Trauma

Eleven

Around two in the morning the wind, which had been strengthening steadily for the past three hours, achieved true gale force status and drove rain horizontally into the windows of Lafferty’s bedroom with unrelenting zeal. He had been lying awake for some time so he couldn’t accuse the weather of having woken him but the sound of a storm at that hour did nothing to ease his troubled mind. He was about to get up and make tea when the phone started ringing. It startled him and he stared at it for a few moments as if it were an unwelcome intruder. There was always something unnerving about a phone call in the wee small hours. It couldn’t be a social call; it had to be bad news. The best he could hope for was a wrong number. He picked up the receiver, hoping he wouldn’t have to dress and go out into the rain.

“Have you heard? They’re all dead.”

The voice was male and sounded slurred as if its owner had been drinking. There was still a chance it was a wrong number.

“Who is this?” he asked.

There was a pause. “It’s me, John Main.”

Lafferty felt embarrassed at not having recognised him. “I’m sorry, John,” he said. “This line’s very bad. Who’s dead?”

“All of them, all four.”

It suddenly dawned on Lafferty who Main as talking about, and his throat tightened. He felt as if a steel band was slowly being applied around his chest. “The men from the cemetery?” he croaked.

“Dead,” repeated Main as if he could not believe it himself.

“How?”

“A fire. The police think the petrol tank in their car exploded. They all died.”

“I see.”

“Well I bloody don’t!” growled Main. “How could it happen? Sometimes I just don’t believe my bloody luck!”

“Maybe luck had nothing to do with it,” said Lafferty thinking out loud and then regretting it. Main was obviously very drunk and he didn’t want to discuss anything with him in this state.

“I don’t understand; what you mean?” slurred Main.

“Nothing,” said Lafferty flatly. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

He put the phone down to avoid any further discussion, hoping it would not ring again in a few moments. It didn’t. Lafferty was left with only the sound of the wind and the rain as it continued its unrelenting assault on the panes. Just what the hell was going on, he wondered. A knot of unease settled into his stomach. If Sarah Lasseter was right, John McKirrop had been murdered because of something he’d seen in the cemetery that night. She was also convinced that the killer had access to HTU. Now four other men who had been there were also dead. An accident? He found that hard to believe. But, if it was so important to someone to conceal what had happened in the cemetery that night, why had it taken them so long?

Lafferty shivered as he came up with a possible reason. The killer or killers had been biding their time; they had coolly been waiting until the murder of all four could be achieved at the same time and even conceivably be made to look like an accident! Lafferty found the audacity of this quite breath-taking, but it also suggested something else. If the killers had been prepared to wait, they must have felt safe in the interim. They must have been confident the men would not say anything of their own volition. But they must have been watching them all the same. And then, when Main found them and reported the matter to the police, they acted...

It all made some kind of hellish sense to Lafferty. The only thing he couldn’t see at the moment was any kind of connection between the four dead men and HTU.

A particularly vicious gust of wind hit the bedroom windows and rattled them in their frames. Lafferty shivered and went through to the kitchen to switch on the kettle.

John Main woke up with a splitting headache to add to the feeling of depression he had gone to bed with. He remembered calling up Lafferty but not too much of what had been said. Had he arranged to meet him, he wondered. He had a vague recollection of something having been said about talking later. Maybe the best thing would be to call him when he felt a little better.

The first step towards rehabilitation would be coffee, he decided but almost changed his mind when he sat up to get out of bed. His headache soared to new heights, paralysing him into immobility for a moment. Should he attempt to get up or just sink back down on the bed again?

Against his better judgement, Main continued with his slow rehabilitation and made it to the bathroom before having to rest for a moment with his hands on the sides of the wash-basin. He looked at himself in the mirror and then closed his eyes. What a mess, he concluded. What would Mary have said about him looking like this? It wasn’t hard to guess. He could almost hear her voice in his ear telling him to pull himself together. He sluiced cold water up into his face. It reminded him of the incident with the men in the pub. He still found it hard to believe they were all dead. Fate was seldom kind, but to be this cruel was just too much to bear.

