Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You!

by E. R. Pomeransky

  ‘I demanded that she be given a different nurse, they promised they’d sort it, but never did. By the end of the week she was dead.’

  Guthrie threw his cigarette stub to the ground not knowing what to say, nor having the time to say it.

  ‘Hello, Ray,’ another old man sat down on the bench. ‘What did ‘ee think of the dinner? I quite enjoyed the fish.’

  ‘Would rather have had a pasty.’

  He knew this was his get out and go clause.

  After several wrong turnings Guthrie found himself near the mortuary. Debating whether or not to take a look, he found himself walking through the doors.

  It was as he anticipated, a flag of hygiene waving across the highly polished floor and spotless walls. He wondered if they put as much effort into cleaning the wards, recalling what the old man had said.

  The lights hung down from the ceiling and walls making the area intensely bright. The length of one wall was lined with refrigerated storage units. The other wall supported stainless steel sinks. In the centre of the room were rows of sterile examination tables, thankfully empty of corpses. The last mortuary he had visited had walk-in refrigerators, storing up to 15 bodies on their individual rolling tables. The mortician there had explained, that the tables were tilted towards the corpse’s feet where there was a drain. To perform a post-mortem, they were moved to the sink, so that any blood and body fluids drained away.

  A side door was open leading into an office. Guthrie took a peek inside the room. There was a desk supporting a phone, a vase of carnations and a large Compaq computer.

  Glancing around to check he was alone, he snuck inside.

  The Eden Project he typed into the oblong space. An illustration came onto the screen showing a large grassy complex within St. Austell’s china clay hills. It appeared to be overrun by large objects that resembled giant golf balls. Below the illustration was a page of text:

  “The Eden Project will combine ecology, horticulture, science, art and architecture. It will provide an informative and enjoyable experience while promoting ways to maintain a sustainable future in terms of human global dependence on plants and trees. The exhibits we hope to include will be at least 100,000 plants to represent the five thousand species from many of the climate zones of the world. This Project is to be constructed in an unused china clay pit. The world’s largest greenhouses will be the artificial biomes. There will also be an apiary.”

  The golf balls were apparently the biomes, igloo shaped domes with hexagonal cell-like patterns covering them. They were there to house and protect the plants that came from all over the world. It was not due to open to visitors until 17th March 2001.

  Yet, what surprised him most was, the illustration on the next page. There, right in front of him, was an outline drawing of a sculpture of a giant bee.

  ‘Good afternoon, can I help you?’ a grey haired, bespectacled woman interrupted. A tweed skirt poked out from beneath her white coat.

  Guthrie handed her his MOD security card, although, he was well aware that the card was out of date. He was supposed to have handed it back over a year ago, and, of course, this was not an MOD job.

  She inspected the card before returning it.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Firstly, I need you to ensure my visit here and my identity is not revealed to anyone, not even to the hospital executive.’

  The mortician nodded. ‘Jane Tresidder’, she shook his hand.

  ‘Good to meet you, Jane. I apologise for using your computer, but desperately needed to research something on the web, I hope you don’t mind.’

  As she did not reply it was apparent to him that she did mind.

  ‘As I noticed your door open, I thought I’d pop in and ask a question.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, a friend of mine died in Belgium, do you know where she might have had her post-mortem performed?’

  ‘Can’t really say, was she buried in the UK?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, near to where she lived.’

  ‘Well, it will be on record.’

  Then suddenly a thought came to him. ‘I’m just wondering; would it be possible that she had the post-mortem done here?’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Stella Johnson.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, I do remember.’ She looked surprised, now sweeping back the fringe of her hair which had tumbled down onto her spectacles. ‘The late Colin Brodie started the post-mortem.’

  Guthrie nearly jumped in the air. The tip-off he had received while in prison was not just about the identity of the killer, but far more.

  ‘Why do you need the information, is there a problem?’

  ‘No, not really, just a few technicalities to clear up.’

  ‘I didn’t fill in the death certificate,’ she admitted. ‘And Colin was told not to fill it in.’

