Fenton's Winter (6 page)

Fenton thought for a moment
then said, "We'll go out. Somewhere noisy."

They had no trouble finding a
noisy pub in Edinburgh on a Friday evening. They picked one near
the west end of Princes Street that proclaimed 'Live Music Tonight'
and pushed their way through the throng to the bar. Jenny watched
the changing expressions on Fenton's face as he tried
unsuccessfully to attract the barmaid's attention. He had the most
expressive of face of anyone she had ever known. His eyes could
sparkle with good humour one moment and turn to dark pools of
sadness the next. His mouth, wide and generous, always searched for
a reason to break into the boyish grin she loved so much. As he
turned away from the bar she smiled quickly to conceal the fact
that she had been watching him. "Hey, look," said Fenton, pointing
with his elbow, "They are just leaving."

Jenny saw the couple who were
about to rise and led the way over to the table. Fenton followed,
holding their drinks at shoulder level to avoid being bumped and
saying, "Excuse me" at appropriate intervals. He laid the glasses
on the table then took off his jacket and draped it over the back
of his chair before sitting down to look around at the Friday night
people. Groups of girls, groups of boys, all pretending to be
engrossed in their own conversations but being betrayed by constant
side-long glances, the occasional loner, more interested in the
alcohol than the company, couples old, couples young.

Intermittent and discordant
tuning noises suddenly coalesced into a solid wall of electric
noise, wiping out conversation like a shell burst. "Release me!"
demanded a spotty youth through his over amplified microphone as he
gyrated inside black leather trousers. 'Satan's Sons,' proclaimed
the gothic script on the bass drum. Fenton exchanged painful
glances with Jenny, his head reeling against the sheer volume. He
saw her mouth move but could not lip read the comment. The song
ended leaving their ears ringing in the sudden quiet. "I feel a
hundred years old," said Fenton.

"Let's go," said Jenny. They
finished their drinks and got up to leave as the spotty youth
prepared to launch his second front.

The wind had dropped and the
air smelled fresh and sweet as they emerged from the smoke and
noise on to the still wet street. "I think a trifle more
sophistication is called for at your age," said Jenny with a
smile.

They walked for a while before
turning off along a wide, sweeping Georgian terrace where most of
the houses had been turned into hotels, each engaged in a neon
struggle with its neighbour to attract attention. They decided on
the 'Emerald Hotel' and found the bar to be uncrowded and, more
important, quiet. Green shaded table lamps and oak panelling on the
walls suggested a country house library.

"How are things in the lab?"
Jenny asked.

"Terrible," said Fenton,
"Nothing is said but suspicion is rife. One of the juniors brought
me a cup of coffee this morning and I actually toyed with the idea
of pouring it down the sink when he had gone, just in case."

"But surely the killer could be
an outsider?"

"I suppose so but it's obvious
that the police are concentrating on the lab."

"What do you think?" asked
Jenny.

Fenton shook his head. "I have
no idea, no idea at all."

On Monday the secrecy contrived
at by the police and hospital authorities came to a sudden dramatic
end. 'Mystery Hospital Deaths' in The Scotsman became, 'Maniac
Stalks Hospital Corridors' in the Daily News and ensured that the
hospital switchboard was jammed all day with calls from anxious
relatives seeking reassurance. Tyson called the lab staff together
to warn against talking to reporters and making things worse. The
official line was to be that two members of staff had died in
suspicious circumstances and the police were investigating. No
details were to be furnished. But too many people in the hospital
knew the details. Tuesday morning brought, 'Sterilizer Horror,'
and, 'Girl Dies in Pool of Blood.'

The idea of a psychopathic
killer being at large in a city hospital fired the imagination of
the front page of every newspaper in the country. Radio and
television reporters interviewed anyone with even a remote
connection with the Princess Mary and the Chief Constable of
Edinburgh appeared on television, in full dress uniform, to assure
a worried public that matters were well in hand and a speedy arrest
could be confidently expected.

