Fenton's winter

by Ken McClure

  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.

  THREE

  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.

  "Who was that masked man Mummy?" asked one of the assistants under his breath but loud enough for everyone in the theatre to hear. Eyes met above masks and twitching ears signalled smiles hidden behind gauze. A student nurse giggled and Rose Glynn froze her with a stare. "Can we start the count sir?" she asked.

  "Yes Sister, thank-you."

  Rose Glynn and her student nurse ran through the swab and instrument count ensuring that all were accounted for. The tally was agreed, the stitching completed and the patient wheeled out into the recovery room. Two hours later he was back in bed with his teddy bear and sleeping soundly. His parents who had spent an anxious day at the hospital were able to leave for home and their first good night's sleep for many weeks.

  At eight fifteen Staff nurse Carol Mileham noticed Timothy Watson become restless in his sleep and went over to him. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and found that he was very hot. Half turning to go and call the duty houseman she was stopped by a gurgling sound from the boy's throat; she bent down to listen and a cascade of bright red blood erupted from his mouth, drenching her apron and splashing silently on to the sheets.

  The surgical team and Timothy Watson had their unscheduled reunion in theatre number four and the atmosphere was very different from the previous occasion. There were no smiles, no jokes and no music. The irregular blip of the heart monitor probed the team's nerves like a dentist's drill, the spikes constantly dodging anticipation. Rogan had come directly from home on getting his houseman's call. 'Massive internal bleed,' had been the message that had brought him racing to the hospital still in carpet slippers.

  Timothy's chest was re-opened and the flesh held back by retractors. "Ye gods," murmured Rogan, "He's awash…Suck please!"

  Rogan's assistant started clearing the blood with a vacuum suction tube while he himself dabbed with cotton swabs. A nurse changed the transfusion pack for the second time.

  "Mop!" Rogan inclined his head for Rose Glynn to wipe away the sweat from his brow but only to see it reappear almost immediately. Rogan was losing the battle and the tension in his voice conveyed that fact to everyone. Tension like laughter was infectious.

  "He's leaking like a sieve." Exasperation took over from anxiety as Rogan realised that there was nothing he could do. "There's something wrong with his blood damn it…I can't stop it."

  Four minutes later the heart monitor lapsed into a long, continuous monotone. The tension evaporated leaving silence in its place. "Thank-you Sister," said Rogan quietly. He lowered his mask and took off his gloves, this time slowly and deliberately. "Get some blood to the haematology lab will you." His assistant nodded. Rose Glynn looked at her student nurse and saw that her eyes were moist. She had planned to have words with the girl about her earlier giggling episode. She resolved not to bother.

  Malcolm Baird, consultant haematologist at the Princess Mary, phoned Rogan personally next morning but only to say, rather cryptically thought Rogan, that there was to be a meeting of all consultants at eleven thirty in the medical superintendent's office to discuss the Watson case. He should bring his case notes.

  Charles Tyson was last to arrive at the meeting and got the least comfortable seat as his just desert. He apologised for his lateness but did not offer up any reason. Cyril Freeman, medical superintendent at the Princess Mary for the past seven years opened the meeting with a short history of Timothy Watson's illness leading up to his admission. Rogan was inv
ited to follow and duly gave his account of the operation and the subsequently tragic, and ultimately fatal, internal haemorrhage. He sat down again and Baird got to his feet to make his report. "A thorough haematological examination of the blood sample taken from the boy Watson has shown conclusively that all coagulation potential had been lost, just like Daniels in fact. A massive dose of an anticoagulant drug is indicated."

  Tyson leaned forward putting his elbows on the table to support his head. "So the bastard has started on the patients now," he said.

  Anger vied with gloom and despondency around the table.

  "What the hell are the police doing anyway?" demanded George Miles from Radiology.

  "Running round in circles if you ask me," said Rogan.

  "It's not easy in a case like this," said orthopaedic surgeon Gordon Clyde.

  "I didn't say it was," snapped Rogan.

