Pestilence (12 page)

Saracen phoned Dolman’s at nine in the morning. “This is Dr Saracen at Skelmore General. I understand you have custody of the body of Leonard Cohen?”

“That is correct,” said the sombre voice, “We were asked to assist when your refrigeration system broke down.”

“I’d like to see the body,” said Saracen.

There was a pause then Dolman said, “Of course Doctor. When would you like to come?”

Saracen looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes?”

“I’ll expect you.”

Saracen put down the phone and felt deflated for the man had shown no surprise at all. It was almost as if he had been expecting the call. Was that a possibility? he wondered. Could Garten have warned him? Saracen picked up the phone again and contacted the hospital switchboard. He asked for the number of the contract engineer for refrigeration equipment in the hospital and jotted it down on the pad in front of him. He called it.

“I take it you have been informed of the compressor failure in the mortuary at Skelmore General last night?” he asked.

“No,” replied the puzzled voice. “This is the first we have heard of it.”

“My mistake,” said Saracen and put the phone down. At least he had been right about one thing.

“Is that you phoning your stockbroker again?” joked Alan Tremaine who was passing.

“I have to go out for about half an hour,” said Saracen. “Look after the shop will you.”

“Sure. Are you going up to see Chenhui?”

Saracen told Tremaine that he was going up to Dolman’s to have a look at the body Chenhui was asked to certify.

“He was a DOA wasn’t he?”

Saracen nodded.

“Do you think that had something to do with her breakdown?”

“I don’t know but I think it’s worth checking out.”

“Garten has it down in the book as a straight-forward cardiac case,” said Tremaine.

“I know,” said Saracen.

“And if our leader should call?”

“Tell him,” said Saracen.

Getting parked near Ventnor Lane in mid-morning stretched Saracen’s patience to the limit. He could not get into the lane itself because two hearses and a black Bedford van were already parked there and all the surrounding streets were etched with double yellow lines. This in itself had not prevented a caravan of lorries from stopping there with their wheels half up on the pavement as their drivers made their deliveries and obstructed traffic in both directions.

The streets in this area, the oldest part of town, were narrow and overhung with an odd assortment of two and three storey buildings which huddled together as if in mutual support, each cemented to the other with the dirt and grime of centuries.

Saracen saw a space among the rubble of a recently demolished warehouse and risked the anger of traffic behind by stopping suddenly and attempting to reverse into it. A red faced man, driving a Rover, blew his horn angrily and made a rude gesture at Saracen. Saracen noted the florid complexion as he smiled an apology and said quietly through his teeth, “See you soon old man.”

The premises of Maurice Dolman and Sons were painted black and grey and fronted with double shop windows, each blanked out to just above eye level with smoke grey paint. This had the effect of making the inside of the building artificially dark even in mid-morning and required that the lights - crystal wall lights - be kept on all the time.

There was no one at the counter when Saracen went in so he took time to take in his surroundings. A tape of solemn organ music was playing and it irked him. Unwilling to accept its celestial origins he looked for the concealed speakers and found one grille above a photograph of a hearse captioned, ‘1933’. There was another in a peg board screen on the other side of the room that carried yet more photographs of hearses and the dates when they had served with the company.

Saracen saw the polished brass bell on the counter. It sat beside a leather bound edition of the Bible and a small plate which invited him to ‘Press for Attention.’ He slapped it hard with his palm, not that he was annoyed that no one was about. He just wanted to destroy the bogus aura of reverence.

There was a movement from somewhere at the back. A series of slow footsteps seemed to go on for ever before a short man wearing black jacket and striped trousers appeared at the counter. He had his hands clasped together as if he had been disturbed at prayer.

“May I be of assistance sir?” The man inquired in a voice full of practised sympathy and concern.

“I’m Saracen. I telephoned.”

“Oh yes,” said the man, affecting an immediate change of tone. “This way.”

Saracen followed the man, whom he took to be Maurice Dolman himself, through a narrow corridor flanked by partitioned cubicles. Each was furnished in similar fashion with a desk and three chairs and was where Saracen deduced the ‘loved ones’ decided which of Dolman’s wares should accompany their departed on the final journey. An elderly typist sat in the last cubicle, her spectacles perched on her nose, hands poised above the keyboard as she read her notes before committing her fingers to the keys.

They left the front shop and descended some stairs to a basement which joined with that of a neighbouring building. There was a strong chemical smell in the air and the rooms were now lit by fluorescent fittings that filled every corner with cold, hard, shadowless light.

“This is quicker than walking round the outside,” said Dolman. He stopped as they came to a closed door and half turned, saying, “I am afraid we have to pass through here but you being a doctor and all…” His voice trailed off without further explanation and he opened the door. Saracen entered to a sight that took him unawares and a smell that brought his hand up to his face.

The naked corpse of an old woman was lying on a marble slab while two men, one with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, worked on it. A series of plastic tubes led out of the cadaver and were draining away the body fluids into a number of stainless steel buckets on the floor. One of the men was preparing to replace the fluids with a chemical mix.

“Embalming,” said Dolman. “So important that the dead should look their best don’t you think?”

Saracen did not reply. He would cheerfully have blown up the place but saying so was not going to help.

Dolman spoke to the men. “Dr Saracen is here to examine the departed, Leonard Cohen. Would one of you take him through and give him every assistance.” The directive was aimed at the man with the cigarette who responded sullenly by getting up slowly from his stool and leaning over one of the buckets to release the butt from his lips without using his hands. It fell with a hiss into the stinking slop. Still without speaking, he inclined his head for Saracen to follow him. The man put Saracen’s teeth on edge. He found his fingers bunching into fists as he followed him through a narrow stone passage until they came to a room marked ‘Morgue’.

