by Ken McClure
Fenton's gaze fell on the drain he been about to pour the acid down and a dark thought crossed his mind like a cloud across the moon. Wondering if paranoia were getting the better of him. He squatted down and examined the pipe leading down from the drain. He was looking for signs of recent dismantling. He failed to find any but remained uneasy. He had to know for sure. He fetched a spanner from the lab tool box and undid the coupling at the head of the bend. Gently he slid out the curved section of pipe and looked inside. His fingers were shaking slightly as he saw signs of a chemical lying in the trap. Cautiously he sniffed the end of the pipe and recognised the smell. It was potassium cyanide!
If he had poured acid down the drain on top of cyanide crystals when the extractor was non-functional the whole lab would have been filled with hydrocyanic gas within seconds and everyone in it would have died.
Everyone in it? thought Fenton. He was the only one in it and where was Saxon? He had been gone for ages.
Nigel Saxon came in to the lab carrying a tool box. "Couldn't find the damn thing. It was under the back seat."
"Really?" said Fenton looking Saxon straight in the eye.
"Good God. What's happened?" asked Saxon as he caught sight of Fenton's face. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"There's something wrong with the fume cupboard," said Fenton.
"Is that all?" asked a puzzled Saxon.
"There are cyanide crystals in the drain."
"You mean the drain is blocked?"
Fenton stared at Saxon for a full thirty seconds before saying, "If I had poured acid down it…"
Saxon shook his head and said apologetically, "I'm sorry. I'm not a chemist. What are you trying to say?"
Fenton was desperately trying to appraise Saxon's behaviour. He seemed genuine enough. But did he really not know what the consequences would have been? Had it really been coincidence that Saxon had chosen that particular moment to be out of the room?
Fenton's head was reeling. Had someone really tried to kill him? He searched desperately for another explanation but all he found was a new suspicion. He faced the possibility that the incident in the pub had been no accident either, no act of mindless violence as the police had called it. It appeared that someone wanted him out of the way and whether it was temporary or more permanent did not much seem to matter. But why? Whoever it was must think that he knew more than he did. How ironic if he were to end up being killed for something he never knew in the first place.
The flat was empty when Fenton got in for Jenny had gone to visit some of her old flat mates. But Fenton was glad of the time it gave him to calm down. His hands still shook a little and his insides still felt hollow but a stiff whisky helped fight the symptoms and prepared him to confide in Jenny when she did come in.
"But why?" exclaimed Jenny when Fenton told her.
"I keep telling you I don't know," maintained Fenton.
"Who knew you would be in the lab today?" Jenny asked.
"Lots of people. We discussed it at the dinner party the other night."
"So it has to be one of the lab staff?"
"Or Saxon," said Fenton. "He picked that very moment to disappear."
"What about when he came back?" asked Jenny. "Did he look guilty?"
"No," conceded Fenton.
"What other possibilities are there?"
"I suppose it is just possible that the damper failed for some technical reason.
"And the cyanide crystals?"
"Coincidence? We use cyanide a lot."
"I think I prefer that notion," said Jenny.
Fenton preferred it too. He just did not believe it.
Jenny was still sleeping when he left for work next morning. She had not stirred when he kissed her so Fenton tip-toed out of the room, taking great pains to close the door quietly behind him.
It felt good to be back on the bike again although his ribs still hurt when anything more than light pressure was required on the handlebars. He gunned it up the outside of a long queue of cars in Lothian Road and joined the leading one at the traffic lights. They changed and Fenton was just a memory to its driver before the man had had time to engage first gear.
Charles Tyson arrived in the car park at the rear of the lab as Fenton was heaving the Honda on to its stand. They exchanged pleasantries and walked into the lab together. There were two engineers from the hospital works department working on the fume cupboard and Tyson paused to ask what was wrong. He asked Ian Ferguson but it was Fenton who answered. "It broke down yesterday," he said.
