Fenton's winter

EIGHT

To Fenton's annoyance Jenny found the story funny when he told her what had happened in Glasgow. She rocked with laughter when he told her of the feeling in his gut when he had first seen the open razor. "It serves you right for prying," she said.

"It was no joke," Fenton protested, "These things can cut you to the bone before you even realise it and you'll end up carrying the scar for the rest of your life, assuming there is a rest to your life."

"I'm sorry," said Jenny, "It was just the way that you told it. You know I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

They sat down and Fenton told Jenny of his conversation with the Lindsay woman.

"So you are no further forward?" said Jenny.

"I suppose not," agreed Fenton. He leaned back on the couch and Jenny snuggled up close to him to play with the hairs on his chest through a space between his shirt buttons.

"What did you hope to find out?" she asked.

Fenton sighed and said, "I suppose…I hoped to discover that Lindsay had not committed suicide at all, that he had discovered something awful about Saxon plastic and had been murdered to keep his mouth shut."

Jenny rolled her eyes and said, "That was a bit strong."

"It was also wrong," said Fenton.

"Then he did commit suicide?"

"There's not much doubt about that. He was up to his neck in debt to back street money lenders and not the kind who were content to send him rude letters."

"Poor man."

"I think he must have seen stealing tools from the factory as a way out of his troubles but when he was caught his position became absolutely hopeless, no money, no job, no nothing."

"How will his wife manage?"

"The way women do," said Fenton quietly.

Saxon Medical again featured in the newspapers on the following day, this time in the financial section. It was not a part of the newspaper that Fenton would normally read but the word 'Saxon' had caught his eye as he flicked through the pages and had registered in much the same way as hearing one's name mentioned in a crowded room. He read that rumours of a take-over involving International Plastics were rife in the city and a deal, said to be worth millions and founded on Saxon having obtained a license for their new plastic, was in the offing. The new material, it was predicted, would revolutionise equipment in science and medicine. Saxon Medical, a small family based concern, was deemed too small to exploit the enormous potential of the new discovery and was now up for grabs to the highest bidder.

"Have you seen Saxon since the Sunday you helped him with the analyser?" asked Jenny.

Fenton said that he had not.

"Then he doesn't know you think that there's something wrong with the plastic?"

"No. Tyson told me to keep my mouth shut about it in no uncertain manner. You don't walk up to a manufacturer and suggest that his product is a killer without the slightest shred of evidence. You could get very poor that way."

"Or worse," said Jenny thoughtfully as she considered the affair with the fume cupboard.

"Or worse," agreed Fenton.

"Did you tell Tyson about the fume cupboard?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The engineers who came to re-set the fire damper found the retaining clips in the flu. They said they were in bad condition. They could have failed of their own accord causing the damper to close."

"But the cyanide in the drain?"

"We use cyanide quite a lot in the lab. I couldn't prove anything. It could have been coincidence."

"But you don't believe that?" asked Jenny.

"No," replied Fenton.

Jenny's sigh was full of frustration.

Fenton said, "I'm going to take a good look at the people who have died so far. Perhaps they have something in common, something that would point to why they were susceptible and others were not. You could help if you could lay hands on the ward files on the dead children?"

"I'll try," said Jenny. "Have you considered talking to Inspector Jamieson again?" she asked.

"No I haven't," snapped Fenton.

"That sounded a bit personal," said Jenny.

"It is entirely personal," said Fenton, recalling his conversation with the policeman just after Jenny had been taken into custody.

"But they are the professionals."

Fenton remained adamant.

Fenton found a message lying on his desk when he got in to the lab. It was from the Blood Transfusion Service and said simply, Phone Steven Kelly. He did so and had to wait for what seemed an eternity while someone on the other end went to look for him. He was on the point of putting down the receiver when Kelly finally answered. "It's about the blood that Neil Munro asked for…Can I take it that you don't need it any more?"

Fenton had forgotten all about the request that Munro had made. He said so to Kelly and apologised, adding truthfully that he had not as yet come across any reason for Neil having asked for it in the first place.