Thinking about the fickleness of fate triggered off a hint of a memory of something Lafferty had said on the phone last night. Something about it not being fate? He vaguely recalled the priest hanging up afterwards. He couldn’t blame the man. The thought of having phoned him while being stoned out of his skull made Main cringe inwardly as he filled the basin with hot water to shave.

Even his skin felt sore as he pulled the razor around the contours of his face. If the men’s deaths hadn’t been down to fate or bad luck what was Lafferty suggesting? That it had not been an accident? That they had been murdered? Main paused with the razor an inch from his face. He found the idea both alarming and exciting. The theory was much more attractive than bad luck or a quirk of fate. Main finished shaving and turned on the shower. His head still hurt but the air of hopelessness had left him. If the four had been murdered it wasn’t the end of the affair at all. It was scarcely the beginning. It meant of course, that there were other people involved in the removal of his son’s body. The thing he had to work out now was how to get at them.

Main stepped into the shower and let the water cascade on to his upturned face while he thought it through. There was no obvious way he could reach these anonymous people but that had been the case with the four who had just died. He adjusted the shower regulator to make the water a bit hotter. Maybe he could start with a little publicity. That should unsettle them at least.

They, whoever they were, must be feeling pretty secure now that everyone who had been known to be in the cemetery that night was dead. Perhaps he might start people thinking and asking questions by letting the newspapers know that the four men who died in the car fire were the same four who dug up his son. The police already knew of course, but having the glare of publicity upon them wouldn’t do his case any harm at all. The suggestion of murder might get some positive action out of them.

Main towelled himself down lightly so as not to exacerbate the headache. It was only when he bent over to dry his toes that the pain soared again. He steadied himself on the side of the bath for a moment before returning to the bedroom to get dressed.

Lafferty was in the side chapel when he heard the phone ringing across in the house. The little chapel was his favourite place at St Xavier’s. It wasn’t really a chapel at all in the strict sense of the word, in that it wasn’t separate from the church — just a small alcove off the left hand aisle — but it was somewhere he felt comfortable. It had a small altar covered with a fading purple cloth edged in gold, six chairs with wooden backs and raffia seating and, above them, a single stained-glass window depicting scenes from the Crimea.

The chapel had been added to the church at the behest and expense of a wealthy local family at a time when wealthy families in the community held much more sway in church affairs than they did now. The family had all but died out in the area and only one elderly lady in the congregation, Miss Catherine Bell, represented the original benefactors for whom it had been named. The Bell Chapel had not, as was often supposed, something to do with the church bells.

The chapel had never proved popular with the congregation either as a place for silent worship or simply for contemplation but Lafferty used it a lot for both. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he felt closer to God here. It afforded him perfect solitude. It wasn’t hard to see why the others didn’t like it. It faced north so it was cold and dark; sunlight never backlit its window. Even if it had, the Crimean scene on the glass was one of despair rather than hope, depicting wounded soldiers with bandaged headsleaning heavily on crutches fashioned from tree branches as they were led in single file from the battle field by a nurse with a large red cross on her apron.

Lafferty hurried the short distance to the house to answer the phone, suspecting that it would be John Main. It was.

“I’m ringing to apologise,” said Main.

“No need,” said Lafferty.

“I just felt so awful last night, I climbed into the bottle.”

“Really, no explanations are necessary,” said Lafferty.

“Thanks. Something you said last night started me thinking,” said Main, abruptly changing the subject.

“What was that?”

“Something about luck or fate having nothing to do with the deaths. What did you mean by that?”

Lafferty paused for a moment, wondering just how far he should go in voicing his suspicions. “I’m not sure myself,” he said.

Main seemed to understand his difficulty, “I know it’s hard to suggest anything without proof, but the coincidence factor in this case is just too high to accept without question.”

“I agree,” said Lafferty, relieved that Main had taken the initiative.

