Fenton's winter

FIVE

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

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

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

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

"Free masonry," whispered Fenton in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

Glasses were proffered and the moment passed.

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

"We'll go soon," Fenton promised.

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

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

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

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

"In what way?" asked Fenton

"I think we should have told someone."

"Who?"

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

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

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

"Neil couldn't have been the killer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll do it," interrupted Fenton.

"You're sure?" asked Saxon.

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

"Well, if you're quite certain…"

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

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

"I've no idea," replied Fenton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fenton's gaze fell on the drain he been about to pour the acid down and a dark thought crossed his mind like a cloud across the moon. Wondering if paranoia were getting the better of him. He squatted down and examined the pipe leading down from the drain. He was looking for signs of recent dismantling. He failed to find any but remained uneasy. He had to know for sure. He fetched a spanner from the lab tool box and undid the coupling at the head of the bend. Gently he slid out the curved section of pipe and looked inside. His fingers were shaking slightly as he saw signs of a chemical lying in the trap. Cautiously he sniffed the end of the pipe and recognised the smell. It was potassium cyanide!

If he had poured acid down the drain on top of cyanide crystals when the extractor was non-functional the whole lab would have been filled with hydrocyanic gas within seconds and everyone in it would have died.

Everyone in it? thought Fenton. He was the only one in it and where was Saxon? He had been gone for ages.

Nigel Saxon came in to the lab carrying a tool box. "Couldn't find the damn thing. It was under the back seat."

"Really?" said Fenton looking Saxon straight in the eye.

"Good God. What's happened?" asked Saxon as he caught sight of Fenton's face. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"There's something wrong with the fume cupboard," said Fenton.

"Is that all?" asked a puzzled Saxon.

"There are cyanide crystals in the drain."

"You mean the drain is blocked?"

Fenton stared at Saxon for a full thirty seconds before saying, "If I had poured acid down it…"

Saxon shook his head and said apologetically, "I'm sorry. I'm not a chemist. What are you trying to say?"

Fenton was desperately trying to appraise Saxon's behaviour. He seemed genuine enough. But did he really not know what the consequences would have been? Had it really been coincidence that Saxon had chosen that particular moment to be out of the room?

Fenton's head was reeling. Had someone really tried to kill him? He searched desperately for another explanation but all he found was a new suspicion. He faced the possibility that the incident in the pub had been no accident either, no act of mindless violence as the police had called it. It appeared that someone wanted him out of the way and whether it was temporary or more permanent did not much seem to matter. But why? Whoever it was must think that he knew more than he did. How ironic if he were to end up being killed for something he never knew in the first place.

The flat was empty when Fenton got in for Jenny had gone to visit some of her old flat mates. But Fenton was glad of the time it gave him to calm down. His hands still shook a little and his insides still felt hollow but a stiff whisky helped fight the symptoms and prepared him to confide in Jenny when she did come in.

"But why?" exclaimed Jenny when Fenton told her.

"I keep telling you I don't know," maintained Fenton.

"Who knew you would be in the lab today?" Jenny asked.

"Lots of people. We discussed it at the dinner party the other night."

"So it has to be one of the lab staff?"

"Or Saxon," said Fenton. "He picked that very moment to disappear."

"What about when he came back?" asked Jenny. "Did he look guilty?"

"No," conceded Fenton.

"What other possibilities are there?"

"I suppose it is just possible that the damper failed for some technical reason.

"And the cyanide crystals?"

"Coincidence? We use cyanide a lot."

"I think I prefer that notion," said Jenny.

Fenton preferred it too. He just did not believe it.

Jenny was still sleeping when he left for work next morning. She had not stirred when he kissed her so Fenton tip-toed out of the room, taking great pains to close the door quietly behind him.

It felt good to be back on the bike again although his ribs still hurt when anything more than light pressure was required on the handlebars. He gunned it up the outside of a long queue of cars in Lothian Road and joined the leading one at the traffic lights. They changed and Fenton was just a memory to its driver before the man had had time to engage first gear.

Charles Tyson arrived in the car park at the rear of the lab as Fenton was heaving the Honda on to its stand. They exchanged pleasantries and walked into the lab together. There were two engineers from the hospital works department working on the fume cupboard and Tyson paused to ask what was wrong. He asked Ian Ferguson but it was Fenton who answered. "It broke down yesterday," he said.

