Fenton's Winter (15 page)

Fenton looked at the short hand
on the back of the pathology report and found what specimens had
been taken at autopsy and how they had been stored. Four ticks
under 'F' were dismissed as being useless because samples fixed in
formalin would have lost all biological activity. There were two
ticks under 'FR' for freezer, one was serum and the other heart
tissue, either of these would do for his purpose. He made a mental
note of the reference numbers, closed the file and laid it gently
on McClay's desk. "Thank you," he said. McClay grunted in response
and did not look up.

The question of how to get his
hands on the post mortem samples occupied Fenton's mind for the
remainder of the morning. He knew a few people in Pathology but not
well enough for what he wanted. He would have to 'borrow' them on
his own but how? Forced entry was out of the question. He was
prepared to manipulate matters, use a little deception, generate
'misunderstandings', flirt around the edges of illegality but not
to brazenly cross the line.

The idea came to him as he
washed up before going to lunch. The Pathology Department had a
washroom too. If he could find some reason to go to Pathology at
around five- thirty he could sneak in there and hide until everyone
had left. Then he could find the specimens at his leisure and let
himself out. The idea became the plan.

At twenty minutes past five
Fenton left the biochemistry department with his pulse rate rising
for there now seemed to be a dozen reasons for not going ahead with
the plan and more occurred to him with every step he took towards
the pathology lab. He came to the double green doors and paused for
a moment to steady himself. His mouth was as dry as the desert.
Only a brief thought of Jenny made him push open the doors and walk
through.

The sickly sweet smell of
formaldehyde engulfed him as he approached the reception desk and
smiled at the girl technician who stood there. The girl smiled back
and read his coat badge. "What can I do for you Mr Fenton?"

Fenton held up the empty brown
bottle that he had brought with him from biochemistry and said,
"I've run out of this stuff and the stores closed at five. Could
you possibly let me have some until the morning?"

The girl took the reagent
bottle from him and read the label. "Of course," she said and left
him alone for a moment. Fenton looked anxiously over his shoulder
to see the entrance to the male cloakroom. It would be immediately
to his right as he left the reception area. The sound of a door
opening made him spin round in time to see the consultant MacDougal
leave his office and walk across the front of Reception. Fenton
smiled, MacDougal ignored him.

The technician returned with a
full bottle of reagent and handed it to him with a smile. "There
you go," she said.

Fenton thanked her and promised
that he would return a full one in the morning. He left the
reception area and side-stepped smartly into the gents' cloakroom
to find it empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, so far so good. He
chose the end cubicle and sat down to wait with a glance at his
watch; he did not lock the door, just pushed it almost shut,
reasoning that anyone in doubt as to whether or not a cubicle was
occupied would automatically use one of the other two. A locked
door would be a sure sign of occupancy and might attract attention.
If he was discovered he would simply flush the toilet and
leave.

For Fenton the next thirty
minutes passed like years. The initial symphony of slamming locker
doors and 'Good nights' gave way to increasingly intermittent
footsteps and distant door closing. Just as he thought he might be
alone at last the cubicle next to his became occupied for a full
five minutes forcing him into raw-nerved silence with every intake
of breath a challenge to self control. The occupant terminated his
relief by pulling, what sounded to Fenton, like reams of paper from
the holder. 'Ye gods!' he thought ...'he's building a kite.'

The toilet flushed and the door
banged open. There was the sound of running taps then the outer
door bounced on its brake. Fenton was alone again. He had prepared
himself for a thirty minute wait after the last noise had died
away. He checked his watch and re-read the writing on the wall.

Fenton tip-toed out of the
cloakroom and into the reception area to find it dark and silent.
No light escaped from under any door; he was alone...Please God he
was alone. The blood pounding in his ears told him that his nerves
were already at fever pitch and he had not yet begun his search. He
took a few deep breaths in a deliberate attempt to compose himself
before following the signs to the post mortem suite. There was
enough light coming from the street lights outside to show him the
way, which was just as well for he had not thought to bring a
torch.

He pushed open the blue door
and found it pitch black inside. The post mortem suite had no
windows. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him before
running the flat of his hand up and down the cold tiling until he
had found the light switch. Three strip lights groaned into
life.

Fenton looked about him, his
nose wrinkling at the heavy scented air freshener used to mask the
lingering smells of death. The room was large, high and round. In
the middle two stainless steel tables stood on their pedestals like
traffic islands. They were free standing, all services, plumbing
and hydraulic lines for the tilt mechanisms, having been run under
the floor. Everything in the room was hard and smooth,
predominantly stainless steel and tiling, nothing that would be
harmed by constant sluicing.

The room might have been
mistaken for an operating theatre at first glance but the
instruments on the wall gave it away, saws, hammers, drills,
chisels, things more associated with carpentry or butchery. The
spring balances and meat scales swung the analogy in favour of
butchery. The precision of the paper thin scalpel blade took a back
seat in this environment. Here the long, black, bone-handled knives
on the wall plied their surrealist art on the cold tables.

Three heavily insulated doors
furnished with metal clamps advertised the body vaults. Fenton
opened one, recoiling slightly as a waft of cold, damp air caressed
his cheek. There were two occupants inside, hooded, shrouded and
identified by luggage labels round their toes. The small size of
the bundles said that they were children. Fenton took one of the
limp labels between thumb and forefinger and read it...Amanda
Wright...age twelve. He closed the door.