“The question is what do we do about it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve decided to give matters a little nudge,” said Main.

“By doing what?”

“By telling the papers about the connection. What do you think?”

“Good idea,” said Lafferty after a moment’s thought. “That should get other people asking questions, not just us.”

“That’s the idea.”

“You’ll have to be careful,” said Lafferty, a bit hesitantly.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that... if the four deaths weren’t accidental we are dealing with some pretty nasty and powerful people. You might be putting yourself in the firing line, so to speak.”

“I’ve thought of that,” agreed Main. “I’ll watch my back.”

Lafferty returned to the Bell Chapel and tried to put thoughts of Main out of his mind. He had to think about Mary O’Donnell’s funeral, the reason he had gone there in the first place. He desperately wanted to get things right on the day. Unlike so many funerals these days, where he neither knew the deceased or the family and had to improvise on what few sketchy details he could glean in the few days leading up to the funeral, he did know the O’Donnells and knew what they were going through. In particular, Jean was having a crisis in the faith that had meant so much to her over the years and Joe was agonising over the strained relationship he’d had with his daughter before she died. He had a duty to these people. He had to present Mary’s death to them in a way that would allow them to recover from it without lasting doubt and bitterness, not only thanking the Lord for Mary O’Donnell’s life but to explaining satisfactorily why she had died. He had to convince the O’Donnells that the Lord had had a purpose in... sending Mary over the handlebars to smash her skull on a tree. Lafferty leaned forward in his seat to cradle his head in his hands. Above him, cold light came in from the Crimean window. How could he convince them, he asked himself, when he didn’t believe it himself?

The moment of crisis passed. It was time to keep busy, he decided. There was lots to do and throwing himself into his work would stop him agonising, albeit temporarily. It was taking the easy way out but what was the point in actively pursuing mental agony when it seemed to find him all too readily as it was?

Sarah smoothed the front of her dress and touched her hair lightly as she examined herself in the mirror. It had been ages since she had dressed up properly to go out and it felt good. The irony was that she wasn’t actually going anywhere, but the reception for the Tyndall brothers was a good enough excuse. Paddy Duncan was going to escort her and she was looking forward to the occasion. She felt like a human being again instead of what she had been for the past few months, an automaton waiting for the next call out.

Derek Logan had told Tyndall that he would remain on duty in HTU in order to let ‘other staff’ attend the party. Sarah felt sure that he had only been collecting brownie points with a display of selfless dedication for Tyndall’s benefit — she even suspected that he must have weighed up the pros and cons of going or not going to the party and had decided that the opportunities for furthering his career would not outweigh the opportunity of impressing Murdoch Tyndall. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was going and she felt like a woman again. She applied a thin film of pale lipstick to her lips and snapped the cap back on before making a final appraisal in the mirror.

“You’ll do,” she muttered as a knock came to her door. It was Paddy Duncan.

“Stunning!” exclaimed Paddy.

“Thank you kind sir,” replied Sarah before collecting her bag and opening it to make sure she had her key.

“All ready?”

“Ready,” smiled Sarah.

“I feel we should be going out to a swish restaurant with you looking like this,” said Paddy. “Instead it’s going to be Bulgarian red and hospital chit chat.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting the great man,” said Sarah. “It’s not often you meet someone who has genuinely made a real advance in medicine — a major breakthrough.”

“Steady on, advances are being made all the time,” said Paddy.

“But not real advances,” countered Sarah. “You get the ‘i’ dotters and the ‘t’ crossers who leak their ‘breakthrough’ to the press and then declare coyly that everything’s at ‘a very early stage’, as soon as they’ve got the publicity they set out to achieve. That’s usually the last you ever hear of it. But this is different. This is real! Herpes infections are an enormous problem.”

“I suppose you’re right,” agreed Paddy, amused at Sarah’s obvious enthusiasm. “I just hope you’re not reading too much into it all.”