Kelly accepted Fenton's apology with his usual good humour and then said, "So I can take the donors off stand-by then?"

Fenton was puzzled. He said, "I thought Neil ordered blood from the bank?"

"No, he needed fresh blood; we had to send out postcards to suitable donors."

"Was this the first time Neil had asked for blood?" asked Fenton.

"The second," said Kelly. "We had to call in a donor about a week or so before. The blood was taken off in your lab as I remember."

Fenton had a vague recollection of having seen Munro in the lab with a stranger about seven or eight days before he was murdered. He said so to Kelly.

"It's just that we sent out postcards to three people warning them that they might be called at short notice. Two of them have phoned to ask if that is still the case."

"You can tell them no," said Fenton, trying to think at the same time as talking. "Are you absolutely sure that Neil never mentioned what he wanted the blood for?" he asked.

"Absolutely," said Kelly.

Fenton had an idea. He said, "Do you think you could give me the name of the donor who gave blood the first time? It's just possible that Neil might have said what he was using it for, especially if the donor came here to the lab and he had to make conversation."

"Hang on."

Fenton put down the phone and read back what he had scribbled down on the pad. Miss Sandra Murray, 'Fairview', Braidbank Avenue, Edinburgh.

It was a quarter past seven before Fenton had finished the day's blood lead estimations. As a consequence he had to alter his original plan to go back to the flat before going up to Braidbank Avenue. Instead he would have to shower at the lab, grab something to eat at the pub…no, better not, he did not want to smell of beer. He would eat in the hospital restaurant and go straight from there. He called Jenny to say that he would not be home before she left for the hospital. She assumed that he would be working late at the lab and, while not actually saying that this was the case, Fenton said nothing to disillusion her.

As the shower head cleared its throat and spluttered into life Fenton shivered in its margins until the temperature had settled down. The controller was faulty, making the water either too hot or too cold until adjusted with micrometer accuracy. Fenton made do with tepid rather than play around any more.

He soaped himself and tried to remember what the stranger he had seen in the lab with Neil Munro had looked like, the woman he now knew to be Sandra Murray. About five foot three seemed to be the limit of his recollection. Marvellous, he thought…Fenton of the Yard.

He turned the water off and stepped out to towel himself down, pausing briefly to listen if the rain had stopped outside. There was no sound coming from the dark skylight above the washroom although he could see water running down it. Condensation from the shower, he decided. No rain would be an unaccustomed bonus but the fact that the wind seemed to have dropped as well made it all seem to be too good to be true. It was. He stepped out of the lab into thick fog.

The Honda's headlight beam bounced off the swirling mist creating a translucent corona that slowed him down to a crawl as he edged out on to the main road and wiped his visor more in frustration than of necessity. Bloody weather, he grumbled inwardly for, to Fenton, Edinburgh's weather was part of a vendetta being waged against him personally. His meteorological paranoia now suggested that the fog was a gambit to prevent him finding Braidbank Avenue.

He knew vaguely that Braidbank would be part of a well heeled, comfortable sprawl of leafy avenues that fringed the lower slopes of the Braid Hills in Edinburgh so he headed off in that direction, slowly at first because of the fog, but then gathering speed as the fog thinned with his climb out of the city. He slowed to turn off Comiston Road and began to work his way through the quiet back-roads.

The contrast between the Braids area of Edinburgh and the Glasgow streets where he had found Mrs Lindsay could hardly have been more marked. Braidbank Avenue, when he found it was absolutely silent and exuded an aura of solidity and order. Twin rows of Victorian mansions stood like rocks of the establishment amidst mature and cultivated greenery. They stretched out like troops guarding a royal route for two hundred metres or more up to an intersection where they separated into echelons left and right.

There would be no Scobie or Ally to worry about here, no ineffectual bawling and screaming. This was where life's winners lived; these were the homes of the successful, either by profession or birth, where cheque books and pens substituted for fists and razors, where quiet telephone calls removed troublesome intruders without obliging the caller to do so much as lay down his gin and tonic or lift his eyes from the pages of 'Scottish Field.' It was an open-plan fortress with no walls or gates and its garrison recognised each other by accent and attitude.