By ten o'clock Fenton felt as if he had never been away for, within minutes of sitting down at his desk he had picked up the threads and was back in the old routine. Hospital biochemistry kept him fully occupied until Wednesday when he found some time to chase up those who had volunteered to give blood for the Analyser tests. Charles Tyson was the last on the list. Fenton withdrew the blood, ejected the sample into two plastic tubes and took them along to his lab. He brought out the relevant rack from the fridge and placed Tyson's samples in the last two holes. He now had the required number of samples to begin the tests.

As he made to put the rack back in the fridge he noticed something odd about Tyson's specimen in the second tube. It was still unclotted. He withdrew both tubes and shook them gently, one should have remained quite fluid for the test tube had anti-coagulant in it but the other contained nothing save for the blood. It should have clotted. Fenton looked at his watch and saw that ten minutes had passed since he had taken the sample. Far too long! He raced along the corridor and burst into Tyson's room, getting a startled look from both Tyson and Liz Scott who was taking dictation. "Your blood isn’t clotting," he blurted out.

Tyson looked at the inside of his arm and said, "It isn't bleeding. It stopped normally." Fenton still looked doubtful. Tyson said, "Probably a dirty tube…but just to make sure, pass me a scalpel blade will you."

Fenton opened a glass fronted cabinet and removed a small packet wrapped in silver foil. He handed it to Tyson. Liz Scott screwed up her face and said, "What on earth…" as Tyson slit through the skin of his index finger and watched the blood well up. He dabbed it away with the clean swab that Fenton handed to him and checked his watch. Fenton and Liz Scott watched in silence as Tyson continued to dab blood away. At length he said, "There, it's stopping. See? Quite normal."

Fenton let out a sigh of relief and said, "Thank God, I thought for a moment that you were number five." Now able to think of more mundane matters he realised that he was short of one blood sample and said so.

"Perhaps Liz?" Tyson suggested, turning to look at the secretary who screwed up her face before agreeing with more than a little reluctance. "I hate needles," she said as she rolled up the sleeve of her blouse.

"Look up," said Fenton, before inserting the needle smoothly into the vein and drawing back the plunger. "There now, that didn't hurt did it?" Liz Scott agreed that it hadn't. "Just hold the swab there for a minute or so," said Fenton placing the gauze over the puncture mark, "then you can roll down your sleeve."

Fenton brought the tubes back to his lab and held them up to the window. One of them remained fluid while the other was clotting normally. He put them in the fridge to wait with the others until later. He would run them through the Analyser in the evening when everyone had gone and Jenny had started her shift on night duty.

Fenton came downstairs to the main lab to see what lay in store for him and read through the request forms from the wards. "I don't believe it," he said out loud as yet another request for a lead count appeared in the lists. "Twelve…fourteen…sixteen bloods for lead! What's going on?"

Alex Ross gave a thin smile and said, "You've got Councillor Vanney to thank for that."

"Vanney?"

"He's been opposing an extension to the ring road; his latest tack is to scaremonger about lead pollution from car exhausts if the new road goes ahead. You know the sort of thing; IQ will drop by fifty points if you walk too near a Volkswagen Polo. He's been calling for the screening of all children living near the first stage of the road."

"What's his real reason?"

"The more cynical among us might suggest that the new road would screw up a development of luxury flats that Vanney and Sons are building on the south side."

"Turd."

"He's a powerful turd." said Ross.

"Who are the 'Tree Mob' Alex?"

Ross was taken by surprise at the suddenness of Fenton's question. What was more, he seemed to Fenton to visibly stiffen. "What made you ask that?" he stammered.

"The other night at the party you suggested that Saxon Medical had got special treatment because of the 'Tree Mob.' Who are they?"

Ross put his hands to his forehead and said quietly, "One day my big mouth will be the death of me."

"I don't understand," said Fenton.

"I've said too much already," said Ross.

"You can't leave me hanging," Fenton protested.

Ross looked doubtful then took a deep breath and said, "There's an organisation called the Cavalier Club which is currently trendy with the establishment. Their emblem is an oak tree. It's supposed to represent the tree that King Charles hid up when he was hiding from the roundheads.

"But what has that got to do with Saxon getting preferential treatment from the Department of Health?"

"There are a lot of powerful people in the club. They scratch each others' backs and what's more, they consider themselves to be above the law. Rumour has it their influence is growing all the time."

"But a club?" protested Fenton.

"More a society really."

"If you say so," said Fenton. "How come I haven't heard of it?"

"You were in Africa for a long while."

Fenton found it hard to believe what Ross had told him but one thing stopped him from saying so. He had remembered that the medallion that had fallen from Nigel Saxon's pocket in the car park had had a tree motif on it. He said nothing to Ross.

