Fenton's winter

SIX

The grey morning light was highlighting the white tops of the waves as Fenton reached Buchan Ness and stopped to rest his aching limbs. He coaxed the Honda off the winding road and paddled it with his feet over a stretch of shingle to lean it against the petrified stump of some long dead tree. It made contracting metal sounds as he walked stiffly over the scree to reach the water's edge and stretch his arms up to the colourless sky. He picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them aimlessly into the rough water as seagulls screamed overhead in protest against the intruder. It was a cold, grey world, he decided and thoughts about the day ahead held nothing at all to colour that view.

The road traced the edge of the shore and wound between trees that were naked after a winter of rape by winds howling in off the North Sea. Fenton was relieved when the barren monotony of the landscape was broken by a neon sign advertising a transport cafe, open to service the early morning fish trade. He swung off the road and followed the arrows.

The tea was hot and sweet and Fenton felt it travel all the way down to his stomach, making him think of sword swallowers. He rubbed the back of his neck where the leather had been chafing and kneaded the backs of his thighs which were threatening cramp.

The road turned inland to cut across a stretch of barren headland and Fenton had to stop and check his map as he came to a junction with no sign posting. He made his decision and turned right to find himself, after a few minutes, heading towards the sea again. He stopped as he came to the top of a hill and looked down on the village where the Buchans lived. Pulling off a glove, he took a card from his top pocket and checked the address on it, 8, Harbour Wynd.

He let the bike free wheel silently down the hill and brought it to a halt on the cobblestones in front of the harbour. He let his foot rest on a pile of fish boxes while he looked down at the smooth oily surface of the water as it rose and fell against the slimy green stonework.

Three lanes radiated out from the hub of the harbour; one of them was Harbour Wynd. Fenton put the Honda up on its stand and walked slowly up over the cobbles to find number eight. He found the heavy brass knocker surprisingly muted by the thickness of the door.

"Oh it's you," said Grant Buchan with no trace of pleasure in his voice, "I suppose you had better come in." Fenton had expected no better.

"Who is it?" cried a woman's voice.

"It's Jenny's…" Buchan's voice trailed off as he sought a suitable description.

"Fancy man," said the frosty faced woman who emerged from the kitchen to dry her hands on her apron.

Fenton's heart sank. He had only met Grant's wife once before and that had been when the whole family had been together. He remembered that she had maintained an air of prim disapproval throughout the entire meeting. Mona Buchan stood in the doorway like an angel of the Lord, hair tied back severely in a bun, the shapeless cardigan buttoned up to the neck, eyes shining with self righteousness from a fair skinned face that had never known make-up.

"I'm very sorry about your son Mrs Buchan," said Fenton ignoring the jibe.

"What do you want here?" hissed Mona Buchan. "Haven't you and that…that…"

Grant Buchan stopped the situation getting out of hand. He put his arm around his wife's shoulders and said, "Easy woman, make us all some tea eh?"

Mona Buchan disappeared into the kitchen. "I'm sorry," said Buchan, "She's very upset."

"I understand," said Fenton, sitting down where Buchan indicated.

"But she's right. I can't see why you came here either," said Buchan.

"Because the answer is here! It must be. Jenny did not kill your boy. You must know that? The idea is just too ridiculous for words." Fenton looked hard at Buchan who held his gaze for a moment then he sighed and looked away. "I just can't think straight any more…"

Mona Buchan brought in the tea. She clattered the tray down with bad grace and turned on her heel. "I'm afraid I have work to be getting on with," she announced. The kitchen door closed again and Buchan continued, "But why should the killer pick on Jamie? It just doesn't make any sense."

"I know," said Fenton softly, "I think Jenny must have been the unwitting link between the killer and your boy. That's what we have to find out."

"What do you want me to do?" asked Grant.

"Tell me everything you did in Edinburgh, everyone you met, everywhere you went."