'Fairview' boasted a black, wrought iron gate that squealed on its hinges when Fenton pushed it open. He closed it slowly to avoid any further histrionics but the latch still fell with a loud metallic clang when he turned his back. His feet crunched on the gravel making him sure that everyone within a two mile radius must be aware of his presence but there was no sign of stirring from within the house. He pressed the polished brass bell push, an action that had no audible effect, but he waited just in case something had happened deep inside the dark temple. He was about to try again when the area in which he stood was suddenly bathed in light and a series of rattles came from behind the front door.

"Yes?" said the silhouette of a large ungainly man who now filled the doorway.

"I wonder if I might have a few words with Miss Sandra Murray?" said Fenton.

A silence which probed the edge of embarrassment followed before the man said, "Come in."

Fenton had to wait in the hallway while both outer and inner doors were secured with double locks and, in the case of the outer one, a chain. At his host's bidding he followed him into a subtly lit room and accepted an invitation to sit.

Now that he could see him more clearly, Fenton saw that the man was even more ungainly than he had taken him to be. He was very large, well over six feet, with narrow, sloping shoulders that hung above the fat of his middle. His general untidiness was accentuated by the fact that his double breasted jacket had been buttoned on the wrong hole and his squint tie bore distinct signs of egg as did the front of his jacket along with contributions from other past meals. Hair jutted out from his head at odd angles almost nullifying the attempts that had been made to comb it. He peered at Fenton through metal framed glasses, perched on his nose like a see-saw at rest.

"What did you want to see my sister about?" he inquired.

Fenton thought he detected an effeminate nuance in Murray's voice. His suspicion was reinforced by the way Murray held eye contact a little too long.

"I would prefer to speak to Miss Murray personally if that's possible?" replied Fenton.

"You can't." said Murray.

Fenton waited for an explanation but none was forthcoming and he got the impression that Murray was enjoying his discomfort. "Is she indisposed?" he asked. The word had been forced on him by the sheer elegance and quality of the room and its furnishings. No one could be merely 'sick' in such surroundings; they would have to be indisposed.

"No," said Murray. "She's dead."

Fenton was shaken. He had been expecting some trivial explanation like flu or an evening class but dead? Once again he noticed that his host was observing his reaction like an owl. Murray appeared to have deliberately engineered the shock for his own ends. Fenton's discomfort grew. "I'm sorry," he said, wondering whether or not he should inquire further.

In the event the Murray took the initiative. "She was knocked down by a car," he said, "The bastard didn't stop."

"How awful," said Fenton.

"Were you a friend of Sandra's?"

Fenton confessed that he had not known her at all. He responded to Murray's exaggerated frown with the reason for his visit.

"Another one!" exclaimed Murray, fixing Fenton with an unwavering stare.

Murray was making Fenton feel distinctly uncomfortable but the significance of what Murray had just said now superseded everything else. "Another one? I don't understand," he said.

"You are the second person to come here from the Blood Transfusion service." said Murray. "Don't you people ever talk to each other?"

Fenton was annoyed. Why had Steve Kelly not told him that he himself intended visiting Murray? He apologised for the intrusion, explaining that he himself had no direct connection with the Transfusion Service but was a biochemist from the lab where his sister had kindly donated blood to help with a research project.

"Ah yes, with Dr Munro. Sandra told me about it."

Fenton felt a sudden excitement creep over him. "What did she tell you Mr Murray?" he asked.

Murray's fingers scratched at his unruly hair and he screwed up his eyes as he tried to recall what his sister had told him. "Something about a new plastic, I think. Dr Munro wanted to do some tests."

Fenton had to make a conscious effort to control his excitement. He asked, "Did she happen to say what kind of tests Mr Murray?"

Murray replied, “I'm sure she did but it wouldn't have meant much to me. Sandra was the scientist in this family. I'm an artist. Science is a complete mystery to me."

"I understand," said Fenton, swallowing his frustration and trying to keep calm. "But is there nothing you can remember Mr Murray?" he prompted.