By ten o'clock Fenton felt as if he had never been away for, within minutes of sitting down at his desk he had picked up the threads and was back in the old routine. Hospital biochemistry kept him fully occupied until Wednesday when he found some time to chase up those who had volunteered to give blood for the Analyser tests. Charles Tyson was the last on the list. Fenton withdrew the blood, ejected the sample into two plastic tubes and took them along to his lab. He brought out the relevant rack from the fridge and placed Tyson's samples in the last two holes. He now had the required number of samples to begin the tests.
As he made to put the rack back in the fridge he noticed something odd about Tyson's specimen in the second tube. It was still unclotted. He withdrew both tubes and shook them gently, one should have remained quite fluid for the test tube had anti-coagulant in it but the other contained nothing save for the blood. It should have clotted. Fenton looked at his watch and saw that ten minutes had passed since he had taken the sample. Far too long! He raced along the corridor and burst into Tyson's room, getting a startled look from both Tyson and Liz Scott who was taking dictation. "Your blood isn’t clotting," he blurted out.
Tyson looked at the inside of his arm and said, "It isn't bleeding. It stopped normally." Fenton still looked doubtful. Tyson said, "Probably a dirty tube…but just to make sure, pass me a scalpel blade will you."
Fenton opened a glass fronted cabinet and removed a small packet wrapped in silver foil. He handed it to Tyson. Liz Scott screwed up her face and said, "What on earth…" as Tyson slit through the skin of his index finger and watched the blood well up. He dabbed it away with the clean swab that Fenton handed to him and checked his watch. Fenton and Liz Scott watched in silence as Tyson continued to dab blood away. At length he said, "There, it's stopping. See? Quite normal."
Fenton let out a sigh of relief and said, "Thank God, I thought for a moment that you were number five." Now able to think of more mundane matters he realised that he was short of one blood sample and said so.
"Perhaps Liz?" Tyson suggested, turning to look at the secretary who screwed up her face before agreeing with more than a little reluctance. "I hate needles," she said as she rolled up the sleeve of her blouse.
"Look up," said Fenton, before inserting the needle smoothly into the vein and drawing back the plunger. "There now, that didn't hurt did it?" Liz Scott agreed that it hadn't. "Just hold the swab there for a minute or so," said Fenton placing the gauze over the puncture mark, "then you can roll down your sleeve."
Fenton brought the tubes back to his lab and held them up to the window. One of them remained fluid while the other was clotting normally. He put them in the fridge to wait with the others until later. He would run them through the Analyser in the evening when everyone had gone and Jenny had started her shift on night duty.
Fenton came downstairs to the main lab to see what lay in store for him and read through the request forms from the wards. "I don't believe it," he said out loud as yet another request for a lead count appeared in the lists. "Twelve…fourteen…sixteen bloods for lead! What's going on?"
Alex Ross gave a thin smile and said, "You've got Councillor Vanney to thank for that."
"Vanney?"
"He's been opposing an extension to the ring road; his latest tack is to scaremonger about lead pollution from car exhausts if the new road goes ahead. You know the sort of thing; IQ will drop by fifty points if you walk too near a Volkswagen Polo. He's been ca
lling for the screening of all children living near the first stage of the road."
"What's his real reason?"
"The more cynical among us might suggest that the new road would screw up a development of luxury flats that Vanney and Sons are building on the south side."
"Turd."
"He's a powerful turd." said Ross.
"Who are the 'Tree Mob' Alex?"
Ross was taken by surprise at the suddenness of Fenton's question. What was more, he seemed to Fenton to visibly stiffen. "What made you ask that?" he stammered.
"The other night at the party you suggested that Saxon Medical had got special treatment because of the 'Tree Mob.' Who are they?"
Ross put his hands to his forehead and said quietly, "One day my big mouth will be the death of me."
"I don't understand," said Fenton.
"I've said too much already," said Ross.
"You can't leave me hanging," Fenton protested.
Ross looked doubtful then took a deep breath and said, "There's an organisation called the Cavalier Club which is currently trendy with the establishment. Their emblem is an oak tree. It's supposed to represent the tree that King Charles hid up when he was hiding from the roundheads.