Sarah was aware of heads turning when she and Paddy entered the reception room above the hospital’s main offices and it pleased her. She did her best to appear nonchalant and responded to Paddy’s offer of a drink with, “I think it’s coming to us.”

“How posh,” whispered Paddy as he saw the waitress approach with a silver tray laden with glasses. “But I bet it’s still Bulgarian.”

Sarah took in her surroundings while she sipped her drink and responded at appropriate intervals to Paddy’s observations. She couldn’t see Murdoch Tyndall and said so to Paddy.

“Over there in the corner,” said Paddy, “He’s half hidden by Hugh Carfax.”

Sarah found the pathologist easily enough by virtue of his red hair and did her best to look round him. She managed to glimpse the silver hair of Murdoch Tyndall and saw that he was standing beside a much shorter man. “Is that his brother beside him?” she asked Paddy.

Paddy craned one way and then the other before saying, “Could be, I’ve never met him myself.”

“Doesn’t look much like Murdoch,” said Sarah. She saw that Murdoch was scintillating as he usually did in company. He flashed a smile at regular intervals like a lighthouse and she could see the others in the group move their shoulders as they laughed at what he was saying. The shorter man however seemed strangely detached. He wasn’t smiling and didn’t appear to be interested in what was being said. No stomach for small talk, she concluded.

“Shall we try to get closer?” suggested Paddy.

Sarah nodded enthusiastically.

There was food on a table near Murdoch Tyndall’s group and they used this as an excuse for moving in that direction. Paddy picked up a plastic plate from the pile at the far end of the table and moved slowly along its length, collecting a formidable mountain of food. Sarah accompanied him but took very little for herself. There would be time to eat later. Some people moved away leaving a gap behind Tyndall’s group. Sarah steered Paddy towards it, ignoring his protest that he hadn’t finished heaping his plate.

“You can get more later!” scolded Sarah, “I want to meet the great man.”

“You’re a medical groupie!” hissed Paddy.

“I only want to talk to him,” replied Sarah with a smile. “Find out what makes him tick, see what sets him apart from the rest of us.”

“Luck,” said Paddy. “Being in the right place at the right time.”

Sarah shook her head and said, “No, I think there’s more to it than that.”

“The stamp of greatness?” smiled Paddy. “Don’t believe in it.”

“Cynic!” retorted Sarah.

“Realist,” said Paddy. He saw that Sarah’s smile was being directed over his left shoulder and half turned to see who she was smiling at. Murdoch Tyndall had detached himself from his group and was coming towards them. He moved aside slightly to allow Tyndall access to Sarah.

“Dr Lasseter, you look positively ravishing,” said Tyndall. His eyes said that he meant it. “I’m so glad you could come.” He half turned towards Paddy and said, “And Dr...”

“Duncan sir,” said Paddy.

“Ah yes, Dr Duncan. Glad you could make it.”

“It was good of Dr Logan to remain on duty this evening,” said Sarah.

“Quite so,” said Tyndall. “But I’ve arranged some relief for him later so he won’t miss all the fun.”

Sarah exchanged glances with Paddy. So that’s it, she thought. Logan was getting the brownie points and the party. He would no doubt appear in a couple of hours time, still wearing his white coat and playing the role of the selfless, dedicated medic who had just managed to tear himself away from the care of the sick for a few moments.

“Good,” said Sarah. Paddy stifled a smile.

Sarah changed the subject quickly in case Tyndall had noticed. “I didn’t realise you had an interest in immunology sir?” she said.

Tyndall smiled self-deprecatingly and said, “It’s my brother who’s the star, Doctor but we discuss everything and I contribute the occasional idea.”

“I’m sure you are being far too modest, sir,” said Sarah.

“I don’t think you’ve met my brother, Doctor?” asked Tyndall, turning away to look behind him.

Paddy shot Sarah an amused glance which she found irritating. “Frightening!” he whispered, as Tyndall called to his brother to join them.

The man who joined them was the short man about whom Sarah had wondered earlier. He still didn’t smile, but nodded curtly and shook hands with both Sarah and Paddy in turn as Murdoch Tyndall introduced them.

