Tangled Web

Fifteen

It occurred to Gordon in the morning that he should really take a look at the Palmer house if Lucy was seriously thinking about returning and she certainly seemed to be. He thought he’d drive up there on his way to Caernarfon, ostensibly to check that it was wind and watertight, but what was really on his mind were fears about the back garden. He wondered if the police, or whoever was responsible for that sort of thing, had restored it after the nightmare excavations.

The thought that Lucy might find an open grave on her return was just too awful to contemplate. In fact, the more he thought about what had taken place there, the more he felt it was a bad idea that she should come back at all but of course, he had to recognise that it just might be that that she had no real alternative. From the outset, he’d had the distinct impression that Gina’s husband hadn’t been too keen on her being there at all. He suspected that he’d only agreed to it after pressure from his wife. Maybe that factor was beginning to make itself felt and Lucy had sensed that it was time to move out.

Lucy, or rather her sister speaking for her, had ruled out any notion of her going to stay with relatives up north, where she would be too far away from John, so what did that leave? It wasn’t as if she and John could go away somewhere together to get over the death of Anne-Marie and start a new life. In her current circumstances, she was painfully alone. Possibly she felt that she needed the comfort of familiar things around her and although the garden of the house had been the grave of her daughter, the house itself had been the focus of her life with John for the past six years.

All such considerations ceased as Gordon rounded the corner into the street where the Palmers lived and saw what spray-paint vandals had done to the house. His heart sank as he read the messages, ranging from, Murdering bastards to a biblical text, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ The paint had run in several areas giving the unintentional impression of dripping blood and there was a change of colour from red to blue between little and children where the ‘artist’ had run out of paint and changed cans.

Gordon swore under his breath as he got out of the car and walked slowly up the path, appraising the extent of the damage and taking what comfort he could from the fact that the windows were still intact. As he made his way round to the back of the house, watching his footing on the cracked paving slabs, he wondered if the vandals had been encouraged by the fact that the house was empty. Would they have risked doing this if Lucy had been living there, he wondered? It was Lucy’s safety he was worried about but it was difficult for him to gauge the depth of feeling among the locals in Feli at the moment as he himself was no longer privy to their confidences. If not exactly subjected to downright hostility, he was regarded with something less than open affection. The state of the Palmers’ walls made the feeling mutual.

He was relieved to find that the back garden had been levelled after the digger had done its job. Capability Brown had clearly not carried out the restoration but at least the garden was tidy and daffodils were encroaching on the edge of the excavation site to herald the coming of another spring. He would however, have to do something about the mess on the front walls; he couldn’t let Lucy come home to that.

If his recent experience with the local electrician was anything to go by, he didn’t imagine that he would have much luck in finding local help so he decided to cut the Gordian knot immediately and do it himself. He drove back down into Feli and arrived just as Lillian Evans was opening up her hardware store. He bought brushes and solvent without saying why to Lillian, a particularly gossipy woman who had seen two husbands into an early grave and reaped a substantial insurance harvest on both occasions.

He was however, obliged to confirm what they were not for as she mounted an interrogation under the guise of friendly conversation. She tried in succession, ‘A bit of work at the surgery then, Doctor?’ followed by, ‘Giving the flat a bit of a face lift then?’ As she handed him his change she looked pointedly at him, as if deserving of an explanation. ‘Not exactly, Mrs Evans,’ was all Gordon said.

In all, it took him two and a half hours and a great deal of sweat, blood and almost tears when he persistently caught his knuckles on the rendering, to remove the worst of the graffiti from the walls. He finished up by giving them a good hose down. Finding the hose reel on the wall of the garage and still connected to the mains supply had been a major bonus. When he’d finished, he walked down to the front gate and turned to have a look at his handiwork. He stood with one foot on the garden wall and reflected that not one neighbour had come out to pass the time of day with him or even offer a cup of tea. Resentment or shame, he wondered? It hadn’t occurred to him before but he supposed it possible that some of them might even have been involved? He had the feeling that he knew a lot less about human nature than he had previously imagined.