  ‘Didn’t Dr Brodie think it unusual not to fill in the death certificate himself?’

  ‘Well, perhaps this is a breach of protocol but it needs to be said,’ she confessed. ‘Colin was furious at the time, as he had initiated the post-mortem. He was only about a third of the way through it when they insisted that he let someone else finish it for some reason. He died soon after.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask who they is?’

  ‘Well, the hospital executive we presumed. By the way, Miss Johnson died abroad,’ the woman volunteered. ‘But, for some obscure reason, her body was brought here for the post-mortem. I mean, she didn’t even live in Cornwall.’

  ‘Anything else you can remember?’

  The woman looked puzzled, as if there was something she could not quite recall.

  ‘Did he find anything unusual on the body or in her belongings?’ he prompted.

  Her face suddenly lit up. ‘Yes, that’s it. Colin found two small cellophane packets in Miss Johnson’s pocket. One packet contained violet seeds and the other packet contained saffron.’

  ‘Oh, well, that is interesting.’

  Stella had told him that she would go Christmas shopping on the day he had gone to Ostend, but, now he realised that she had done nothing of the sort. It made him smile to think that she had been a true professional until the very end.

  ‘The packets disappeared on the night Colin died.’

  ‘Can you confirm what Miss Johnson died of?’

  ‘Well, at first it was thought she died of arsenic poisoning, but then, we also found traces of a bee sting.’

  Leaning back against one of the tables she explained, ‘we found sucrose in the sting, sugar. Sucrose decomposes at 186 Centigrade and turns into caramel. Colin thought it probable that some other heating device had been added.’

  He was out of his depth and had no idea where this was leading. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘At some point in the bee’s lifecycle this sugar would heat up inside the bee turning liquid into solid,’ she continued. ‘It would cause the bee major discomfort, and, no doubt, trigger them to sting their nearest victim.’

  Guthrie suddenly felt nauseas. Was this how Stella died, in agony?

  The woman held open the office door hinting for him to leave.

  Smiling, he stood up and walked back into the mortuary.

  ‘Did Dr Brodie find anything else?’

  ‘Yes, he discovered that the sting contained traces of cocaine, and...’

  ‘Go on,’ he prompted.

  ‘It also contained a chemical weapon of mass destruction.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Less than 250 yards from the Treliske mortuary was a large portacabin, separated from the main hospital buildings. The laboratory was filled with stainless steel cabinets and shelves that hung precariously above the sinks and worktops, most filled with surgical equipment. A small refrigerator stood in a corner, an empty cage balanced on top. In the centre of the sterile room stood an examination table and a three column theatre trolley, watched over by sophisticated lighting equipment that dropped down from the ceiling.

 
The Professor was exhausted, he wondered if he was anemic. His wife said it was due to pressure of work. He had to concede that she was probably right, he had hardly been home to dinner all month due to work.

  A large cellophane packet filled with a white substance lay open on the table before him. Carefully scooping up the powder, he tipped it into the pan. These were not modern laboratory scales, but cast iron kitchen scales which he had owned since graduation, a gift from his late father. Positioning the small black weights onto the scales until he was satisfied with the balance, he carefully tipped the contents of the pan into a funnel attached to a large glass vial. As he pushed the stopper into the top of the vial he remembered the day his father had handed them to him. ‘So proud, son,’ he had beamed. Would he still be proud? He very much doubted it.

  It was just as he was in the process of opening the liquid nitrogen tank to inspect the cell cultures, when he was suddenly interrupted.

  ‘Good afternoon. I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘Oh... hello, Simon, what a surprise,’ he did not like people creeping up on him in the lab.

  ‘So, tell me, why are you out here in a tin hut when Treliske has new state of the art labs? By the way, you’ve lost weight, is your hernia still playing up?’

  The Professor ignored the interrogation.

  ‘What brings you into this neck of the woods, working back here again?’

  ‘No, I’m still at Derriford in Plymouth.’