Fenton took notes as Buchan spoke, not that there was much to record, a fact which made him more and more depressed as time went by. The Buchans had gone from the train to the flat, from the flat to the clinic and from the clinic to the train. They appeared to have met no one save for the staff at the clinic but the fact remained that at sometime during these twenty-four hours Jamie Buchan had been poisoned so that a week later the blood would drain from his body to leave him a pale corpse on the cobblestones of his own village. If the answer did lie in the brief notes in front of him Fenton could not see it. "Did anyone give him sweets?" he asked.

"Only Jenny," Buchan answered, making Fenton wish that he had not asked. "Do you think I could see Jamie's room?"

"He is in it."

The answer shook Fenton rigid. He had not considered that the boy's body might be in the house.

"We got him back yesterday," said Buchan quietly. "Mona wanted to have him home once more before he goes away…tomorrow."

Fenton nodded silently, a lump coming to his throat at Buchan's distress. "I'm sorry," he said softly, "I just thought that if I saw his things I might notice something that you may have overlooked. But in the circumstances…"

Buchan stood up. Without saying anything he motioned to Fenton to follow him.

Fenton had to duck his head to accommodate the slope of the roof at the head of the narrow stairs before they entered Jamie's bedroom. The room was cold and smelled of dampness, old dampness, dampness that had been seeping through the thick stone walls for years. It had invaded the furniture and fabric, leaving the same musty odour that Fenton associated with the seaside boarding houses of his youth. The little white coffin was bathed in pale grey light from the tiny dormer window that faced north to the sea; Jamie looked like a marble cherub. Fenton bowed his head and stood still for a moment in sadness.

"We haven't moved anything," said Buchan.

Fenton looked about him. It was a boy's room, trains, boats, planes, an unfinished Lego model. The Millenium Falcon stood on its window-sill launching pad, ready to transport the plastic figures beside it to some far off galaxy. Jamie's Jedi sword lay on his pillow. "He was Luke Skywalker," said Buchan.

An anguished cry came from the stairs. The rumble of footsteps stopped with Mona Buchan framed in the doorway, her eyes burning with anger. Fenton was transfixed by the look of hatred on her face, white flecks of spittle pocked her lips as she turned on her husband. "What in God's holy name possessed you?" she demanded, "To let this…this animal near our son?" Buchan looked shaken. "And you," she hissed at Fenton, her voice a coarse rasp, "How dare you…how dare you."

Mona Buchan's anger soared beyond the bounds of all reason and, unable to contain herself any longer, she flung herself across the room, fingernails bared, blind to everything except Fenton, the object of her hatred. As she lunged forward her foot caught the edge of the trestle bearing Jamie's coffin and sent it crashing to the floor to spill him out. Clad in his white shroud he lay there like a sleeping china doll among the toys.

Mona Buchan's rage evaporated. She collapsed to her knees and broke into uncontrollable sobbing as she rested her cheek against her dead son. Fenton knew that he would never be able to forget the sight. "Go!" said Grant Buchan, "Just go."

The Honda was the centre of attraction for a group of small boys when Fenton returned to the harbour and their Star Wars gear suggested that they might have been contemporaries of Jamie. There was something familiar about one of the boys, thought Fenton, but he could not think what. Perhaps he was a relation of Jamie's. A brother? He could not recall if the Buchans had more than the one child. "Your name isn't Buchan is it son?" he asked.

"No Mister. He's deid."

"Yes," said Fenton reliving the awful scene in the bedroom.

Fenton got on the bike and fastened the chin strap of his helmet.

"Can I have a hurl on the back Mister?" asked the boy, resting his hand on the handlebars.

"Another time," said Fenton.

Fenton did not look back as he reached the top of the hill above the village; he gave a cursory glance to the left for traffic then joined the main road to head for Fraserburgh at an easy pace for concentrating was difficult. He stopped at a harbour cafe in Fraserburgh hoping that eating would help alleviate the awful emptiness he felt inside but it did not. He gazed out of the window at the boats nuzzling the quayside but all he saw was Jamie's lifeless body.