Saracen stood back as his reluctant assistant opened up a refrigerator with space for six bodies; four were in residence. Saracen read the name tags over the man’s shoulder. Carlisle, Hartley, Finnegan and Cohen. So Garten had transferred the remaining two bodies from Skelmore General after all.

The examination did not take long and afterwards Saracen washed his hands in the grubby little sink in the corner and faced up to the fact that he had discovered nothing new. The corpse had been that of a man in his sixties with no unusual features or peculiarities at all. Unless Chenhui had actually known him personally it was difficult to see anything about the man that could have upset her so badly.

Dolman came into the room, hands still clasped together. “Quite finished Doctor?” he asked with an obsequious smile.

“Quite.” said Saracen.

Dolman turned to the man beside him and said, “Return Mr Cohen to the fridge will you and get out Miss Carlisle. She is going at noon.”

Saracen was glad to get out into the fresh air even if it was full of diesel fumes. But anything had to be better than the Hell’s kitchen atmosphere of Dolman’s. He returned to the hospital and questions from Alan Tremaine.

“So you are no further forward then?” said Tremaine when Saracen had finished telling him about Cohen.

Saracen agreed and asked about Chenhui’s condition.

“She’s not upstairs any more. She’s been transferred to the Psychiatric Unit at Morley Grange.”

“On whose say-so?” asked an astonished Saracen.

“Garten’s I suppose. I don’t really know. Why?”

Saracen did not reply immediately. He had to admit to himself that he was in danger of becoming paranoid about almost everything Garten did. Was it really so strange that Chenhui had been taken to Morley Grange? Why should he see something sinister in it? Why should he immediately jump to the conclusion that Garten was getting Chenhui out of the way, putting her some place where people, himself in particular, could not ask her questions. He became aware that Tremaine was still waiting for an answer. “Oh nothing, I suppose that’s the best place for her…if she’s ill.”

Tremaine looked puzzled but then remembered something. He said, “Dave Moss phoned while you were out. He asks that you call him back.”

Saracen called the County Hospital then had to wait while the operator paged Moss.

“You are not going to believe this,” said Moss, sounding slightly embarrassed.

“Try me,” said Saracen.

“That PM on Myra Archer…”

“Yes?”

“There never was one.”

Saracen was struck dumb.

“Are you still there?” asked Moss as the silence lengthened.

“I don’t understand,” said Saracen. “There had to be one. She was a DOA and she didn’t have a general practitioner to sign the death certificate.”

“Well I’ve been right through Wylie’s files. No Myra Archer.”

“Maybe the file has been removed?” suggested Saracen.

“I thought you would say that so I checked Wylie’s schedule from the twelfth to the fifteenth. He had a full list but Myra Archer was not among them. There simply was no PM done on her James.”

Saracen still found it hard to swallow. “So who signed the death certificate?” he asked, thinking out loud.

“If what you say is true I think I would like to know the answer to that one too,” said Moss.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Saracen, slowly replacing the receiver. As he stood there, deep in thought, Sister Lindeman came up to him and waited in silence until she had his attention.

“Yes Sister?”

“If you have a moment Doctor, I’d like a word.”

Saracen followed her into her office and she closed the door. She looked worried. “It’s about the JW you gave blood to,” she began. “The girl has developed hepatitis. She has been transferred to the County.”

Saracen rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and said, “God, that’s all I need. She must have got it from the transfusion.”

“Almost certainly.”

“How is she?”

“She’s holding her own and the parents haven’t said anything as yet but, in the circumstances, they might read more into the complication than might otherwise be the case. If that happens the ball might well land up in your court.”

Saracen nodded and said, “No pun intended on the word ‘court’ I hope Sister.”

Sister Lindeman smiled and said, “Let’s pray it won’t come to that. For what it’s worth I’m with you all the way. You did the right thing in the circumstances.”

Saracen said, “It’s worth a great deal Sister…Let’s go stitch some heads.”

Saracen was sitting on his own in the hospital canteen wondering whether or not to eat the mess in front of him or perhaps underseal his car with it when Jill Rawlings came in and sat down beside him. She joined him in a silent appraisal of what was on the plate before saying quietly, “Give me a stick and I’ll kill it.”

Saracen managed a wan smile and said, “I think somebody already did, a very long time ago.” He pushed the plate away and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Problems?”

“And how.”

“That bad?”

“Damn near it.”

“My friend Mary is off home for a week; I’m staying in her flat. Why don’t you come round this evening? Bring a bottle of wine and I’ll make you a decent meal.”

Saracen looked at her and smiled. “That sounds good,” he said. “I’d like that.”

“Then it’s settled.” Jill gave Saracen the address and they agreed on eight o’clock.

At four in the afternoon Saracen called the County Hospital and asked Dave Moss about the condition of the girl who had been transferred there with hepatitis.

“She’s OK for the moment. What’s your interest James?”

Saracen told him.

“Ye gods Saracen, you certainly have some kind of professional death wish don’t you.”

“What would you have done?”

“The same…I hope.”

“Do you think she’s going to be all right?”

“If nothing else happens she’ll be fine and if the parents should ask how she got it I’ll tell them the ways of the Lord are strange.”

“Thanks, I owe you.”