Pestilence (3 page)

Saracen saw that a notice had been pinned to one of the two tall mortuary doors. He stopped to read it but had to manoeuvre himself till he achieved an angle where there was enough light to make it possible.

MORTUARY CLOSED DUE TO REFRIGERATION FAILURE

For transfer arrangements call ext. 2711.

His curiosity satisfied, Saracen walked on past the row of large bins that held the Hospital’s refuse. Each was mounted on a wheeled trolley and fitted with a grab ring to fit the hydraulic hoists of the collection vehicles that called every other day. He took in breath sharply as a cat leapt from the top of one of the bins in front of him and disappeared off into the shadows.

Saracen found his car squeezed into a small space behind the row for parking space was always a problem within the precincts of the hospital. He had to sidle between it and a wet stone wall to reach the driver’s door. As he fumbled for the lock in the gloom he dropped the keys and cursed softly as he found difficulty in bending down in the narrow space.

As he groped for his keys Saracen became aware of a faint hissing sound. At first he thought it must be coming from one of the tyres but as it grew louder he realised that it was coming from the other side of the bins. Intrigued, he stood up and squeezed out from behind the car to peer through a gap between two of the bins where he could see out into the courtyard.

The sound grew louder and Saracen recognised it as the noise car tyres made on wet cobblestones. A vehicle was freewheeling slowly down the hill from the gate. He waited for its headlights to illuminate the courtyard but nothing happened. Instead he saw the dim outline of a dark van come slowly round the corner without lights and stop outside the mortuary.

The light coming from the single bulb above the mortuary doors enabled Saracen to see that three men had got out. He watched spellbound as they donned some kind of protective clothing that they took from the back of the van. The unlikely possibility that they were refrigeration engineers was totally dispelled when Saracen saw them put on hoods and full face visors and then pull on gauntlets.

Looking like astronauts about to enter their space craft, the men approached the mortuary doors in single file. There was a brief pause while the lock was undone then they disappeared inside.

Saracen began to wonder if he was hallucinating. Perhaps it had all been a vision brought on by tiredness. He even screwed up his eyes before looking again and finding the van still there.

A few minutes later two of the men re-emerged carrying a long box that appeared to be wrapped in plastic sheeting. They loaded the box into the back of the van the turned to wait for the third man who was still inside. Through the open door Saracen saw the darkness of the mortuary become eerily light as if candles had been lit inside. The third man came out and closed the door. Saracen walked out into the open and approached the van. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

Three dark visors turned to look at him but no one spoke.

“I asked you what you were doing,” said Saracen as he got closer. Still no reply. Saracen suddenly felt apprehensive. The lack of response and the fact that he could not see the men’s faces made him feel that it might be unwise to get any closer. “Just stay where you are!” he ordered and turned on his heel to make for the gate- house. He only made it to the foot of the hill before something hit him on the back of the head and unconsciousness swept over him like a black fog.

It was daylight when Saracen came round and opened his eyes. The pain inside his head brought on a sudden wave of nausea when he tried to move so he lay quite still for a moment, trying to put his thoughts into some kind of order. He remembered the incident outside the mortuary and assumed, correctly as it happened, that he had been attacked from behind. But where was he now?

The silence and cold, grey light suggested that it might be dawn but if the dull rainy weather had persisted from the previous day it could be any time, he reasoned. It was particularly hard to tell for he was not lying outside on the road. There was a ceiling above him and the air, although unheated, was perfectly still.

“Nurse!” Saracen croaked, in the hope that he might be in a hospital bed but somehow he knew that he was not. It felt all wrong.

Still unwilling to move his head for fear of awakening the pain dragon, he felt about him with his hands and discovered that he was lying on something hard. It was metallic…cold smooth metal…stainless steel perhaps?

At intervals his fingers sank into narrow slots that ran longitudinally. Was that the word? Saracen found it hard to concentrate. Try as he might he just could not think clearly. Was it the head wound or was it something else, he wondered for there was a smell in the room, a heavy, sickly sweet smell, a smell that was now more of a sensation really, as if his senses had been overloaded with it after a long period of inhalation.

Had he been chloroformed? No, he decided, it wasn’t chloroform, neither was it ether. It was something else, another chemical that he felt sure he should recognise but could not because he could not think clearly.

Unable to make any progress through deductive reasoning Saracen tried moving his head. He tried shifting it slowly to the right but found it difficult, not because of the pain, but because the back of his skull seemed to be resting in some kind of mould. The mould was not metal for he could feel it warm through his hair and it was softer than metal though not much…He had it…It was wood!

All at once Saracen realised where he was and the shock made him sit bolt upright. An agonising pain reminded him that this had been a mistake and momentary blindness followed a wave of nausea. Fear and pain vied inside his skull until he opened his eyes and peered out through the fingers that cradled his head. A long row of bone handled knives on the wall confirmed his worst fears. He was lying on a post-mortem examination table.

It was another full minute before Saracen could bring himself to try moving his legs off the table. He slid the left one slowly over the edge of the steel table and let it dangle down while he brought the right one round to join it. Then, holding his breath, he attempted to stand up. It was a disaster. His legs buckled beneath him and, as he fell, his fingers caught in one of the channels that were etched into the table for the drainage of blood and body fluids. His wrist was wrenched painfully as he slid to the floor.