  ‘Really, I thought you’d gone to Barts.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, but it was only a temporary post,’ Simon explained, gazing around the sterile room. ‘I’ve only popped back to see my daughter. She’s still boarding at Truro School.’ Simon suddenly noticed the stack of large cardboard boxes near the door. ‘Busy man, you should have an assistant.’

  ‘Yes, no rest for the wicked, as they say.’

  Simon moved closer. ‘So, what are you up to, cloning Dolly mark 2?’ Picking up a box of growth hormone injections from the worktop, he studied the small print on the side. ‘Made in Belgium, eh, so what’s going on in Belgium?’

  ‘I’m modifying some growth hormone for an endocrine patient,’ he replied, hurriedly locking down the lid on the tank. ‘They manufacture it in Belgium.’

  ‘Can’t they do that in pharmacy?’ Simon removed his jacket as if he intended to stay. ‘Anyway, I thought growth hormone could be ordered directly from Pfizer marketing in Kent.’

  He had forgotten that Simon had done the occasional stint in the endocrine ward.

  ‘Pfizer HQ is based in Belgium. I’m researching a new form of this hormone.’

  ‘What, in liquid nitrogen?’ Simon frowned. ‘Oh, by the way, congratulations on the new wing at Treliske.’

  ‘Thanks, still smells of paint. Now called The Royal Cornwall. You should go and take a look at it.’

  ‘Perhaps I will on my next visit. By the way, nice BMW outside, good reg.’

  ‘Yes, bought it as a Christmas gift to myself, ha-ha.’

  ‘Great views from here, you can see right across the golf course and even Treliske’s helipad,’ Simon digressed, as he peered through the barred window. ‘Anyway, why I’ve popped in is because I’m having a few drinks this evening with some of the old cads in The Trelawney. I thought you might like to join us, say around six.’

  ‘Fine, see you then.’

  After Simon had left the lab, the Professor walked towards a small cupboard. Taking a key from his trouser pocket he opened the locked door, and carefully removed a capsule. He took the capsule over to the tank of liquid nitrogen. Retrieving a phial from inside the tank, he unplugged the stopper and poured the liquid contents into the vial of white powder along with the contents of the capsule. Although he knew there was a risk of explosion, as vapour phase cryogenic storage and not liquid was now the accepted practise, but he had little choice in the matter. As he mixed up the substance he failed to notice the shadowy figure behind the small barred window.

  *****

  Wing Commander Paul Trembath sat opposite his wife in the restaurant of the Trelawney pub, usually full of hospital staff. Suzette was a stunningly beautiful woman with her high cheekbones, large green eyes and long, black hair. Her tall slim figure was complemented by a red silk dress and matching high heeled shoes. Trembath was also dressed for the occasion in a smart, grey suit.

  It was a quaint restaurant, with fishing nets hanging from the black beamed ceiling, and a couple of old kegs standing between the pew-like benches. Photos of fishing boats and fishermen lined the walls, in between a rusty anchor and a steering wheel from a ship.

  They had chatted throughout their fish supper, although, both were tired from the day’s activities.

  ‘I’ll tell my father about the chimney when he gets back, Suzette. Probably needs a sweep, I mean a professional sweep.’

  ‘I expect you’re right, not nice a dead blackbird falling into the hearth.’

  ‘Incidentally, I spoke to the boys and they’d be happy to landscape the garden for you.’

  ‘It’s not my garden, Paul, it’s your parents’ home,’ she gave a soft sigh. ‘Anyhow, why would I want your boys doing it? I would hire a professional landscaper. I’d want a tree-house for the girls. Maybe a couple of water features, and a sundeck. Even a swimming pool, that’s how it’s done nowadays. Not just a piece of rockery and a few plants.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right as usual,’ he replied. ‘By the way, we have to go through the accounts soon, there have been a number of overheads recently.’

  ‘Let’s not talk shop, darling. Let’s talk about the girls.’ Suzette placed her fish knife and fork down on her empty plate, wiping her mouth with a serviette.