As he was preparing to leave he started to worry that the perpetrators might conceivably do exactly the same again tonight: it was a depressing thought. In an effort to stop it happening, he thought he’d call the local police at Caernarfon on his mobile phone and request that they keep an eye on the house for the next couple of days.

‘Which house is that, sir?’ asked the duty officer.

‘The Palmer house in Menai View, number seven.’

There was a pause before the policeman said slowly, ‘Oh yes, I know it. Actually, we’re a bit stretched at the moment.’

Doing what? Gordon wondered. North Wales wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. Maybe there had been an outbreak of lost dogs or cats up trees or a determined raid by a five-year-old on the sweetie counter at the local newsagent’s. He did however, recognise that getting into a slanging match with the police wasn’t going to help matters. ‘Do what you can,’ he said and stuck the phone back in his pocket.

He drove back to his flat to look at the IVF clinic handout he’d picked up yesterday. The core staff of the unit, excepting Carwyn Thomas as its clinical director, comprised four medical staff, two clinical scientists, four lab technicians and a nursing staff of eight. Various other consultant staff at the hospital were affiliated to the unit through either part-time or honorary consultancy posts. These positions were exclusively the province of either surgeons or obstetricians.

He brought out the file that Trool had supplied to members of the investigating committee and looked down the list of names extracted from the Pathology Department’s records as those who had visited the department on the day that Megan’s body had disappeared. Two people appeared on both: one was Michael Deans, a senior technician in the IVF unit and the other was Professor Carwyn Thomas himself. Gordon tapped the thumbnail of his right hand slowly against his teeth as he digested this piece of information: Only Thomas and one of his technicians... what price his theory now?

He quickly decided that no idea, even the most ridiculous at first sight, should be dismissed out of hand. Everything had to be considered and appraised coldly on the facts. The idea of a man like Carwyn Thomas stealing bodies from the pathology department in his own hospital might seem patently ludicrous, but then the idea of anyone stealing babies’ bodies was going to appear ludicrous until a reason for it could be established, he reminded himself.

Thinking about the type of research that Thomas was engaged in, reminded Gordon that he had been meaning to find out if the Griffiths baby had been a product of the IVF unit. He was wondering just how he might go about doing this when he remembered that Julie had mentioned at one point that the cot death baby had been on ‘Jenkins’s list’ up in Caernarfon. He didn’t know the Caernarfon GP that well, but they had met on occasion at seminars and area meetings. He looked up the telephone number and dialled it.

‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’ asked Jenkins when Gordon had said who he was.

Gordon was pleased to hear that he sounded a friendly sort of man. ‘I’m part of the investigation team looking into what happened to Megan Griffiths’ body at Caernarfon General,’ he explained. ‘I understand Megan was your patient?’

‘She was indeed, poor mite.’

‘This is going to sound an odd question, Doctor, but was Megan conceived with the help of IVF by any chance?’

‘No she certainly was not,’ replied Jenkins, with a chuckle. ‘I distinctly remember Gwen Griffiths telling me at the time that Megan had been conceived on a package tour to Majorca. Sangria may have been involved but definitely not IVF. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m just trying to gather together as many facts as I can,’ replied Gordon vaguely. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Are you any nearer finding out what happened to the child’s body?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’

Gordon put down the phone; he was disappointed but none too surprised that his notion that Megan and Anne-Marie might both be IVF babies was wrong. He still had nothing to connect them and no indicator as to what kind of research might be involved either — if any. He had to concede that his idea was beginning to look decidedly frail but he would however, ask both Carwyn Thomas and the technician, Michael Deans, about their logged visits to the pathology department on the day Megan disappeared.

On his way up to Caernarfon, Gordon circled round by the Palmer house again to have a look at his morning’s handiwork with the eyes of someone just driving into the street. He congratulated himself on the job he’d done and hoped the house would stay that way until Lucy got back.