As he headed east on the coast road Fenton reflected on what his visit had achieved. Nothing, he decided, not a damned thing. Grant Buchan had not told him anything that could possibly be of help in solving anything. Jenny was in as much trouble as she ever had been. He drew to a halt as he reached as far east as he would travel and took a last look at the grey northern water before turning to head south. It was cold but it was dry and the wind would be behind him.

Jenny was in the flat when Fenton got back. They held each other for a long time before either spoke. "I found your note," said Jenny. "Did you find out anything?"

"Nothing," admitted Fenton. "What's been happening here?"

"The police released me this afternoon but I have been told not to leave the city and the hospital have suspended me."

Fenton could see that Jenny had been crying a lot, her eyes were puffy and red. "Morons," he said. "Absolute morons." He drew her even closer.

"The funny thing is," began Jenny, half laughing half sobbing, "I can see their point of view. How could the hospital killer come into contact with Jamie… unless it was me?"

"That's what we must figure out," said Fenton with all the reassurance he could muster.

"We're not terribly good at figuring things out. Remember?" said Jenny.

"We'll do it," said Fenton.

They lay still in the darkness taking pleasure in their closeness. Fenton's fingers intertwined with Jenny's, his thumb gently tracing an ellipse on the back of her hand. Her shallow breathing was like music.

In the small hours of the morning Fenton lay awake while Jenny lay beside him fast asleep. She had been mentally exhausted but reassured enough by his presence to fall into a sound sleep, her head still against his shoulder. For the first time in many hours she had felt safe, safe from the strange and the unknown, the overweight men in crumpled suits who smelled of sweat and down market after shave. The men who sneered at everything she said, the red faces who shouted at her, mocked her, accused her. Surely these men could not have been policemen? Policemen were quiet, well mannered, helpful; they told you the time and gave you directions, patted children and inspired confidence, not fear. How she had been afraid, she had never known such fear.

The disorientation caused by being taken to a strange place full of hostile men had destroyed her self confidence in one fell swoop. Her initial stance as an outraged citizen demanding her rights in a free country had collapsed within minutes leaving her confused and afraid. A pleading note had crept into her voice as the ordeal had continued and she had been filled with a desperate desire to please her inquisitors, to say yes to anything that would breach the seemingly impenetrable wall of hostility. Only an innate strength of character stopped her from travelling along that road, but she had seen it and seen it clearly.

Fenton sighed in the still darkness of the room as once again his thoughts came to nothing. What was the connection? Just what was it? Only one fact stared him in the face like an ugly mongrel, there had been no opportunity at all for the hospital killer to reach Jamie directly. He squeezed Jenny's hand involuntarily as the unthinkable crossed his mind. Something was wrong with his train of thought, he decided, something basic.

An hour later, and after much mental wrestling, Fenton came up with a new hypothesis. It was forced on him by the facts. There was no killer, no lunatic, no psychopath. It was a disease! A bacterium or a virus! A virus had destroyed the clotting mechanism in the blood of all the people who had died. Why not? New diseases were being discovered all the time. Legionnaires' disease, Lassa fever, AIDS. The more he thought about it the more obvious and possible it seemed. The virus must be endemic in the hospital, lurking in unseen corners, just as the Legionnaires bug had hidden in the showers of an American hotel. Jenny must have carried it home and infected Jamie. The fact that not everyone was susceptible to it would be typical of viral infection. Everything pointed to it being a virus…except Neil Munro.

The Kraken of Neil Munro, burnt flesh peeling from his face, rose up from Fenton's subconscious to slow him down. No virus had pushed Munro into the steriliser. A compromise was demanded. Neil had been murdered, of that there was no doubt, but the others? No, it had to be some kind of infective agent. All he had to do now was prove it.