  Freeman intervened to prevent further disharmony. "Gentlemen," he said, "We have one overriding and immediate problem to discuss." All eyes turned to him. "We have to stop the press from finding out about the Watson boy. If the papers get hold of this there will be blind panic amongst patients' relatives."

  "And people would be right to panic," said Tyson.

  "Would you mind explaining that remark?" asked Rogan.

  Tyson said calmly, "Let's not pretend that we are taking steps to prevent unnecessary panic. The truth is we are quite powerless to prevent another killing. This hospital is entirely at the mercy of a lunatic."

  The desire to argue was stillborn on the lips of Tyson's colleagues; it was left to Fenwick to break the silence. He said, "We have, of course, discussed the option of closing the hospital with the police and local authorities but we simply cannot do it. We are too big, there are too many patients to transfer and, as the police point out, the staff who went with our patients would almost certainly include the killer. We would just be transferring the problem."

  "So we sit tight and do nothing?"

  "Yes, and hope the police come up with something," said Fenwick. The frown on Rogan's face suggested a feeling shared by the others.

  What about the Watson boy's parents?" asked Tyson. "They are bound to talk to the press."

  Fenwick looked uneasy. He fidgeted with his pen before saying quietly, almost inaudibly, "They don't know."

  "What?" exclaimed Tyson and Clyde together.

  "They are not in possession of the full facts surrounding their son's death, just that the boy died after post-operative complications."

  "But that is…" Rogan was interrupted by Fenwick.

  "Don't lecture me on ethics Mr Rogan," he said firmly. The police suggested this course of action and I agreed. There is no way we could expect the parents to suppress their anger and keep this matter quiet. Just how much you tell your own staff I leave to your discretion."

  "I suggest nothing," said Clyde.

  "I think Tyson might disagree with you," said Fenwick.

  Tyson looked over his glasses and nodded slowly. He said, "So far, my department has taken the brunt of the strain in this affair. We have lost two people and have had to live with the fear that this psychopath had a particular grudge against the lab and, worse, that he might actually be one of our number. This latest death makes both these things less likely. I think that at least some of my people should be told to lessen the tension. A murmur of agreement filled the room.

  "Sorry Tyson," said Clyde, "I didn't think."

  Tyson left the meeting and walked back along the main corridor past the room where Susan Daniels had died. Two nurses were standing talking outside it, laughing about some idiosyncrasy in one of their colleagues. Tyson excused himself and squeezed past. The voices dropped to a whisper as he did so making him reflect on how often this had happened in the past. It was part of being a hospital consultant; people tended to stop speaking when you came near.

  By the time he had left the corridor and battled back to the lab against the wind and spitting rain he had decided to tell Alex Ross, Ian Ferguson and Tom Fenton about the Watson boy's death.

  The relief that Fenton felt on hearing that the killer had struck somewhere else was followed almost immediately by a wave of guilt at having found a child's death any cause for relief. His guilt doubled when he remembered that Timothy Watson had been the name of the child who had spoken to him in the corridor when Susan had died.

  Before Tyson left the room Fenton asked him a question about Neil Munro's personal research project. Did he know what it was? Tyson replied that he did not. Fenton opened Munro's notes and pointed to a page heading; it said, C.T. "It's just that I thought that this might stand for Charles Tyson?" he said.

  There was a long silence while Tyson looked at the page. "Doesn't mean a thing," he said and left before Fenton had time to ask anything else.

  Ian Ferguson came into the room and put some keys down on the desk, "These were Neil Munro's lab keys. Alex Ross asked me to give you them. He said something about a locked cupboard?"

  Fenton thanked him and added that he had asked Ross about a locked cupboard in Munro’s room that he had been unable to find a key for.

  "If you find an electric timer in it let me know will you? Neil borrowed mine and I Haven't been able to find it since." said Ferguson.

  "I'll check right now if you like," said Fenton and got up to lead the way to Munro's lab.

  Ferguson looked on while Fenton tried the keys and found success at his third attempt. "There's no timer here," said Fenton.

  "Damn."