In private, Inspector Jamieson
could not share his superior's optimism. With no obvious logic or
motive behind the killings police routine was largely useless.
Their best hope lay in the possibility that the killer might get
over confident and reveal himself in the process. Of course there
was always the chance that the murderer, like Jack the Ripper,
might just stop but he would not be betting his pension on that.
Special passes were hurriedly printed and issued to staff and
relatives to allow them to cross the police picket at the gates
which had been mounted to keep the morbidly curious at bay.

Fenton was speaking to Nigel
Saxon about the enforced delay in completing the paperwork for the
Saxon Blood Analyser when Ian Ferguson came into the room. Ferguson
was obviously surprised to find Saxon there and said, "Sorry, I
just wondered if I might have a word."

Saxon got to his feet, "No
problem. I was just going anyway."

Ferguson stood to one side to
allow Saxon to pass then closed the door. He seemed
embarrassed.

"What can I do for you?" Fenton
asked.

"'Fact is," faltered Ferguson,
"Well...I've decided to apply for another job. Can I put you down
as a referee?"

Fenton stared at him for a
moment for it was the last thing he had expected to hear from Ian
Ferguson. "What's the problem?" he asked.

Ferguson looked at his feet. He
said, "There's a job going at the Western General. I quite fancy a
change. More experience and all that..."

"And you are scared," said
Fenton.

Ferguson looked as if he were
about to argue but then he simply sighed and said, "Aren't
you?"

"Yes," said Fenton.

An uneasy silence reigned for a
moment before Ferguson said, "You must think I'm a right
coward."

Fenton turned to face him. "I
don't think that at all. I'll even give you a good reference but,
what I won't give you is a round of applause. There are three
hundred children in this hospital and if you leave we will be three
under strength. We'll manage but it will be that much harder on
those of us who stay."

"Well," sighed Ferguson, "I
hadn't quite thought about it that way. You don't beat about the
bush do you?"

The question was rhetorical but
Fenton chose to reply anyway, “No, I don't."

Charles Tyson put his head
round the door as Ferguson left. "What was all that about?" he
asked, feeling the atmosphere in the room."

"Ian is thinking of applying
for another job."

"That would be a pity," said
Tyson. "He's one of the best we have."

"It would also leave us up shit
creek without a paddle," added Fenton.

Tyson grimaced at Fenton's
expression and said, "A fact I'm sure you managed to convey to him
with admirable clarity."

Fenton grunted.

“
Did Nigel Saxon see you
about the report?" Tyson asked.

"Yes, but I'm still up to my
eyes. It will have to wait."

"Fair enough," said Tyson. "The
patients come first."

It was after seven when Fenton
got home. He arrived to find Jenny in particularly attentive mood.
"Do I have to guess what you are going to ask or are you going to
tell me?" he asked.

"It's Mrs Doig's fan heater. I
said that you would have a look at it. There's a smell of
burning."

"Sure," said Fenton.

"I love you," said Jenny.

Mrs Doig was their next door
neighbour, a woman in her seventies who lived alone with two cats
and her memories. Jenny had adopted her as a personal
responsibility with Fenton providing the technical back-up,
changing tap washers, mending fuses and the like.

They finished their meal and
went next door, Fenton carrying screwdriver and pliers. The old
woman was clearly pleased to see them and bade them enter. "You'll
have a cup of tea?" she asked. Fenton was about to decline when
Jenny nudged him, knowing how much the old woman liked to feel she
was doing something for them. Fenton removed the back of the fan
heater as the women chatted but still found time to observe Jenny
in action. Whereas he himself would adopt a cheerful air and make
forced conversation about the weather Jenny was quite sincere in
her care and concern for the old woman. She would joke with her,
tease her, cajole her into laughter until her spirits rose visibly
and she would begin to speak freely. Fenton felt a lump come to his
throat. He knew that Jenny would like them to marry and have
children. If only he could get over the awful mental block of
associating marriage with the agony of losing Louise, the
unreasonable yet undeniable feeling that he would be tempting
fate.