  Trembath had also finished his meal, and was now smoking a Gaulois, savouring every inhalation.

  ‘I know you aren’t happy with them boarding, Suzette, and I miss them as much as you do. But, they get a better education than at some plebby local school. And they make contacts for life.’

  ‘But, they are so young.’

  Suzette always got her own way, but not in this case. He had insisted that they went away for several legitimate reasons, although, she had chosen the school, paid for by a trust fund left by her late father. This had been their first term away and she was missing them like crazy.

  ‘Marietta said she needed new hockey shoes when she phoned last night. So we must add that to the list.’ Suzette opened her bag and took out her lipstick and compact, and proceeded to replenish her pouting lips with a glossy pink haze. ‘And Elise needs a new racket. I told her she could buy one from her teacher and we’ll send the money. Or perhaps we’ll go and see them?’ Suzette loved her daughters more than anything in the world. ‘Did I mention that Elise has passed her grade 1 on the flute and Marietta won second prize in the school gymkhana?’

  ‘About a hundred times. Elise obviously takes after you with her music. I suppose I’d better start saving for when she wants to enrol at the Royal College of Music,’ he joked.

  ‘So, Paul, what do you think about going to see them?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, I can’t get away until the autumn, we’ll go then. You could always pop up next week to see them if you want to, stay at a local hotel. Be a nice break.’

  ‘No, I’ll wait for the autumn, you’re right there’s too much to do here. Anyway, you must be exhausted after the flight.’

  ‘Pretty much, but I couldn’t miss taking you out for your birthday.’ He blew his wife a kiss. ‘How are the pottery classes going?’

  ‘I’ve not bothered this term.’

  ‘You should, you’d become another Bernard Leach.’

  ‘I don’t think so, but thanks for the vote of confidence. Think I’ll go back to painting, it’s easier.’

  Re-filling their glasses with Chardonnay, he asked, ‘Is Marietta still doing pottery or is it drama? Or has she given that up like everything else?’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical, she’s only 9. Anyway, she�
��s very good at arty things.’

  ‘I thought we’d take the girls to Spain to see my parents when work eases up, they miss them,’ he suggested.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea; we’ll invite your parents to Florida. We promised the girls we’d take them to Disneyland.’

  ‘Okay, when this job’s finished we’ll go to Florida. I’ll take early retirement and move anywhere you want to go.’

  ‘I was thinking; we could move nearer to where the girls are boarding.’

  ‘Gloucestershire? Not to my taste, Suzette. Anyway, you’d miss the sea.’

  ‘Oh, you’d love it, darling. It’s got a wonderful race track, Gold Cup and all.’

  ‘You’d be bored.’ He flicked his ash into the ashtray. ‘I just can’t imagine you socialising with a bunch of hobbits that strayed over from Wales on a wet afternoon.’

  ‘Ha-ha, that’s not very nice. No, I was thinking more of the Cheltenham Arts Festival,’ she grinned, revealing her sensuous dimples. They have a jazz fest, science fest, and even music and lit fests. It would be a great place to live for a while.’

  ‘I think you should have an exhibition in St. Ives,’ he digressed.

  ‘Maybe. I’d like to do some family portraits, you know, with the girls.’

  ‘You’ve got such beautiful eyes,’ he winked. I think it’s about time we had a son.’

  Suzette responded with a sneer.

  ‘Cheltenham does sound quite nice, it sort of grows on you,’ he laughed. ‘By the way, I’ve bought you a small birthday gift.’

  ‘You’ve already bought me a new flute.’ She glanced down at the instrument protruding from a straw bag by her feet.

  Kissing his wife on her cheek, he handed her a small box. Inside was a gold ingot and chain. The ingot was embossed with the shape of a honey bee resting on a honey pot.

  ‘Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful, thank you.’

  ‘Happy birthday, glad you like it.’ He loved his wife more than anything, loved her as passionately now as on the day they married.

  The waiter approached with the bill.

  ‘Thank you,’ he nodded, placing his card and a £10 tip into the dish.