Fenton's Winter (3 page)

"You've been running the tests
on the Saxon Blood Sampler I see," said Fenton picking up the
relevant papers.

"In conjunction with Nigel.
He’s been showing us how to use it."

'Nigel' was Nigel Saxon, the
chief sales rep from Saxon Medical who had been attached to the
department for the period of the trial. Like most reps, he had a
pleasant, outgoing personality which, when combined with a generous
nature and the fact that he had the financial clout of being the
boss' son, had made him a popular figure in the lab.

"Neil seemed to like the
machine," said Fenton, looking at Munro's intermediate report.

"We all do," said Susan.

"What's so special about
it?"

Susan Daniels opened one of the
wall cupboards and took out a handful of what appeared to be
plastic spheres. "These," she said, "These are the samplers. They
are made out of a special plastic. You just touch them against the
patient's skin and they charge by capillary attraction. All you
need is a pinprick, no need for venipuncture."

"But the volume?"

"That's all the machine needs
to do the standard values."

"I'm impressed," said Fenton.
"What stage are the tests at?"

"They are complete. It just
requires the final report to be written up and signed by Dr Tyson,"
said Susan.

"Is all the information here?"
asked Fenton.

"I've still got the data from
the last set of tests in my note-book. I'll bring it up after
lunch."

"I'll come down; I'd like to
see the machine working. Anything else I should know?"

"Neil was running some special
blood tests for Dr Michaelson in the Metabolic Unit; perhaps you
could contact him and have a chat."

Fenton nodded and made a note
on the desk pad. "Anything else?"

"There are a couple of by-pass
operations scheduled for next week Neil was supposed to organise
the lab cover."

Fenton made another note. He
looked at his watch and said, "Why don't you go to lunch? If you
think of anything else you can let me know." He got up as Susan
left the room and returned to the window to check on the weather.
It had stopped raining.

Fenton pulled up his collar as
he felt the icy wind touch his cheek. He decided to give the
hospital canteen a miss, knowing that it would still be buzzing
with talk of Neil's death and a new day's crop of rumours. Instead,
he walked off in the other direction, not at all sure of where he
was going. He paused as he came to the entrance to a park and
entered to find himself alone beneath the trees. The wide expanse
of grass that would be crowded with lunch-time picnic makers in
July was, on a cold day in February, utterly deserted.

A bird wrestled a worm from the
wet, windswept grass and flew off with it in his beak. That's the
awful thing about death, thought Fenton; life goes on as if you had
never existed, the ultimate in searing loneliness.He reached the
far end of the park and let the iron gate clang shut behind him as
he returned to the street and paused to look for inspiration. He
saw the beckoning sign of the 'Croft Tavern' and crossed the
road.

A sudden calm engulfed him as
he went in through the door and made him aware of the wind burn on
his cheeks. He ran his fingers ineffectually through his hair as he
approached the empty bar counter to pick up a grubby menu. The
barmaid tapped her teeth with a biro pen in readiness.

"Sausage and chips, and a pint
of lager."

"I'm only food; you get your
drink separately,’ said the sullen girl with an air that suggested
she had said the same thing a million times before.

Fenton looked to the other
barmaid. "Pint of lager please."

"Skol or Carlsberg?"

"Carlsberg."

A plume of froth emanated from
the tap. "Barrel's off."

"All right, Skol."

Fenton looked behind the bar at
a poster on the wall which proudly announced, 'This establishment
has been nominated in the Daily News pub of the year competition.'
By the landlord, thought Fenton.

"Hello there," said a voice
behind him. He turned to find Steve Kelly from the Blood
Transfusion service. "Didn't know you came here for lunch," said
Kelly.

"First time," said Fenton.

"Me too," said Kelly. "I'm
sitting over there by the fire. Join me when you get your
food."

Fenton joined Kelly in sitting
on plastic leather seats in front of a plastic stone fireplace.
They watched imitation flames flicker up to plastic horse
brasses.