Fenton nursed his dislike for politicians all through the procedure for lead estimation for it was the least popular test in the lab. True to form his hands got covered in blood; they always did with lead tests. He was washing them for the umpteenth time when the phone rang and Ian Ferguson said, "Tom, it's Jenny."

Fenton finished drying his hands and took the receiver. "Don't tell me," he joked, "You just called to say you loved me?" The smile died on his face when he heard Jenny sobbing. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"

"I'm at the police station…" said Jenny before she broke down again.”They're holding me…"

Fenton couldn't believe his ears. "Holding you? What are you talking about? You're not making sense."

"The murders, the police think I did them."

Fenton was reduced to spluttering incredulity. "Is this some kind of joke? What are you talking about? How can they possibly think you did them?" He heard Jenny take a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, then she said, "My brother Grant's boy, Jamie, you remember, the one who was down in Edinburgh? He's dead. He bled to death! Oh Tom, I'm scared. Please come."

The phone went dead before Fenton could reply; he clattered the receiver down on its rest then snatched it up again and called Jamieson.

"Nurse Buchan is at present helping us with our inquiries Mr Fenton," said the gruff voice at the other end of the phone.

"Come on man! I'm not the bloody press. What's going on?"

"I am afraid I have nothing to add sir," said Jamieson.

"Well, can I see her?"

"No you can't."

"Is brain death a prerequisite for the Police Force?" snarled Fenton.

"I must warn you sir that…"

Fenton slammed down the receiver. His immediate thought was to rush round to the police station and demand to see Jenny but the fact that he was in the middle of the lead tests prevented him from doing something, which he realised after a few minutes thought, would have been pointless. The police would not be impressed by histrionics. What Jenny needed was expert help, the help a lawyer could give. He went to speak to Tyson.

Charles Tyson was as shocked as Fenton had been when he heard the news.

"Jenny needs a lawyer," said Fenton "I wondered if perhaps you could recommend anyone?"

"Of course," said Tyson, opening his address book. "Phone this firm." He copied down a name and a telephone number on to a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Fenton. Fenton thanked him and said that he would keep him informed of developments. He returned to his own lab and dialled the number. They would send someone round to the police station.

Fenton found that lack of information was the main obstacle to his coming to terms with the situation. Jenny had said that Jamie was dead but he had to know more, he had to find out when, where and how and that might be difficult in the circumstances. The circumstances were that Fenton's contacts with Jenny's family were few and far between…and not that cordial. Her sisters-in-law regarded Jenny as something of a scarlet woman for living in sin, as they saw it. Her brothers, although a little more tolerant of the situation than their wives, did not have much time for a man who did not work with his hands and, therefore, did not conform to their notion of what a real man should be. He had detected a certain coolness in Grant Buchan when he had met him briefly the week before. But there was no alternative, Fenton decided. He would have to phone the Buchans; the number would be in Jenny's address book in the flat.

Fenton grounded the near-side foot rest as he swung the Honda out of the hospital grounds and on to the main road. The lurch from the machine served as a timely warning to him that he would be no good to Jenny dead. He forcible restrained himself and bit the bullet at every set of traffic lights.

The phone seemed to ring for ages before a woman with a strong north-east accent answered and Fenton said who he was. There was a silence then the receiver was put down, but not on its rest, on a wooden table by the sound of it, thought Fenton. A few moment later a man said, "Yes, what is it?"

Fenton recognised the voice as that of Grant Buchan. "Grant? I'm phoning to say how desperately sorry I am about Jamie. But something awful has now happened down here. They're holding Jenny in connection with Jamie's death!"

The expected outburst did not happen. Instead, Buchan said, "I see."

"What do you mean, you see?" Fenton exploded. "Did you hear what I said? The police are holding Jenny! They think she had something to do with Jamie's death!"

Buchan was unmoved by Fenton's outburst. He sounded as if he was under some kind of sedation as he said, "My boy cut himself playing down by the harbour. By the time he had covered fifty yards he was dead, every drop of his blood was on the stones, I can still see it in the cracks, it won't wash away.

Fenton felt the man's agony, he rubbed his hand on his forehead and said softly, "I'm sorry, believe me, I know what it's like to lose a child, but you must see that some awful mistake has been made. No one in their right mind could think that Jenny was a murderer."

After a long pause Buchan said, "No but my son died because his blood wouldn't clot. He had been poisoned with anti…anti…"

"Anti-coagulants."

"Anti-coagulants. The method used by the Princess Mary Slayer."

Fenton winced at the tabloid jargon.