One of the neighbours looked out to see who was sitting there. Gordon recognised him as a retired accountant — he couldn’t recall the name, but he did remember that the man had come to see him at the surgery a few months ago about an allergy. Their eyes met but no sign of recognition appeared on the man’s part, just stony indifference. ‘Have a nice day,’ murmured Gordon.

Several top microscope manufacturers had laid on a trade exhibition in the foyer outside the main lecture hall. It was here that Gordon found Ran Dawes and Carwyn Thomas discussing the finer points of micromanipulation with the man from Leitz. Gordon listened in at a discreet distance and was impressed with Thomas’s contribution to the discussion. He seemed to know a great deal about the advantages and disadvantages of the various systems on the market. He remarked on this to Ran Dawes when Thomas had moved on.

Dawes smiled and said, ‘Carwyn likes to keep his hand in; he still has his own lab attached to his office. Technically he’s still one of the best there is.’

‘Really,’ said Gordon politely. He was wondering why Thomas hadn’t mentioned this when he’d shown him around his unit.

‘Come on, have a try,’ said Dawes, leading Gordon by the arm to where a microscope was set up with micromanipulators in place. This was part of the Zeiss company’s interactive equipment display.

‘Try threading the needle,’ said Dawes.

Gordon looked down the eyepieces and saw what had to be done. A tiny needle with a bore smaller than the diameter of a human hair had to be moved with the right hand controls through a small loop whose movement was controlled by those on the left. A video screen above the microscope relayed progress of the attempt to those standing watching. Gordon’s first touch sent the needle whizzing across the screen and he had to hunt around to find it again but he quickly became accustomed to the sensitivity of the controls and managed at his fourth attempt to put the needle cleanly through the loop. Dawes applauded, as did three other bystanders who were keen to have a go themselves.

The good-humoured commotion and sporadic applause attracted more people until there were about twenty people in all watching the proceedings. Someone said loudly, ‘Come on Ran, let’s see what a real professional can do.’

Dawes was cheered as he sat down on the stool and played to the crowd by flexing his fingers like a concert pianist before lightly gripping the delicate stage controls. The needle went smoothly across the screen and through the loop without faltering. Gordon joined in the applause but his smile faded when he caught sight of Carwyn Thomas standing there in the second row of the crowd. Thomas was not applauding; in fact he looked a long way from being impressed by what he was seeing. His eyes were hard above a stone-like expression.

Gordon wondered if Thomas could be jealous of the younger man? Envious of his prowess and his being the current centre of attention? Surely he couldn’t be that petty, but when all was said and done, Thomas was a showman himself — a man who like many top researchers, enjoyed the limelight. The approval and applause of their peers became like a drug to them, often causing them to pressurise their research groups into ever-greater efforts so that their leader might continually have something new to announce to the world as ‘his’ research.

Gordon kept watching Thomas out of the corner of his eye as Dawes did an encore, again threading the needle in one smooth movement. This time, aware of the scrutiny of others, Thomas did applaud, but his eyes remained hard.

People started making their way to the lecture hall for the start of the afternoon session. As they did so, they passed by a series of trade posters, showing good-looking people in white coats, wreathed in smiles as they used the advertisers’ equipment to great effect in their quest for knowledge and success.

Gordon sat at the back of the hall in deference to the fact that he deemed himself an observer rather than a participant and was surprised to find himself sitting next to Ran Dawes.

‘I don’t think I’m going to stay for all of this,’ confided Dawes. ‘I’ve heard this talk given at just about every meeting in the last five years.’

Gordon checked his programme and read that the first talk was to be given by, Dr Shirley Spencer-Freeman, an American from Colorado: it was to be about her ongoing comparison of IVF children with a peer group of conventionally conceived children.

‘The bottom line is that there is no difference,’ whispered Dawes, ‘but she can’t see it. She prefers to concentrate on supposed discrepancies in IQ and academic achievement when all she’s looking at are statistical blips, well within the normal range of experimental error.’

‘Hasn’t anyone pointed this out to her?’ asked Gordon.

‘Many people on many occasions,’ smiled Dawes, ‘But there’s no thicker skin than that of a scientist with a bee in his or her bonnet.’