"The breweries really do these
places up well," said Kelly without a trace of a smile. Fenton
choked over his beer. Kelly smiled.

Fenton's fork ricocheted off a
sausage causing chips to run for cover in all directions; one
landed in Kelly's lap; he popped it into his mouth.

"You can have the rest if you
want," said Fenton putting down his knife and fork.

"No thanks, I've just tasted
it."

"What brings you here?" asked
Fenton.

"I was looking around for a
nice quiet wee place to bring that nurse from ward seven to one
lunch time."

"You mean somewhere where the
wife wouldn't be liable to find you?"

"You've got it."

"Well this place seems quiet
enough."

"Aye, but it wasn't exactly
food poisoning I was planning on giving her."

"Point taken."

They sipped their beer in
silence for a few minutes before Kelly said, "So who's the loony
Tom?"

Fenton kept looking into the
flames. "I wish to God I knew," he said.

"Munro was a friend of yours
wasn't he?"

Fenton nodded.

"I'm sorry."

Fenton sipped his beer.

"Who will be taking over his
projects?" asked Kelly.

"Me for the moment."

"Then you’ll be wanting the
blood?"

Fenton was puzzled. "What
blood?"

"Munro phoned me on Monday; he
wanted some blood from the service."

"Better hold on that till I
find out what he needed it for."

"Will do."

"Another drink?"

"No."

They got up and moved towards
the door. "Would you mind returning your glasses to the bar?"
drawled the lounging barmaid.

"Aye, we would," said Kelly
flatly. They left.

Fenton waited while Kelly
finished buttoning his coat up to the collar. He hunched his
shoulders against the wind. Kelly said, "So you'll let me know
about the blood?" Fenton said that he would and they parted.

Fenton was grateful that the
wind was now behind him, supporting him like a cushion, as he
walked slowly back to the hospital. This time he avoided the park
and opted instead for the streets of Victorian terraced housing,
black stone houses that looked cool in summer but dark and
forbidding in winter, the bare branches of the trees fronting them
waved in the wind like witches in torment. As he reached the lab he
had to pause to let a silver grey Ford turn into the lane beside
the lab. One of its front wheels dipped into a pot hole splashing
water over his feet. He raised his eyes to the heavens then saw
that the driver was Nigel Saxon and that he had realised what had
happened. Saxon stopped and wound down the window looking
apologetic, "I say, I'm most frightfully sorry."

Fenton smiled for it was hard
to get angry with Nigel Saxon. He waited while Saxon parked his car
then watched him attempt to side-step the puddles as he hurried to
join him. Saxon was everyone's idea of a rugby forward running to
seed, which indeed he was. He had played the game religiously for
his old public school till, at the age of twenty-five or so, he had
discovered that it was possible to have the post-match drink and
revels without actually having to go through the pain of playing.
Now at the age of thirty-two he was beginning to look distinctly
blowzy, a fact of which he seemed cheerfully aware. He had managed
to scramble a poor degree in mechanical engineering before joining
his father's company, Saxon Medical, where his engineering skills
had been completely ignored in deference to his amiable personality
and confidence that had made him invaluable in sales and customer
liaison. Fenton thought it ironic that Saxon would never appreciate
what his greatest talent was in that direction; he made the
customers feel superior.

"You've got lipstick on your
cheek," said Fenton

Saxon pulled a handkerchief
from his pocket, scattering as he did so, some loose change over
the pavement. Fenton helped pick it up and paused to look at
something that turned out not to be a coin. It appeared to be some
kind of silver medallion with a tree engraved on it. "Very nice,"
he said and handed it back to Saxon only to be surprised at the
intense way Saxon was looking at him. It was as if Saxon had asked
him a question and was waiting for an answer.

Saxon dabbed absent-mindedly at
his cheek.

"Other one," said Fenton.

There were three policemen in
the hallway when they entered the lab. "Mr Fenton?" said one.
Fenton nodded. "Inspector Jamieson would like to see you again sir
if that's convenient?

"Of course. I'll be in
one-oh-four."