Murray lapsed into dramatic silence as if he were in a trance. Fenton, although outwardly remaining calm, felt as if his head were full of broken glass. The seconds ticked by.

Murray eventually looked at Fenton out of the corner of one eye and let out an enormous sigh. "I'm afraid not," he said. "But I do remember he wasn't happy with it…"

Fenton hid his disappointment and said, "No matter. Don't worry about it."

Fenton had fallen at the last hurdle but he could see that he had learned a lot. If nothing else he now knew that he was on the right track. He said, "I mustn't take up any more of your time Mr Murray, particularly as my colleague has already bothered you."

"He didn't bother me," said Murray. "He spoke to my sister."

Fenton was confused. He said, "I thought he had been here today."

"No, this was three weeks ago," said Murray.

Fenton realised that he had been jumping to conclusions. He had assumed that Steve Kelly had called to see Murray after their telephone conversation. Kelly could not have been the caller three weeks ago or he would have said so. Someone else from the Blood Transfusion Service must have visited the house but why? "Was something wrong?" he asked Murray

"I don't think so," said Murray, scratching his head again and looking more puzzled than ever. "As far as I remember the gentleman wanted to know the same sort of things as you…"

Fenton noticed the hint of an accusation in Murray's voice and set up a defensive screen. He said, "I'm afraid things have been in a bit of a muddle since Dr Munro's death." He apologised to Murray again for the intrusion and got up to leave.

"May I offer you a drink before you go?"

Fenton declined politely, saying that he had to drive and if the fog were still around he would need all his wits about him. As the front door opened Fenton saw that the fog was worse than ever.

Fenton opted for a warm bath as being the quickest way of heating up after becoming chilled to the marrow by the painfully slow journey home. He lay back and sipped whisky from a glass that he had placed on the soap shelf. There was a lot to think about before morning. For a start why had Blood Transfusion run a check on a donor? Was this normal practice or had they some particular reason in Sandra Murray's case? And why had Steve Kelly not told him? Surely he must have known? But this question paled into insignificance when he considered what he had learned from Murray about Neil Munro's interest in the plastic.

In finding out that Neil had suspected that there was something wrong with it he had, not only uncovered the reason for Neil's preoccupation in the weeks leading up to his death, he had found a possible motive for his murder. Someone had wanted to stop him probing too deeply into Saxon plastic, someone who must have known that he was beginning to have doubts about it, someone who had been close to Neil at the time and, of course, someone who had something to gain by covering it up.

There was only one candidate. The bloated face of Nigel Saxon swam into the steamy air of the bathroom. That would also confirm his suspicions over the incident with the fume cupboard. Saxon must have feared that he too would eventually discover whatever Neil had found out about the plastic. Saxon must have set him up with the acid-cyanide trap and then made an excuse to leave the room. True he had covered it up well when he had come back but that just served to show the devious cunning of the man.

"The bastard," whispered Fenton as more began to make sense. Saxon and Neil had been working closely over the new Blood Sampler. If Neil had said anything to anyone about his fears it would probably have been to Saxon. Perhaps they had agreed to keep it between themselves if Neil had not been sure what the problem was. But when Neil had become certain Saxon had killed him to keep it quiet. Millions, the newspaper had said, Saxon Medical was worth millions with a license for the plastic.

Fenton's grip on his glass tightened as he came to terms with reality. He could not prove it. He still did not know what was wrong with the plastic and, when viewed coldly, the only additional evidence he had obtained lay in the word of an eccentric up in Braidbank who had told him that a dead man had told his sister, also dead, that he thought there was something wrong with the plastic too. Jamieson would just love that.

Perhaps he could get some kind of corroboration from the Blood Transfusion Service, thought Fenton. If he could speak to the person who had visited Sandra Murray he could get a first hand account of what Sandra Murray had told him and that might be good enough to convince Jamieson.

The bathroom had grown too full of maybes. The water had grown cold and his glass empty. Fenton dried himself and rectified the problem with the glass. The flat still seemed cold.