Saracen cursed in frustration as he dragged himself up on to his hands and knees. He had to stop at that and hang his head for a moment as the pain increased in successive waves like an incoming tide. He knew that he was going to be sick but there was little he could do about it. He just had to let it happen and threw up on the floor. The involuntary convulsing of his stomach brought on an exhaustion that made him feel faint. He felt that consciousness was slipping away from him fast and his last act, before passing out, was to push himself to one side so that he would not fall into his own vomit.

When Saracen came round for the second time he felt icy cold and was shivering uncontrollably but this time he could think more lucidly. He had to get to a telephone. There was one in the room and he knew where it was, it was just a matter of reaching it. He did not attempt to stand up this time. Instead he dragged himself across the floor, keeping as horizontal as possible to maintain the blood supply to his head and having cause to be grateful to the smooth, sluicable surface that minimised the friction factor in his progress. He reached the far wall and risked pulling himself up into a sitting position by reaching up and gripping a metal hose reel that was mounted low down on the tiled wall. He could see the pathologist’s telephone sitting invitingly on the desk above him. It encouraged him to make the final effort and he stretched up to take it from the hook.

“It’s Doctor Saracen…I’m in the PM room…send someone.”

The voices in the tunnel suddenly lost their echo and began to make sense.

“So you are back with us!”

Saracen understood the words but could not reply at first.

“Care to tell us what happened old man?”

Saracen opened his eyes and recognised Martin Saithe, the Physician Superintendent at Skelmore General, a man he did not much care for but contact between them had been minimal so this had not become a problem. Standing beside Saithe was Alan Tremaine and beside Tremaine a policeman in uniform. The face of Sister Vera Ellis swam into view and told Saracen that he was in Ward Four, the ward immediately above A&E.

When the power of speech had returned, Saracen told the assembled group of the incident outside the mortuary and how he had been hit from behind. He was puzzled to find that no one seemed particularly surprised. Saithe nodded and said, “Yes, we had concluded as much. You had the misfortune to disturb our intruders last night.”

“Intruders?” asked Saracen.

“Thieves,” said Saithe with an air of distaste. “Dr Garten informs me that a new compressor due to be fitted to the refrigeration system in the mortuary was stolen last night. A grubby little crime.” Saithe adopted the expression that Saracen associated with him most, a narrowing of the eyes and the adoption of a pained expression that was meant to convey to his fellows that an extreme sensitivity to things vulgar and distasteful. Saithe now betrayed a restlessness and obvious desire to be off. “Well,” he said, eyeing his watch, “I think it’s quite clear what happened. You got a nasty crack on the head but nothing too serious. Dr Garten will have to soldier on without you for a few days but then you’ll be back, right as rain.”

The idea of Garten ‘soldiering on’ made Tremaine look at Saracen and cover his mouth with his hand. He was grateful that Saracen, in his present state, did not feel much like smiling.

Saithe said to Saracen, “Perhaps you might tell the constable here anything that you think might be useful or helpful in the investigation.” With that, he gave a dutiful smile, said thank-you to the ward sister and left the ward.

“If there is anything you could tell me sir,” said the constable. “Anything at all.”

“Yes, I’m going to be sick,” said Saracen.

“Nurse!” Sister Ellis conjured up a student nurse with a suitable receptacle before Saracen could even contemplate defiling her smooth blanketry or mirror shine floors.

The stomach convulsions ceased and Saracen lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes until the throbbing in his head had subsided. When he felt better he turned to the young policeman and said, “There were three of them.”

The policeman looked pleased and started to write in his notebook. “Did you get a good look at any of them?” he asked.

Saracen told him about the overalls and visors.

The policeman nodded thoughtfully and said, “That could be very helpful. From what you say it sounds like the sort of gear they wear to strip out asbestos from old buildings and the like. That could be a valuable lead.”

“Good,” said Saracen without much enthusiasm for he still felt ill.

“I’ll let you get some sleep sir,” said the officer getting to his feet and pocketing his notebook. He placed his helmet on his head using both hands coronation style and adjusted it well before nodding to Saracen and Tremaine and saying good-bye for the moment.

“You look awful,” said Tremaine when he and Saracen were alone.

“I feel awful,” conceded Saracen.

“You know,” Tremaine began cautiously, “The bump on your head isn’t that bad and the X-Rays were perfectly OK…I’m surprised you’re having so much discomfort.

Saracen’s first thought was to hit Tremaine but physical effort was beyond him for the moment. “There was more to it than the bump on the head,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Saracen screwed up his face at the question he himself had invited but could not answer. “I don’t know exactly but I think I may have been poisoned. There was something in my lungs when I came round, something that stopped me thinking clearly.”

“You’re serious?” exclaimed Tremaine.

“When I came to, my chest felt as if I had been breathing in some sickly sweet gas. It was heavy, unpleasant, but by the time I awoke I had been inhaling it for so long that I couldn’t recognise it. Were you one of the people who came down to the PM room when I called?”

“Yes I was.”

“You didn’t notice any strong smell?”

“Formaldehyde, but you’d expect that in the PM room.

“Formaldehyde,” repeated Saracen slowly. “It could have been that but there would have to have been an awful lot of it. You didn’t come across a broken bottle did you?”

“No, but then I really didn’t look. We were all too concerned with getting you out of there. If you like I’ll go down and check.”

“I’d be obliged. Tell me, did you go into the mortuary itself?”

“The connecting door between it and the PM suite was locked.”

“It’s not usually kept locked.” said Saracen.

“Probably to keep these fridge engineers out of the autopsy room. Mortuaries are bad enough in themselves for the morbidly curious but PM paraphernalia tends to lend wings to already vivid imaginations.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Tremaine got to his feet and said, “Do you know what I’m going to do now?”