"You know I still can't believe
it," said Saxon as he and Fenton climbed the stairs to the first
floor, "I keep expecting to see Neil." Fenton nodded but managed to
convey to Saxon that he did not want to speak about it.

"I was wondering if we might
have a talk about the Blood Analyser,” said Saxon.

Fenton said that he was about
to suggest the same thing himself and told Saxon that he had
arranged with Susan Daniels to see the machine in action that
afternoon. Saxon said that he would join them and asked when. "As
soon as I finish with the police," said Fenton

As Fenton closed the door he
heard the rain begin to lash against the windows once more He
glanced out at the sky and saw that it was leaden. Mouthing a
single expletive he turned to Munro’s personal research book and
started through it again. He wanted to know why Munro had asked the
Blood Transfusion Service for a supply of blood and what exactly he
had planned to do with it. Kelly had not said how much blood Neil
had asked for and he had neglected to ask. He picked up the
internal phone and asked the lab secretary to check the official
requisition.

As he waited for a reply a
knock came to the door. It was Inspector Jamieson and his sergeant,
whose last name Fenton could not remember. He motioned them to come
in and said that he would be with them in a moment.

"What day did you say?" asked
the secretary's voice on the phone.

"Monday."

"That's what I thought you
said. There isn't one."

"Are you quite sure?"

"I've checked three times."

"Perhaps I misunderstood," said
Fenton thoughtfully. He put down the phone. So Neil had made the
request privately without going through channels. Curiouser and
curiouser. He became aware of the policemen looking at him and put
the thought out of his mind for the moment.

Fenton had taken a dislike to
Jamieson after their first meeting but had been unable to
rationalise it, thinking perhaps that he might have taken a dislike
to anyone who had appeared to be asking such apparently pointless
questions.

"I thought we might just go
through a few of these points again sir?" said Jamieson.

"If you insist," said
Fenton.

"I'm afraid I do sir," said
Jamieson with an ingratiating smile.

So, thought Fenton, the dislike
was mutual.

Jamieson at five feet ten was
small for a policeman in the Edinburgh force but what he lacked in
height he made up for in breadth and his shoulders filled his tweed
jacket, providing a firm base for a thick neck and a head that
appeared to be larger than it actually was because of a thick mop
of grey hair. He sported a small clipped moustache and this,
together with the twill trousers and checked shirt, gave him the
appearance of an English country gentleman in week-end wear. The
voice however belied the image. It was both Scottish and
aggressive.

As the interview proceeded
Fenton was convinced that he was answering the same questions over
and over again. It irritated him but, not knowing anything of
police procedure, he concluded that this might be a routine gambit
on their part.Annoy the subject till he loses his temper then look
for inconsistencies in what was being said.It annoyed him even more
to think that he might be being treated as some kind of laboratory
animal. His answers became more and more cursory while, silently,
he became more and more impatient. Of course Neil had not had any
enemies. He had no earthly idea why anyone would want to kill him.
Wasn't it obvious that some kind of deranged psychopath had
committed the crime? Why were they wasting time asking such damn
fool questions? Did the police have no imagination at all?

"Miss Daniels tells us that Dr
Munro seemed very preoccupied, to use her word, over the last week
or so. Do you have any idea why sir?" asked Jamieson.

Fenton said that he did
not.

"Miss Daniels thinks it may
have had something to do with his personal research work." There
was a pause while Jamieson waited for Fenton to say something. When
he did not Jamieson asked, "Would you happen to know what that was
sir?" Again Fenton said that he did not. "But you were a friend of
the deceased were you not?" said Jamieson, turning on his smile
which Fenton could see he was going to learn to dislike a great
deal. "Yes I was, but I don't know what he was working on."

"I see sir," said Jamieson,
smiling again. "I understand from Dr Tyson that you will be tidying
up the loose ends in Dr Munro's work?"

Fenton said that was so.

"Perhaps if you come across
anything that might indicate the reason for Dr Munro's state of
mind you might let us know?"