Jenny turned in her sleep and Fenton kissed her lightly on the shoulder. The question now was how he should go about substantiating his theory. Elementary. It was first year student stuff. You isolate the thing and show it does what it does by sticking it in to laboratory animals. But how to get his hands on infected material.. that was the real question and that was going to be quite a different matter.

He would need material from the people who had died, tissue, serum, and for that he would need help, top brass help and that meant Tyson…or did it? He was still smarting from the way he had made a fool of himself over the Doctor David Malcolm affair. He did not want it to happen again. Could he possibly do it alone?

It occurred to Fenton that maybe it had been done already! Perhaps the Pathology Department had already screened tissue from the victims for infective agents? If that were so then his suggestion would be about as popular with Pathology as his last one had been with the Police. That would be the last straw. He could just see MacDougal, the consultant pathologist and not the most patient of men, sneering at him and saying, "Do you imagine that we are all stupid down here Fenton?"

He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Ten past four, four hours before he would get up and go to the hospital, four hours in which to decide. Outside the wind began to rise and moan through wires on the roof. The bedroom window rattled as it denied entry to the night. Thoughts of a commando style raid on the Pathology Lab conjured up visions of being caught and the implausible explanation that he would have to offer to the police. Inspector Jamieson's superior little smile appeared in the glow from the clock. There had to be another way.

The other way presented itself as an obvious little idea that made Fenton feel stupid for not having thought of it sooner. The Medical Records Department! He could simply go along and request the file on one of the victims. There might not be one for Susan Daniels or the Wilson woman but there would certainly be one for the Watson boy for he had been a patient at the time. His file would contain a full post mortem report and details of all the lab tests requested.

Fenton got up at seven and was in the lab by eight. He had left Jenny sleeping, partly because she needed the rest but partly to avoid any discussion about what he was going to do. He got straight to work on his excuse for the medical records people and thumbed through the day book until he found the last entry for Timothy Watson, a blood glucose estimation. He copied down details of the result and took a virgin report form from Liz Scott's desk. Using two fingers and a great deal of concentration he tapped out a stuttering copy of the original report before getting ink over his hands as he altered the date stamp to match the date of the request in the day book. He now had his excuse, a biochemistry report to insert into the Watson Boy's file.

The Medical Records Department was situated in the Administration Block and smelled of dust and old cardboard. It had a blue carpeted floor that deadened the footsteps of two young girls as they moved up and down narrow gangways between towering rows of patients' files. Cecil McClay looked over his glasses as Fenton entered through the swing doors and approached his desk. He continued writing and finished the sentence before saying, "Yes?"

McClay managed to endow the single word with the suggestion that Fenton was intruding but Fenton had been prepared for it for he knew McClay of old. The man had been Medical Records Officer at the Princess Mary for over twenty years and, like many time servers, had assumed proprietorial rights over his department. To him medical records were an end in themselves. Outsiders wanting to see them were a nuisance to be discouraged wherever possible.

Had Fenton been on a legitimate errand McClay's attitude might have been as a red rag to a bull but, as it was, he was sweetness and light. He apologised for the inconvenience and asked if he 'might possibly' take a look at the file on Timothy Watson.

"Your authority?"

"My own, I'm Fenton, Biochemistry. I have a report to add to the file. It must have been overlooked."

"Leave it there. I'll see that it's entered." The eyes dropped down behind the glasses.

"Actually…I really would like to make sure that this is the only one we overlooked…" Fenton hoped his smile looked more genuine than it felt.

McClay considered for a moment then swung round in his chair and said to one of the girls, "Hilary! Watson, Tee, March three, Ward four."

The girl handed the file to Fenton with a look that promised more than a cardboard file should he choose to follow it up. He smiled and took it to a vacant desk.

The post mortem findings were brief; Timothy Watson had died from loss of blood. Cross reference was made to the haematology report which described high anti-coagulant activity in the sample and complete failure of the clotting mechanisms in the boy's blood. No mention was made anywhere of specimens having been taken and sent for bacterial or viral investigation. His idea was still valid. Everything was yet to play for.