“Congratulations, Professor,” said Sarah. “A brilliant piece of work.”

Tyndall smiled for the first time, a shy introverted smile which told Sarah that he was uneasy in the company of women. “It’s kind of you to say so, Doctor,” he said. “Do you have an interest in this kind of research?”

“I got interested in molecular biology at medical school, Professor, but there were so many other things to learn at the time that I couldn’t give it as much attention as I’d have liked. I understand that you identified the molecular trigger sequence of the virus?”

“We did,” replied Tyndall.

“May I ask how?”

“Basically, we identified the repressor substance which normally binds to the trigger sequence of the virus.”

“That’s what normally keeps the virus in check?” queried Duncan, anxious to be part of the conversation.

“That’s right,” said Tyndall. “Once we’d done that we could design a protein which would bind to the sequence irreversibly instead of being subject to degradation by UV light, stress etc.”

“So the virus is still present in the body?” asked Sarah.

“Yes but it’s no longer subject to periodic triggering.”

“Absolutely fascinating,” said Sarah.

“I think we’re being called,” Murdoch Tyndall murmured to his brother. They all looked in the direction Tyndall was looking in and saw that the chairman of the board of management and the hospital secretary were beckoning to the Tyndalls. One was smiling and pointing at his watch.

“I’m afraid it looks like speech time,” said Murdoch Tyndall making an apologetic gesture with his shoulders and spreading his hands. “See you later.”

Sarah and Paddy watched the Tyndall brothers make their way through the crowd to the front of the room, Murdoch enjoying the greetings and congratulations on the way, his brother obviously embarrassed by it all, keeping his head down as if intent on watching where he was putting his feet. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause as the pair mounted the small platform to be welcomed with handshakes from the chairman of the board and several other men whom Sarah didn’t recognise but assumed to be something to do with management.

The hospital secretary made a short speech congratulating the Tyndalls on their achievement and reflecting on how much kudos their work would bring the hospital. The board of management took particular pride in being the first — he felt sure — of many bodies to honour the Tyndalls for their work. This reference to future prize prospects brought more applause and murmurs of ‘Hear, hear’. In reply, Murdoch Tyndall made a charming, self-effacing speech, giving the lion’s share of the credit to his brother and saying that their greatest pleasure came from the knowledge that they had made a contribution to the fight against disease. There was more applause and the speeches were over.

The crowd became small groups again and chatter took over as the Tyndalls started to circulate with Murdoch doing the talking and smiling and his brother following along behind.

“So what do you think of the great man?” asked Paddy.

“I think he’s rather sweet,” replied Sarah. “It’s strange how two brothers can be so different.”

“Chalk and cheese,” agreed Paddy.

“But both brilliant.”

“There ain’t no justice,” said Paddy. “Two geniuses are a bit much for any one family.”

“Makes you believe in genetics,” smiled Sarah.

She was about to follow Paddy to the buffet table when she suddenly realised that Cyril Tyndall had detached himself from his brother’s coat-tails and was coming towards her. She had a moment’s indecision, feeling that it must be someone else he was making for before saying to Paddy, “You go on. I’ll join you.”

Tyndall came up to Sarah and smiled without parting his lips. “I don’t think we finished our conversation, Doctor Lasseter.”

Sarah felt a flush come to her cheeks. A possible Nobel prize-winner had come all the way over to speak to her and she felt flattered beyond belief. “This is really very good of you, Professor,” she stammered.

“It is always a pleasure to speak to people who are research-minded. Do you plan to move into research yourself, Doctor?”

For the first time in her career Sarah felt slightly embarrassed about admitting to her plans of going into general practice. She didn’t like the feeling and blamed Logan for it, sensing that she was betraying her father. She told Tyndall of her intentions.

“That’s a pity,” said Tyndall. “Murdoch tells me that you are an exceptionally gifted doctor. It would be a shame to see such potential go untapped.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so,” said Sarah, feeling totally overwhelmed by the thought that the Tyndall brothers had been discussing her.

