fishing season had opened in April.
"You've been running the tests on the Saxon Blood Sampler I see," said Fenton picking up the relevant papers.
"In conjunction with Nigel. He’s been showing us how to use it."
'Nigel' was Nigel Saxon, the chief sales rep from Saxon Medical who had been attached to the department for the period of the trial. Like most reps, he had a pleasant, outgoing personality which, when combined with a generous nature and the fact that he had the financial clout of being the boss' son, had made him a popular figure in the lab.
"Neil seemed to like the machine," said Fenton, looking at Munro's intermediate report.
"We all do," said Susan.
"What's so special about it?"
Susan Daniels opened one of the wall cupboards and took out a handful of what appeared to be plastic spheres. "These," she said, "These are the samplers. They are made out of a special plastic. You just touch them against the patient's skin and they charge by capillary attraction. All you need is a pinprick, no need for venipuncture."
"But the volume?"
"That's all the machine needs to do the standard values."
"I'm impressed," said Fenton. "What stage are the tests at?"
"They are complete. It just requires the final report to be written up and signed by Dr Tyson," said Susan.
"Is all the information here?" asked Fenton.
"I've still got the data from the last set of tests in my note-book. I'll bring it up after lunch."
"I'll come down; I'd like to see the machine working. Anything else I should know?"
"Neil was running some special blood tests for Dr Michaelson in the Metabolic Unit; perhaps you could contact him and have a chat."
Fenton nodded and made a note on the desk pad. "Anything else?"
"There are a couple of by-pass operations scheduled for next week Neil was supposed to organise the lab cover."
Fenton made another note. He looked at his watch and said, "Why don't you go to lunch? If you think of anything else you can let me know." He got up as Susan left the room and returned to the window to check on the weather. It had stopped raining.
Fenton pulled up his collar as he felt the icy wind touch his cheek. He decided to give the hospital canteen a miss, knowing that it would still be buzzing with talk of Neil's death and a new day's crop of rumours. Instead, he walked off in the other direction, not at all sure of where he was going. He paused as he came to the entrance to a park and entered to find himself alone beneath the trees. The wide expanse of grass that would be crowded with lunch-time picnic makers in July was, on a cold day in February, utterly deserted.
A bird wrestled a worm from the wet, windswept grass and flew off with it in his beak. That's the awful thing about death, thought Fenton; life goes on as if you had never existed, the ultimate in searing loneliness. He reached the far end of the park and let the iron gate clang shut behind him as he returned to the street and paused to look for inspiration. He saw the beckoning sign of the 'Croft Tavern' and crossed the road.
A sudden calm engulfed him as he went in through the door and made him aware of the wind burn on his cheeks. He ran his fingers ineffectually through his hair as he approached the empty bar counter to pick up a grubby menu. The barmaid tapped her teeth with a biro pen in readiness.
"Sausage and chips, and a pint of lager."
"I'm only food; you get your drink separately,’ said the sullen girl with an air that suggested she had said the same thing a million times before.
Fenton looked to the other barmaid. "Pint of lager please."
"Skol or Carlsberg?"
"Carlsberg."
A plume of froth emanated from the tap. "Barrel's off."
"All right, Skol."
Fenton looked behind the bar at a poster on the wall which proudly announced, 'This establishment has been nominated in the Daily News pub of the year competition.' By the landlord, thought Fenton.
"Hello there," said a voice behind him. He turned to find Steve Kelly from the Blood Transfusion service. "Didn't know you came here for lunch," said Kelly.
"First time," said Fenton.
"Me too," said Kelly. "I'm sitting over there by the fire. Join me when you get your food."
Fenton joined Kelly in sitting on plastic leather seats in front of a plastic stone fireplace. They watched imitation flames flicker up to plastic horse brasses.
"The breweries really do these places up well," said Kelly without a trace of a smile. Fenton choked over his beer. Kelly smiled.
Fenton's fork ricocheted off a sausage causing chips to run for cover in all directions; one landed in Kelly's lap; he popped it into his mouth.
"You can have the rest if you want," said Fenton putting down his knife and fork.
"No thanks, I've just tasted it."
"What brings you here?" asked Fenton.
"I was looking around for a nice quiet wee place to bring that nurse from ward seven to one lunch time."
"You mean somewhere where the wife wouldn't be liable to find you?"
"You've got it."
"Well this place seems quiet enough."
"Aye, but it wasn't exactly food poisoning I was planning on giving her."
"Point taken."
They sipped their beer in silence for a few minutes before Kelly said, "So who's the loony Tom?"
Fenton kept looking into the flames. "I wish to God I knew," he said.
"Munro was a friend of yours wasn't he?"
Fenton nodded.
"I'm sorry."
Fenton sipped his beer.
"Who will be taking over his projects?" asked Kelly.
"Me for the moment."
"Then you’ll be wanting the blood?"
Fenton was puzzled. "What blood?"
"Munro phoned me on Monday; he wanted some blood from the service."
"Better hold on that till I find out what he needed it for."
"Will do."
"Another drink?"
"No."
They got up and moved towards the door. "Would you mind returning your glasses to the bar?" drawled the lounging barmaid.
"Aye, we would," said Kelly flatly. They left.