"But what has that got to do with Saxon getting preferential treatment from the Department of Health?"
"There are a lot of powerful people in the club. They scratch each others' backs and what's more, they consider themselves to be above the law. Rumour has it their influence is growing all the time."
"But a club?" protested Fenton.
"More a society really."
"If you say so," said Fenton. "How come I haven't heard of it?"
"You were in Africa for a long while."
Fenton found it hard to believe what Ross had told him but one thing stopped him from saying so. He had remembered that the medallion that had fallen from Nigel Saxon's pocket in the car park had had a tree motif on it. He said nothing to Ross.
Fenton nursed his dislike for politicians all through the procedure for lead estimation for it was the least popular test in the lab. True to form his hands got covered in blood; they always did with lead tests. He was washing them for the umpteenth time when the phone rang and Ian Ferguson said, "Tom, it's Jenny."
Fenton finished drying his hands and took the receiver. "Don't tell me," he joked, "You just called to say you loved me?" The smile died on his face when he heard Jenny sobbing. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"
"I'm at the police station…" said Jenny before she broke down again.”They're holding me…"
Fenton couldn't believe his ears. "Holding you? What are you talking about? You're not making sense."
"The murders, the police think I did them."
Fenton was reduced to spluttering incredulity. "Is this some kind of joke? What are you talking about? How can they possibly think you did them?" He heard Jenny take a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, then she said, "My brother Grant's boy, Jamie, you remember, the one who was down in Edinburgh? He's dead. He bled to death! Oh Tom, I'm scared. Please come."
The phone went dead before Fenton could reply; he clattered the receiver down on its rest then snatched it up again and called Jamieson.
"Nurse Buchan is at present helping us with our inquiries Mr Fenton," said the gruff voice at the other end of the phone.
"Come on man! I'm not the bloody press. What's going on?"
"I am afraid I have nothing to add sir," said Jamieson.
"Well, can I see her?"
"No you can't."
"Is brain death a prerequisite for the Police Force?" snarled Fenton.
"I must warn you sir that…"
Fenton slammed down the receiver. His immediate thought was to rush round to the police station and demand to see Jenny but the fact that he was in the middle of the lead tests prevented him from doing something, which he realised after a few minutes thought, would have been pointless. The police would not be impressed by histrionics. What Jenny needed was expert help, the help a lawyer could give. He went to speak to Tyson.
Charles Tyson was as shocked as Fenton had been when he heard the news.
"Jenny needs a lawyer," said Fenton "I wondered if perhaps you could recommend anyone?"
"Of course," said Tyson, opening his address book. "Phone this firm." He copied down a name and a telephone number on to a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Fenton. Fenton thanked him and said that he would keep him informed of developments. He returned to his own lab and dialled the number. They would send someone round to the police station.
Fenton found that lack of information was the main obstacle to his coming to terms with the situation. Jenny had said that Jamie was dead but he had to know more, he had to find out when, where and how and that might be difficult in the circumstances. The circumstances were that Fenton's contacts with Jenny's family were few and far between…and not that cordial. Her sisters-in-law regarded Jenny as something of a scarlet woman for living in sin, as they saw it. Her brothers, although a little more tolerant of the situation than their wives, did not have much time for a man who did not work with his hands and, therefore, did not conform to their notion of what a real man should be. He had detected a certain coolness in Grant Buchan when he had met him briefly the week before. But there was no alternative, Fenton decided. He would have to phone the Buchans; the number would be in Jenny's address book in the flat.
Fenton grounded the near-side foot rest as he swung the Honda out of the hospital grounds and on to the main road. The lurch from the machine served as a timely warning to him that he would be no good to Jenny dead. He forcible restrained himself and bit the bullet at every set of traffic lights.
The phone seemed to ring for ages before a woman with a strong north-east accent answered and Fenton said who he was. There was a silence then the receiver was put down, but not on its rest, on a wooden table by the sound of it, thought Fenton. A few moment later a man said, "Yes, what is it?"