He found the fault in the
heater and repaired it. Like everything else in the flat, it was
old, the black, coal fired grate, the dark, varnished wallpaper,
the five amp wiring, all just waiting for the old woman to die
before being stripped out at the end of an era. "All done," he
said.

Fenton poured out a couple of
drinks when they got back to their own flat and they sat in front
of the fire nursing their glasses. He mentioned his conversation
with Ian Ferguson.

"Ian Ferguson?" exclaimed
Jenny. "You surprise me."

"Why so?"

He's a public school product. I
thought that all that emphasis on character building would make him
the last person to run away from an unpleasant situation.

"Maybe 'character' has to be
innate after all," said Fenton dryly.

"You know what I meant," smiled
Jenny soothing Fenton's socialist hackles.

"We have the same problem on
the wards," said Jenny, "There's been a sudden outbreak of 'flu' so
we're about a third under strength. In fact, I may have to go on
nights sooner than I thought.' Flu' seems to have hit the night
staff worst of all."

"People associate darkness with
danger," said Fenton.

Jenny got up to switch the
television on. "Anything in particular you want to see?" she
asked.

Fenton said not. He was going
to have another attempt at deciphering Neil Munro's notes.

"You're working too hard," said
Jenny. "You'll make yourself ill and that will do the lab no good
at all."

"Just an hour or so. I
promise."

Fenton collected Munro's book,
a notepad and some pencils and took them to another room where he
would have quiet. His immediate problem was that the front room of
the flat was so cold. He switched on the electric fire and crouched
down in front of it till it made some impression on the still, icy
air.

Just as on previous occasions
the stumbling block in Munro's notes lay in the fact that he had
given no indication of what units the figures, in neat columns,
referred to. Temperature? Volume? Time? Without that information
the notes comprised several meaningless columns of figures
interspersed with occasional letters of the alphabet. Fenton tried
fitting the figures to various biochemical parameters but without
success. After an hour he kept his word to Jenny and put the book
aside. He rejoined her to watch the News on television.

In Ward Four of the Princess Mary Hospital Timothy Watson was
not having a good day. It had started badly when he had not been
allowed any breakfast and had got worse when a man in a white coat
had pricked his arm with a needle after personally assuring him
that it was not going to hurt. Grown-ups were not to be
trusted.Shortly afterwards the protests had died on his lips as the
drowsiness of pre-medication had stolen over him and the world had
suddenly become lighter, warmer, fluffier, fuzzier until suddenly
it wasn't there any more. Now his bed lay empty, with the covers
turned down and his Teddy Bear sitting on the pillow, limbs askew,
patiently awaiting his return.

The plastic name tag on
Timothy's wrist was his only introduction to many of the green clad
figures who now hovered over him, intent on freeing him from the
breathlessness that had plagued him from birth. The comforting blip
of the heart monitor sounded regularly as synchronous spikes chased
each other across the green face of an oscilloscope and the muted
sound of classical music emanated from concealed speakers in
Theatre number two.

James Rogan looked up at the
theatre clock and gave a satisfied grunt. "Going to knock three
minutes off my record eh Sister?"

"Yes sir," answered theatre
sister Rose Glynn without moving her eyes. Dutiful laughter added
to the already relaxed atmosphere round the table, an atmosphere
not left to chance. The green smocks, the smooth pastel walls, the
shadowless light, the perfect temperature and, of course, the
surgeon's own choice of music conspired to produce perfect
conditions for the surgical team.

"How is he doing?" Rogan asked
the anaesthetist.

"Steady as a rock."

"Money for old rope eh
Sister?"

"Yes sir."

"Spencer - Wells!"

Rose Glynn slapped the forceps
into Rogan's gloved hand as he continued with a commentary for the
benefit of his two assistants. Without pausing he asked for
instruments in mid sentence and Rose Glynn slapped them into his
hand; she never missed a request; she had worked with Rogan so
often before.

"All Right Allan, sew him up,"
said Rogan to his chief assistant. He stepped back from the table
and stripped his gloves off in dramatic fashion before saying,
“Thank-you everybody," and turning on his heel to make an exit
through both swing doors.