Fenton looked at the short hand on the back of the pathology report and found what specimens had been taken at autopsy and how they had been stored. Four ticks under 'F' were dismissed as being useless because samples fixed in formalin would have lost all biological activity. There were two ticks under 'FR' for freezer, one was serum and the other heart tissue, either of these would do for his purpose. He made a mental note of the reference numbers, closed the file and laid it gently on McClay's desk. "Thank you," he said. McClay grunted in response and did not look up.

The question of how to get his hands on the post mortem samples occupied Fenton's mind for the remainder of the morning. He knew a few people in Pathology but not well enough for what he wanted. He would have to 'borrow' them on his own but how? Forced entry was out of the question. He was prepared to manipulate matters, use a little deception, generate 'misunderstandings', flirt around the edges of illegality but not to brazenly cross the line.

The idea came to him as he washed up before going to lunch. The Pathology Department had a washroom too. If he could find some reason to go to Pathology at around five- thirty he could sneak in there and hide until everyone had left. Then he could find the specimens at his leisure and let himself out. The idea became the plan.

At twenty minutes past five Fenton left the biochemistry department with his pulse rate rising for there now seemed to be a dozen reasons for not going ahead with the plan and more occurred to him with every step he took towards the pathology lab. He came to the double green doors and paused for a moment to steady himself. His mouth was as dry as the desert. Only a brief thought of Jenny made him push open the doors and walk through.

The sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde engulfed him as he approached the reception desk and smiled at the girl technician who stood there. The girl smiled back and read his coat badge. "What can I do for you Mr Fenton?"

Fenton held up the empty brown bottle that he had brought with him from biochemistry and said, "I've run out of this stuff and the stores closed at five. Could you possibly let me have some until the morning?"

The girl took the reagent bottle from him and read the label. "Of course," she said and left him alone for a moment. Fenton looked anxiously over his shoulder to see the entrance to the male cloakroom. It would be immediately to his right as he left the reception area. The sound of a door opening made him spin round in time to see the consultant MacDougal leave his office and walk across the front of Reception. Fenton smiled, MacDougal ignored him.

The technician returned with a full bottle of reagent and handed it to him with a smile. "There you go," she said.

Fenton thanked her and promised that he would return a full one in the morning. He left the reception area and side-stepped smartly into the gents' cloakroom to find it empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, so far so good. He chose the end cubicle and sat down to wait with a glance at his watch; he did not lock the door, just pushed it almost shut, reasoning that anyone in doubt as to whether or not a cubicle was occupied would automatically use one of the other two. A locked door would be a sure sign of occupancy and might attract attention. If he was discovered he would simply flush the toilet and leave.

For Fenton the next thirty minutes passed like years. The initial symphony of slamming locker doors and 'Good nights' gave way to increasingly intermittent footsteps and distant door closing. Just as he thought he might be alone at last the cubicle next to his became occupied for a full five minutes forcing him into raw-nerved silence with every intake of breath a challenge to self control. The occupant terminated his relief by pulling, what sounded to Fenton, like reams of paper from the holder. 'Ye gods!' he thought…'he's building a kite.'

The toilet flushed and the door banged open. There was the sound of running taps then the outer door bounced on its brake. Fenton was alone again. He had prepared himself for a thirty minute wait after the last noise had died away. He checked his watch and re-read the writing on the wall.

Fenton tip-toed out of the cloakroom and into the reception area to find it dark and silent. No light escaped from under any door; he was alone…Please God he was alone. The blood pounding in his ears told him that his nerves were already at fever pitch and he had not yet begun his search. He took a few deep breaths in a deliberate attempt to compose himself before following the signs to the post mortem suite. There was enough light coming from the street lights outside to show him the way, which was just as well for he had not thought to bring a torch.