“Perhaps you would like to visit my lab one day soon and we could perhaps talk further?” suggested Tyndall.

“That’s very kind of you sir. I’d love to,” replied Sarah.

“Just give me a call then,” said Tyndall. “Murdoch will give you my private extension.”

“Thank you sir,” said Sarah, still feeling overawed by everything.

Tyndall excused himself and returned to his brother’s side as Paddy returned with another food-laden plate. “You’re getting on well,” he said before taking his first mouthful.

“Professor Tyndall invited me to visit his lab,” said Sarah.

“I’m not surprised. That dress of yours is absolutely stunning.”

Sarah turned on Paddy with an angry look in her eyes. “Of all the sexist nonsense,” she stormed, trying to keep her voice down while making her point forcibly.

“Is it?” replied Paddy. “He didn’t ask me.”

“Professor Tyndall recognised that I was interested in the research. That’s why he invited me.”

“Of course,” said Paddy, tongue in cheek.

“I’m quite sure the professor wouldn’t mind if you were to come along too if you’re interested,” said Sarah.

Paddy smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Playing gooseberry is not my style.” He grinned mischievously as he saw the anger flash again in Sarah’s eyes.

Realising he was baiting her, she calmed down and said, “Enough! I’m hungry.”

For once, John Main was lucky. No one had been murdered or raped in the city that day. Banks and sub post-offices had remained inviolate and nothing substantial had been burned down. The only national story was the latest wrangle over EEC farming subsidies — not a natural for a local evening paper. So, although the first edition led with a council tenant ‘slamming’ the council over dampness in his flat, the second and final editions hit the streets with CEMETERY FOUR DIE IN HOLOCAUST.

Main bought a copy from the newsagent on the corner of the street where he lived and read it outside on the pavement. Below the headline was a photograph of the cemetery where Simon had been buried. It was the same photograph the paper had used in the original story but that didn’t matter. The coverage was what mattered. The story began with a recap of his son’s disinterment and how the police had failed to make an arrest. Main felt pleased with himself as he read on. This was exactly what he had set out to achieve. A second photograph showed the burnt-out wreck of the car in which the men had died. There had been no other vehicle involved, and the circumstances of the fire remained a mystery. The police had refused to comment at this stage but their inquiries were continuing. Questioned as to whether foul play was suspected, Chief Superintendent Hamish Anderson had declined to speculate.

The final paragraph of the story was what pleased Main most. It included an eye witness report of the car fire. Main had not known about this. The paper must have sent out a reporter to ask around the houses near the scene of the fire. He had come up trumps. Mrs Katherine Donaldson had been leaving her house to go shopping when she had seen a car in the street outside her gate explode. “It was terrible,” she had said. “There was a loud bang that shook her windows and flames shot out from the car. There was glass everywhere. No one got out.”

Main felt a glow of satisfaction. He was now convinced the holocaust had been no accident. The men had been murdered. He called Ryan Lafferty and asked him if he’d seen the story.

“No. What do they say?” asked Lafferty.

Main told him and Lafferty whistled softly. “That should shake the police up,” he said. “You did well.”

“I was lucky.”

“So now we wait and see what happens,” said Lafferty.

“The nice thing is,” said Main, “I think the papers are obliged to follow this up. That will keep the pressure on the police.”

“Excellent,” replied Lafferty. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. A lot better.”

“Good.”

“I’m thinking of going back to work,” said Main.

“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Lafferty. “It’s about time.”

Main smiled at Lafferty’s directness and said, “You’re right. I want to thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” said Lafferty.

“Yes there is,” countered Main. “I was on the verge of giving up hope and you stopped me. Things are beginning to happen and it’s down to you. I think we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

“I hope so,” said Lafferty. “But what I said in the beginning still goes. I’m sure your son’s soul has been in no danger.”

“I just wish I could believe that, Ryan.”

“I know. Get some sleep,” said Lafferty kindly.