Jenny got home just before eight in the morning and stifled a big yawn with the back of her hand, keys still held in it. "Now I know what a whore feels like in the morning," she sighed. "What a night."

Fenton listened patiently while Jenny told him all that had happened in a busy shift. When she had finished he said, "I went out somewhere last night."

"Really? Where?"

Fenton put down a cup of coffee in front of her and told her of his visit to Murray and what he had learned. Jenny looked shocked. Fenton had to prompt her, "Don't you see?” Neil thought there was something wrong with Saxon plastic too!"

"But what?" asked Jenny.

Fenton admitted that he still did not know but pointed out that just to have his suspicions confirmed by what Neil had believed was a step forward. "And it provides a motive for his murder," he added. "This is what connects Neil's death to the others."

"Saxon!" said Jenny.

"Saxon," agreed Fenton. "He was working closely with Neil and he had everything to gain from the plastic getting a license. It had to be him." said Fenton.

Jenny could find no real argument. "If you are right this is absolutely incredible," she said. "But…you could still be wrong."

"I know, I know." said Fenton getting up to refill their coffee cups.

"Why did Neil use this Sandra Murray woman as a donor?" asked Jenny.

"I don't know" confessed Fenton.

"You people usually use each other when you want volunteers don't you?" said Jenny.

"I suppose he wanted a different blood group," said Fenton almost automatically then both he and Jenny saw the importance of what he had said at the same time. "Could that be it?" he said softly. "Different blood groups? People in one group are susceptible while others are not?"

Jenny broke the spell of the moment by beginning to rummage through the black leather bag that rested on her knees. She pulled out a cardboard folder and handed it to Fenton saying, "These are the details you asked me to get on the child victims. I only managed to get the one; this is the ward file on the Watson boy."

Fenton flicked open the cover and traced his finger down the page till he found what he was looking for…'AB', the boy had been group, AB, a pretty rare group. Now if Sandra Murray had been in the same blood group…he was in business.

Fenton nearly bowled Ian Ferguson over as he entered the lab and rushed up the stairs, assisting his rate of climb by strong pulls on the banister. The young biochemist half turned to receive an apology but was disappointed when Fenton pressed on regardless and shut his lab door behind him.

With his white coat only half on Fenton dialled the Blood Transfusion Service and asked to speak to Steve Kelly. Kelly answered as he was holding the receiver between shoulder and cheek in order to get his left arm into his coat.

"Good morning. How did you get on?"

"Just tell me one thing. What group was Sandra Murray?"

"Is that my starter for ten?"

"It's important."

"All right, hang on."

Fenton drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited impatiently for Kelly to return.

"She was B positive."

Fenton swore.

"Are you always this sweet in the morning?" asked Kelly.

Fenton apologised for his rudeness explaining that a pet theory had just died.

"Want to tell me?"

"Some other time. You didn't tell me that someone from BTS had interviewed Sandra Murray?"

"What are you talking about?"

Fenton repeated what Murray had told him.

"No way," said Kelly.

"I don't understand," said Fenton.

"He must have been mistaken," said Kelly. "No one from this department would have gone there because we have no interest in what the blood is used for. As far as we are concerned we received a request from Biochemistry for fresh group B blood. We did the paperwork and complied with the request. That was the end of the matter.

Fenton's spirits hit the floor. He started to say something but dejection destroyed any motivation to go on. He managed to summon up enough energy to thank Kelly for his help then put the phone down.

It had started to rain again outside. Fenton idly tapped his pencil end over end as he gazed idly at the drops on the window and faced up to the latest question. If no one from Blood Transfusion had gone to see Sandra Murray, who had? After a moment's thought Fenton found the answer obvious. Neil Munro's killer, that's who. The killer must have gone there to find out how much Sandra Murray knew and when it had turned out to be too much he…had arranged for her death as well…the hit and run accident was no accident at all.