He pushed open the blue door and found it pitch black inside. The post mortem suite had no windows. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him before running the flat of his hand up and down the cold tiling until he had found the light switch. Three strip lights groaned into life.

Fenton looked about him, his nose wrinkling at the heavy scented air freshener used to mask the lingering smells of death. The room was large, high and round. In the middle two stainless steel tables stood on their pedestals like traffic islands. They were free standing, all services, plumbing and hydraulic lines for the tilt mechanisms, having been run under the floor. Everything in the room was hard and smooth, predominantly stainless steel and tiling, nothing that would be harmed by constant sluicing.

The room might have been mistaken for an operating theatre at first glance but the instruments on the wall gave it away, saws, hammers, drills, chisels, things more associated with carpentry or butchery. The spring balances and meat scales swung the analogy in favour of butchery. The precision of the paper thin scalpel blade took a back seat in this environment. Here the long, black, bone-handled knives on the wall plied their surrealist art on the cold tables.

Three heavily insulated doors furnished with metal clamps advertised the body vaults. Fenton opened one, recoiling slightly as a waft of cold, damp air caressed his cheek. There were two occupants inside, hooded, shrouded and identified by luggage labels round their toes. The small size of the bundles said that they were children. Fenton took one of the limp labels between thumb and forefinger and read it…Amanda Wright…age twelve. He closed the door.

The large chest freezer looked as if might contain what he was looking for but he found the lid reluctant to rise. He had to thump the heels of his hands against the clasp before the ice around the rim cracked and allowed the lid to lift with a groan. The large eye sockets of an aborted foetus stared up at him through a plastic bag causing him to take in breath sharply. Half afraid of what he would find next he began brushing away ice from the tops of plastic containers, a hand, an ear…the misty outline of a child's leg presented itself through the plastic of its box. Fenton slammed the lid down on the hellish Meccano and rested his hands on it for a moment, breathing erratically. His impulse was to run, to get out of the place, out into the night where he could walk in the rain, smell the grass, let the wind free him from the cloying warmth of the path lab.

His anxiety subsided. He could think again. Where would they keep small specimens? His attention came to rest on a double bank of steel handles on the wall; they were lettered in alphabetical order. He went over and pulled out 'A'. They were freezer files! Row upon row of little glass vials stored in numbered racks. He had found what he was looking for.

Using the reference number from the medical records file on Timothy Watson he found the correct serum sample and removed the vial. He took it to the sink and held it under the tap until it had melted. Now then…a clean vial. Fenton searched through a series of drawers and was lucky at the fourth attempt, clean sterile vials. Now a pipette…again he found one quickly and transferred a small quantity of the serum from the original vial into a fresh one. He replaced the original and closed the file with a click. It was over. He had got it. The compressor on the freezer shuddered into life and his heart missed a beat.

The thought that, should he drop dead from fright, he might well end up on one of the steel tables with his rib cage wrenched open and a hose sluicing out his chest cavity, put wings to Fenton's heels. He switched off the lights in the post mortem room and listened for a few moments before opening the door. The smell of the air freshener seemed stronger in the darkness. It threatened to choke him. The sounds were friendly enough, clicks from thermostats, hums from fridges, inanimate neutral sounds. He sidled out into the main lab.

The short wait in darkness had accustomed his eyes to the gloom. Again he waited and listened before stepping out smartly into the corridor and containing his urge to run. He could not lock the door behind him for he had no key so some poor soul was going to get a rocket in the morning for having left it unlocked… C'est la vie.

The old villa was in darkness when he reached it. He unlocked the front door and switched on the light in the hall, taking comfort from the friendly, familiar smells of the solvents used in biochemistry. He checked the duty roster to find out who was on call. It was Mary Tyler, no problem, no explanations would be necessary should she come in while he was still there. He took the serum sample from his pocket and fixed a self adhesive label to it adding a fictitious name, Mark Brown. He put it safely away in his own freezer and with that done he donned his leathers and left for home