Fenton waited while Kelly finished buttoning his coat up to the collar. He hunched his shoulders against the wind. Kelly said, "So you'll let me know about the blood?" Fenton said that he would and they parted.
Fenton was grateful that the wind was now behind him, supporting him like a cushion, as he walked slowly back to the hospital. This time he avoided the park and opted instead for the streets of Victorian terraced housing, black stone houses that looked cool in summer but dark and forbidding in winter, the bare branches of the trees fronting them waved in the wind like witches in torment. As he reached the lab he had to pause to let a silver grey Ford turn into the lane beside the lab. One of its front wheels dipped into a pot hole splashing water over his feet. He raised his eyes to the heavens then saw that the driver was Nigel Saxon and that he had realised what had happened. Saxon stopped and wound down the window looking apologetic, "I say, I'm most frightfully sorry."
Fenton smiled for it was hard to get angry with Nigel Saxon. He waited while Saxon parked his car then watched him attempt to side-step the puddles as he hurried to join him. Saxon was everyone's idea of a rugby forward running to seed, which indeed he was. He had played the game religiously for his old public school till, at the age of twenty-five or so, he had discovered that it was possible to have the post-match drink and revels without actually having to go through the pain of playing. Now at the age of thirty-two he was beginning to look distinctly blowzy, a fact of which he seemed cheerfully aware. He had managed to scramble a poor degree in mechanical engineering before joining his father's company, Saxon Medical, where his engineering skills had been completely ignored in deference to his amiable personality and confidence that had made him invaluable in sales and customer liaison. Fenton thought it ironic that Saxon would never appreciate what his greatest talent was in that direction; he made the customers feel superior.
"You've got lipstick on your cheek," said Fenton
Saxon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, scattering as he did so, some loose change over the pavement. Fenton helped pick it up and paused to look at something that turned out not to be a coin. It appeared to be some kind of silver medallion with a tree engraved on it. "Very nice," he said and handed it back to Saxon only to be surprised at the intense way Saxon was looking at him. It was as if Saxon had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer.
Saxon dabbed absent-mindedly at his cheek.
"Other one," said Fenton.
There were three policemen in the hallway when they entered the lab. "Mr Fenton?" said one. Fenton nodded. "Inspector Jamieson would like to see you again sir if that's convenient?
"Of course. I'll be in one-oh-four."
"You know I still can't believe it," said Saxon as he and Fenton climbed the stairs to the first floor, "I keep expecting to see Neil." Fenton nodded but managed to convey to Saxon that he did not want to speak about it.
"I was wondering if we might have a talk about the Blood Analyser,” said Saxon.
Fenton said that he was about to suggest the same thing himself and told Saxon that he had arranged with Susan Daniels to see the machine in action that afternoon. Saxon said that he would join them and asked when. "As soon as I finish with the police," said Fenton
As Fenton closed the door he heard the rain begin to lash against the windows once more He glanced out at the sky and saw that it was leaden. Mouthing a single expletive he turned to Munro’s personal research book and started through it again. He wanted to know why Munro had asked the Blood Transfusion Service for a supply of blood and what exactly he had planned to do with it. Kelly had not said how much blood Neil had asked for and he had neglected to ask. He picked up the internal phone and asked the lab secretary to check the official requisition.
As he waited for a reply a knock came to the door. It was Inspector Jamieson and his sergeant, whose last name Fenton could not remember. He motioned them to come in and said that he would be with them in a moment.
"What day did you say?" asked the secretary's voice on the phone.
"Monday."
"That's what I thought you said. There isn't one."
"Are you quite sure?"
"I've checked three times."
"Perhaps I misunderstood," said Fenton thoughtfully. He put down the phone. So Neil had made the request privately without going through channels. Curiouser and curiouser. He became aware of the policemen looking at him and put the thought out of his mind for the moment.
Fenton had taken a dislike to Jamieson after their first meeting but had been unable to rationalise it, thinking perhaps that he might have taken a dislike to anyone who had appeared to be asking such apparently pointless questions.
"I thought we might just go through a few of these points again sir?" said Jamieson.
"If you insist," said Fenton.
"I'm afraid I do sir," said Jamieson with an ingratiating smile.
So, thought Fenton, the dislike was mutual.
Jamieson at five feet ten was small for a policeman in the Edinburgh force but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth and his shoulders filled his tweed jacket, providing a firm base for a thick neck and a head that appeared to be larger than it actually was because of a thick mop of grey hair. He sported a small clipped moustache and this, together with the twill trousers and checked shirt, gave him the appearance of an English country gentleman in week-end wear. The voice however belied the image. It was both Scottish and aggressive.
As the interview proceeded Fenton was convinced that he was answering the same questions over and over again. It irritated him but, not knowing anything of police procedure, he concluded that this might be a routine gambit on their part. Annoy the subject till he loses his temper then look for inconsistencies in what was being said. It annoyed him even more to think that he might be being treated as some kind of laboratory animal. His answers became more and more cursory while, silently, he became more and more impatient. Of course Neil had not had any enemies. He had no earthly idea why anyone would want to kill him. Wasn't it obvious that some kind of deranged psychopath had committed the crime? Why were they wasting time asking such damn fool questions? Did the police have no imagination at all?
"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."