Fenton, almost afraid to face up to this latest possibility, played with the information in his head. It was a piece in a puzzle; he turned it round and round and tried to make it fit. A mistake! The killer had made a mistake he decided. From the way Murray had spoken he might have seen the man who had visited his sister pretending to be from Blood Transfusion and, if that were so, Murray could identify the killer. What was more, if Murray described Nigel Saxon, then he would have enough to go to the police with. They could nail Saxon without actually knowing what was wrong with the plastic.

Jenny telephoned at eleven saying that she couldn’t sleep; she had to know about the blood group idea.

"Wrong again, confessed Fenton.”Sandra Murray was group B not AB."

Jenny made disappointed sounds. "It might still be worth checking further," she said.

"Maybe," said Fenton without any real conviction, "But there's something else."

"Oh yes?"

"I think that Sandra Murray was murdered. I think that Neil told her something was wrong with Saxon plastic and the killer found out. Her death wasn't accidental at all. She was murdered just like Neil."

There was a short silence before Jenny said quietly, "Tonight Tom, tell me tonight," then she put the phone down.

Fenton was irked at Jenny's failure to share his excitement but tried to rationalise it. She had been working all night and hadn’t had any sleep but… she had a point. He was not short of ideas. The trouble was that none of them seemed to be proving right in the long term.

Ian Ferguson came into the room while Fenton was still deep in thought. Thanks to that and the fact that the rain was hammering on the window Fenton did not hear him come in and was startled when he spoke. Ferguson apologised and said, "Is everything all right? The way you rushed past me on the stairs I thought maybe something dreadful had happened?"

"Just the death of another theory," said Fenton glumly.

"Want to tell me?" smiled Ferguson.

"There's not much to tell. I thought I had discovered a fatal flaw in Saxon plastic, something to do with patients' blood groups but apparently I was wrong."

"What made you suspect that?" asked Ferguson.

"A number of things. Neil Munro thought there was something wrong with the stuff too."

"But this is serious. Have you spoken to Dr Tyson about it?"

"He assured me there was nothing wrong with the plastic."

"How about Saxon themselves?"

"I have no evidence to back up my suspicions. I can't say anything."

"I see," said Ferguson. "But surely there is something you could do if you think there's a problem?"

"I have to find out what's wrong with the stuff before I can do anything."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Fenton thanked Ferguson and said that he would let him know if he thought of something. He requested that Ferguson say nothing to anyone else for the time being.

"Mum's the word," replied Ferguson.

When Ian Ferguson had gone Fenton considered his own reluctance to confide in anyone. The truth was that he did need help for he was getting hopelessly out of his depth. The question was who should he talk to? Whom could he trust? He had been tempted to tell Ian Ferguson everything but the fact that Ferguson had considered resigning from the lab when the going had got tough had prevented him from doing so. He needed an ally without a question-mark over his character. The matter was to resolve itself at lunch time when Steve Kelly came into the lab and planked himself down heavily. "Do you fancy a beer?" he asked.

Fenton sipped his beer, aware that Kelly was appraising him but unable to relax and talk freely.

"You're a man with a problem," said Kelly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are so up tight about something that you are going to explode if you go on bottling it up. I thought you might want to talk about it?"

"I don't know what you m…"

"All right, forget I spoke," said Kelly turning to concentrate on his beer.

Fenton considered his own obstinacy in the silence that ensued. Steve Kelly was as good as they came, solid, blunt, unpretentious. He had a bit of a weakness for the women but, in hard times he could do a lot worse than have Kelly on his side. "All right," he confessed. "There is something."

They sat down to talk in one of the alcoves; the pub was still quiet before the lunch time rush. Fenton told Kelly the whole story as the first sunlight for many weeks, albeit weak and watery, rainbowed through the frosted glass and played among the dimples of the beaten copper table tops.

"And there you have it," said Fenton, finishing and taking a sip of his beer while Kelly digested what he had heard.

"That is some story," said Kelly, shaking his head, "I didn't bargain on anything like this. To be frank I had thought that you and Jenny might not be hitting it off or some such thing, but this…Jesus."

"Now you know."

"When are you going back to see Murray?"

"Tonight," said Fenton.

"Want some company?"

Fenton accepted.