Buchan continued, "My laddie was never anywhere near the Princess Mary Hospital but Jenny works there and we stayed with Jenny when we were in Edinburgh."

"You can't seriously believe that Jenny had anything to do…" Fenton broke off in mid-sentence. "It's crazy!" he protested. "The thought of Jenny being involved is just too ridiculous for words!"

"People get sick some time…sick in their heads."

"No way," said Fenton decisively. "Jenny is not sick. Jenny is the sweetest, nicest, sanest person who ever lived. She did not kill Jamie; she did not kill anyone else. Let's get that straight!"

There was silence from Buchan.

Fenton was filled with the frustration. "Look Grant," he said, "We can't talk properly over the phone, I'm coming up there."

"I don't think that's a very good idea…" began Buchan.

"I'm coming," said Fenton and put the phone down. He thought for a moment before picking it up again and dialling the lawyer's office. Yes, their Mr Bainbridge was still at the police station and no, they did not have any further information.

Fenton paced up and down the flat like a caged tiger, he opened the drinks cupboard then closed it again without taking anything out. That wasn't what he needed. He opened another cupboard and took out his running shoes.

The pavements were wet but the wind had dropped as Fenton pounded out the first mile at a pace designed to replace tension with physical pain. Every time he found his mind straying to thoughts of the police or Grant Buchan he would lengthen his stride till the surge of anger was quelled inside him. By the end of the third mile his mind was calm and he had become more relaxed. He slowed to an easy jog and thought about what he was going to do.

He had told Grant Buchan that he was coming up to Morayshire but was that really the right thing to do? he wondered. What good could come of it? What could he hope to find out? A sudden gust of wind caught the bare branches of the trees above him and made giant raindrops fall like diamonds under the street lights. Several hit him on the face making him wipe them away with the back of his hand. He moved off the pavement to avoid running directly beneath them. The answer! That was what he could hope to find out. Jamie Buchan's death must hold the key to the whole affair. There must be a link between Jamie and the Princess Mary. The police thought that Jenny was that link but he knew that she was not. Find it and he would have the answer to the whole nightmare. The sweat was trickling freely down his neck as he turned for home.

Fenton lay awake in the darkness watching the reflection of raindrops on the ceiling of the bedroom. The run had pleasantly stretched his muscles and the bath had relaxed him but the flat was so empty and lonely without Jenny. Where was she now? What were they doing to her? The police would not give out anything other than the clockwork statement that they were still holding her. Sleep was out of the question and he still had a long night ahead of him before travelling north… But did he? Fenton saw the alternative. He could leave right away! If he rode through the night he could be there by morning. That would be better than lying brooding in the darkness. He dressed quickly, donned his leathers, and collected a few odds and ends and tip-toed downstairs to rock the Honda off its stand.

Fenton kept the revs to a minimum as he turned in and out of the streets of Comely Bank at two in the morning for he had no wish to disturb the sleeping citizenry. He pulled out on to the main Queensferry road and headed for the Forth Bridge and the motorway.

Fenton closed the throttle for the first time to negotiate the toll barrier at the South end of the bridge. The man in the booth raised the boom without comment while high up on top of the main towers red lights flashed at intervals to warn aircraft of their presence. Far below lay the dark waters of the Forth.

Fenton could feel the temperature dropping as reached the north shore and entered Fife. The wind sought out every weakness in his clothing as he pointed the Honda towards Perthshire.

An alarming numbness in his hands brought him to a halt at a service station at the head of the M9 motorway which spilled out inviting yellow light on to the wet tarmac. He went directly to the men's room and filled up a basin with warm water, resting his hands in it as it filled. He cupped them and bathed his face slowly, gasping involuntarily as the warm water soothed his raw skin.

"It's no' much o' a night fur the bike," said a lorry driver behind him, noting Fenton's leathers.

"You're right," said Fenton, continuing his love affair with the basin.

"They're a'right in summer they things," said the man.

Fenton grunted in reply and began to dab his face dry with a succession of coarse paper towels. He caught a glimpse in the mirror of his companion, short, round and dressed in green bib overalls with a company logo which he failed to read backwards.

A largely one sided conversation continued over tea and bacon sandwiches, the driver having followed Fenton to the table and sat down beside him. In the circumstances it had seemed the natural thing for him to do for they were the only two customers in the place.

They both turned to look out of the window as an articulated lorry lumbered into the car park outside. The arrival of new custom prompted the man behind the counter to turn on the juke box and fill the place with electric noise. The bass notes made the salt cellar vibrate on the red Formica table.