  Fenton sifted through the contents of the cupboard while Ferguson stood by. Test tube racks, plastic tubes and beakers and several brown glass bottles with chemicals in them. He examined the labels. Potassium oxalate, sodium citrate, heparin, EDTA, Warfarin. "What do you make of that?" he asked Ferguson.

  "They're all anti-coagulants," said Ferguson quietly.

  Fenton nodded. "Indeed they are," he said softly.

  "I don't understand," said Ferguson.

  Fenton did not reply for his mind was working overtime in trying to work out why Munro had been using anticoagulants at all and why they had been locked away out of sight. It must have had something to do with his research project, he concluded, but what? He needed time to think, time to ponder the frightening coincidence that Munro had apparently been working with the same sort of drugs and chemicals that had been used to murder two people in the hospital. He looked at Ferguson who was obviously thinking the same thing but was waiting for him to say something first. Fenton said, “I think it might be best if we didn't say anything about this for the moment."

  "Of course," said Ferguson. "Whatever you think."

  Fenton took out the one remaining bottle in the cupboard and looked at the label. Dimethyl-formamide.

  "What's that?" asked Ferguson.

  "A powerful solvent." said Fenton.

  Jenny came to the lab at five thirty hoping for a lift home. Almost as soon as she entered the downstairs hallway she became aware of the absence of Susan Daniels who, in the past, had always come out of her lab to chat to her. A junior went to find Fenton leaving her looking at the notices on the general information board by the staff lockers. Ian Ferguson saw her standing there and stopped to say hello. They spoke about the weather until Fenton appeared at the head of the stairs to say that he would be another ten minutes.

  "She can come and speak to me until you're ready," said Ferguson.

  Jenny sat on a swivel stool in Ferguson's lab while he continued to add small volumes of a chemical to a long row of test tubes. She was about to ask what he was doing when Ferguson opened the conversation by asking how things were going on the wards. "We're busy," replied Jenny, "We're at least a third under strength. People are frightened." Jenny remembered what Fenton had told her about Ferguson applying for a new job and felt embarrassed at what she had said. As casually as possible she said, "I understand from Tom that you are applying for an exciting new job?

  "I was," replied Ferguson. "But I've changed my
mind. Tom made me realise just what it would mean to the department."

  "But if it was a good opportunity…" said Jenny.

  "There will be others," said Ferguson.

  "I see," said Jenny, although she was not sure that she did. She hoped that Fenton had not been too hard on him, had not embarrassed him into changing his mind for in many ways Ferguson was very like Tom Fenton. He was tall and dark and very intelligent. She supposed that, in the classical sense, Ferguson was more handsome than Fenton for Fenton’s face was too open, too frank, too honest to be considered handsome whereas Ian Ferguson had the dark broody quality so beloved of women's magazines. There was an air of introversion about him but it was certainly not bred of shyness and there was nothing in his eyes to suggest any lack of confidence.

  The sound of Fenton's voice outside the door prompted Jenny to get up and wish Ferguson good-night adding that she hoped her presence had not distracted him too much. "Not at all," replied Ferguson. "It's always nice to see you."

  They had missed the worst of the rush hour traffic and were home in under fifteen minutes, both agreeing that they had had a hard day.

  "Let's eat out," said Fenton.

  "Where?"

  "Somewhere nice. We haven't been out for a meal in ages."

  "Queensferry?"

  "Why Queensferry?"

  "I want to be near the sea," said Jenny. "There is one thing…" she added tentatively.

  "I know. No bike. We'll get a taxi."

  Fenton got out of the shower and towelled down. His body still bore signs of the tan that he had acquired during the summer and frequent exercise in the form of squash and running had kept the flab of sedentary occupation at bay. Wrapping the towel round his waist he padded through to the bedroom and opened the sliding wardrobe. He laid out his clothes on the bed, a plain blue shirt, navy socks, black shoes, dark blue tie, dark blue suit. He shrugged his shoulders as he put on the jacket and looked at himself in the mirror to straighten his tie. He flicked at his hair with his fingers but there was little he could do about it. It was curly and unruly and that was that. Dark curls licked along his forehead taking five years off his age. Fiddling with his cuff links, he walked through to join Jenny.