After fifteen minutes, Gordon began to appreciate what Dawes had said. The woman’s talk was an exercise in what statistics could do with nothing of substance.

‘Fancy some coffee?’ whispered Dawes.

Gordon nodded and the pair of them slipped out at an appropriate moment when Spencer-Freeman turned her back to look up at the screen and highlight some value with her pointer.

‘They can’t all be gems,’ said Dawes with a smile as they started off along the corridor to the hospital coffee shop.

‘I suppose scientific presentation is a sort of an art form in its own way,’ said Gordon.

‘But it helps if you have something to say in the first place,’ said Dawes. ‘Sometimes I think there’s an awfully strong correlation between having nothing to say and wanting to say it at great length. I think the bottom line is that some people just like to hear the sound of their own voice.’

‘It’s much the same in all walks of life,’ said Gordon as they entered the coffee shop where Dawes opted for cappuccino and Gordon an espresso.

‘Carwyn told me you’d been to visit John Palmer in prison,’ said Dawes.

‘At the weekend,’ agreed Gordon.

‘How’s he bearing up?’

‘Not that well,’ replied Gordon. ‘He looked dreadful, like he hadn’t slept for a month and he’s lost a lot of weight. Worst of all, he’s still determined to plead guilty to something he didn’t do.’

‘You’ll have to forgive me if I still harbour some doubts about that,’ said Dawes. ‘Stress can push people into doing some pretty awful things.’

‘We’ll agree to differ,’ said Gordon.

Dawes nodded thoughtfully and sipped his coffee. He changed the subject. ‘I understand that you’re one of the people investigating the Megan Griffiths business?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you figured out what happened yet?’

‘We know it wasn’t an accidental switch, if that’s what you mean,’ said Gordon. ‘Someone knew exactly what they were putting in the coffin in place of her body.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Dawes.

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘But why would anyone do a thing like that?’

‘That’s something we’ll know if and when we find out what happened to Megan’s body,’ said Gordon.

‘I understood it had gone to the incinerator by mistake?’ said Dawes.

‘That’s still a possibility,’ said Gordon, finishing off his coffee.

Dawes made a face. ‘Only a possibility?’ he said. ‘You mean there’s some doubt about it?’

‘Until we know for sure that’s what happened, there has to be,’ said Gordon.

‘You’re making it all sound very sinister. I thought body snatching went out at the turn of the century with Burke and Hare, damned if I can remember why they did it though.’

‘They stole bodies to supply the needs of the medical profession,’ said Gordon with a wry smile. ‘The medical school needed them for their anatomy work.’

‘Of course,’ exclaimed Dawes. ‘I remember now. Still, digging up the odd body wasn’t such a bad thing in the great scheme of things. They came from your neck of the woods, didn’t they? Edinburgh wasn’t it?’

Gordon nodded. ‘The trouble was, demand started to exceed supply so they started a second production line, based on murder.’

‘Well thankfully it was all a very long time ago,’ said Dawes.

‘There were a couple of convictions last year for the theft of the bodies of stillborn children,’ said Gordon. ‘They were used to supply a pharmaceutical company’s need for foetal tissue,’ said Gordon.

‘So it still goes on,’ said Dawes thoughtfully. ‘But surely you’re not suggesting that Megan’s body was used for something like that?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ countered Gordon. ‘I’m just trying to cover all possibilities. How well do you know Carwyn Thomas?’

Dawes seemed surprised at the sudden swerve of the question. He made a vague hand gesture. ‘Pretty well I suppose, I mean we’re not bosom buddies but we get on. I suppose I’m a bit in awe of him really; he’s achieved so much in his career.’

‘Thinking about what you said earlier, about him keeping his hand in, do you think he still sees himself as a front line researcher?’

Dawes thought for a moment before saying, ‘I suppose he does. Research isn’t something you ever really retire from, if you know what I mean. If you happen to get an idea then I suppose, whatever age you are, you’d want to follow it through to its conclusion.’

‘To get the glory,’ said Gordon.

‘We’re all human.’