Fenton recognised the voice as that of Grant Buchan. "Grant? I'm phoning to say how desperately sorry I am about Jamie. But something awful has now happened down here. They're holding Jenny in connection with Jamie's death!"
The expected outburst did not happen. Instead, Buchan said, "I see."
"What do you mean, you see?" Fenton exploded. "Did you hear what I said? The police are holding Jenny! They think she had something to do with Jamie's death!"
Buchan was unmoved by Fenton's outburst. He sounded as if he was under some kind of sedation as he said, "My boy cut himself playing down by the harbour. By the time he had covered fifty yards he was dead, every drop of his blood was on the stones, I can still see it in the cracks, it won't wash away.
Fenton felt the man's agony, he rubbed his hand on his forehead and said softly, "I'm sorry, believe me, I know what it's like to lose a child, but you must see that some awful mistake has been made. No one in their right mind could think that Jenny was a murderer."
After a long pause Buchan said, "No but my son died because his blood wouldn't clot. He had been poisoned with anti…anti…"
"Anti-coagulants."
"Anti-coagulants. The method used by the Princess Mary Slayer."
Fenton winced at the tabloid jargon.
Buchan continued, "My laddie was never anywhere near the Princess Mary Hospital but Jenny works there and we stayed with Jenny when we were in Edinburgh."
"You can't seriously believe that Jenny had anything to do…" Fenton broke off in mid-sentence. "It's crazy!" he protested. "The thought of Jenny being involved is just too ridiculous for words!"
"People get sick some time…sick in their heads."
"No way," said Fenton decisively. "Jenny is not sick. Jenny is the sweetest, nicest, sanest person who ever lived. She did not kill Jamie; she did not kill anyone else. Let's get that straight!"
There was silence from Buchan.
Fenton was filled with the frustration. "Look Grant," he said, "We can't talk properly
over the phone, I'm coming up there."
"I don't think that's a very good idea…" began Buchan.
"I'm coming," said Fenton and put the phone down. He thought for a moment before picking it up again and dialling the lawyer's office. Yes, their Mr Bainbridge was still at the police station and no, they did not have any further information.
Fenton paced up and down the flat like a caged tiger, he opened the drinks cupboard then closed it again without taking anything out. That wasn't what he needed. He opened another cupboard and took out his running shoes.
The pavements were wet but the wind had dropped as Fenton pounded out the first mile at a pace designed to replace tension with physical pain. Every time he found his mind straying to thoughts of the police or Grant Buchan he would lengthen his stride till the surge of anger was quelled inside him. By the end of the third mile his mind was calm and he had become more relaxed. He slowed to an easy jog and thought about what he was going to do.
He had told Grant Buchan that he was coming up to Morayshire but was that really the right thing to do? he wondered. What good could come of it? What could he hope to find out? A sudden gust of wind caught the bare branches of the trees above him and made giant raindrops fall like diamonds under the street lights. Several hit him on the face making him wipe them away with the back of his hand. He moved off the pavement to avoid running directly beneath them. The answer! That was what he could hope to find out. Jamie Buchan's death must hold the key to the whole affair. There must be a link between Jamie and the Princess Mary. The police thought that Jenny was that link but he knew that she was not. Find it and he would have the answer to the whole nightmare. The sweat was trickling freely down his neck as he turned for home.
Fenton lay awake in the darkness watching the reflection of raindrops on the ceiling of the bedroom. The run had pleasantly stretched his muscles and the bath had relaxed him but the flat was so empty and lonely without Jenny. Where was she now? What were they doing to her? The police would not give out anything other than the clockwork statement that they were still holding her. Sleep was out of the question and he still had a long night ahead of him before travelling north… But did he? Fenton saw the alternative. He could leave right away! If he rode through the night he could be there by morning. That would be better than lying brooding in the darkness. He dressed quickly, donned his leathers, and collected a few odds and ends and tip-toed downstairs to rock the Honda off its stand.