The large chest freezer looked
as if might contain what he was looking for but he found the lid
reluctant to rise. He had to thump the heels of his hands against
the clasp before the ice around the rim cracked and allowed the lid
to lift with a groan. The large eye sockets of an aborted foetus
stared up at him through a plastic bag causing him to take in
breath sharply. Half afraid of what he would find next he began
brushing away ice from the tops of plastic containers, a hand, an
ear...the misty outline of a child's leg presented itself through
the plastic of its box. Fenton slammed the lid down on the hellish
Meccano and rested his hands on it for a moment, breathing
erratically. His impulse was to run, to get out of the place, out
into the night where he could walk in the rain, smell the grass,
let the wind free him from the cloying warmth of the path lab.

His anxiety subsided. He could
think again. Where would they keep small specimens? His attention
came to rest on a double bank of steel handles on the wall; they
were lettered in alphabetical order. He went over and pulled out
'A'. They were freezer files! Row upon row of little glass vials
stored in numbered racks. He had found what he was looking for.

Using the reference number from
the medical records file on Timothy Watson he found the correct
serum sample and removed the vial. He took it to the sink and held
it under the tap until it had melted. Now then...a clean vial.
Fenton searched through a series of drawers and was lucky at the
fourth attempt, clean sterile vials. Now a pipette...again he found
one quickly and transferred a small quantity of the serum from the
original vial into a fresh one. He replaced the original and closed
the file with a click. It was over. He had got it. The compressor
on the freezer shuddered into life and his heart missed a beat.

The thought that, should he
drop dead from fright, he might well end up on one of the steel
tables with his rib cage wrenched open and a hose sluicing out his
chest cavity, put wings to Fenton's heels. He switched off the
lights in the post mortem room and listened for a few moments
before opening the door. The smell of the air freshener seemed
stronger in the darkness. It threatened to choke him. The sounds
were friendly enough, clicks from thermostats, hums from fridges,
inanimate neutral sounds. He sidled out into the main lab.

The short wait in darkness had
accustomed his eyes to the gloom. Again he waited and listened
before stepping out smartly into the corridor and containing his
urge to run. He could not lock the door behind him for he had no
key so some poor soul was going to get a rocket in the morning for
having left it unlocked... C'est la vie.

The old villa was in darkness
when he reached it. He unlocked the front door and switched on the
light in the hall, taking comfort from the friendly, familiar
smells of the solvents used in biochemistry. He checked the duty
roster to find out who was on call. It was Mary Tyler, no problem,
no explanations would be necessary should she come in while he was
still there. He took the serum sample from his pocket and fixed a
self adhesive label to it adding a fictitious name, Mark Brown. He
put it safely away in his own freezer and with that done he donned
his leathers and left for home

When Fenton arrived home he found that a good night's sleep
and a day on her own had done little to restore Jenny's spirits.
Her smile of greeting lacked conviction and her lank hair and
lack-lustre eyes spoke of the strain that she was under. He sensed
that something else was wrong but did not enquire, feeling that she
would tell him in her own time. Half way through their meal she
said, "I phoned Grant today."

Fenton went cold; he put down
his knife and fork and said, "Oh."

"He told me what happened."

"Jenny, I'm sorry. I should
never have gone there."

Jenny was close to tears. She
said softly, “It's all right. I know you were only trying to help.
Grant knows that too, in fact, I think you managed to convince my
own brother that I did not kill his son." There was bitterness in
her voice before she covered her mouth with her handkerchief.
Fenton got up and put his arms round her from behind. He put his
cheek against her hair and rocked her gently from side to side.

When Jenny had calmed down
Fenton told her of his virus idea. It was a candle in her darkness.
"Do you really think so?" she asked with more animation in her
voice than had been present for some time. Something persuaded her
to have second thoughts. She added hesitantly, “You're not just
saying that are you?"

Fenton was adamant that he was
not and went on to give his reasons. Jenny found his enthusiasm
infectious and, with very little prompting, was able to add
substance to the foundations of his argument. Despite this, and
although desperate to believe it, she still felt compelled to play
Devil's advocate. "But there are no viruses that cause uncontrolled
bleeding are there?" she asked.

Fenton countered the doubt by
saying, "There was no Legionnaires' disease either until a whole
bunch of Americans dropped dead of it. Then people all over the
world started recognising similarities to cases that they had been
seeing for years and dismissing as 'viral infections' or pyrexias
of unknown origin."

Jenny accepted the argument and
Fenton pressed home his case. "What we are seeing is very acute
haemophilia. Before you say it, I know that haemophilia is a
genetic disorder but I can see no reason why, given the right set
of circumstances, a virus should not be able to simulate the
condition if it attacks the right cells."

Jenny was sold on the idea. She
asked Fenton what he planned to do.

"Get some material from one of
the victims and find the virus," said Fenton.

"But how?"

"I've already got it." Fenton
told Jenny his tale of derring-do and saw her mouth drop open. "But
what if you had been caught?" she said.

"I wasn't and I've got the
sample."

Fenton said what he planned to
do next. He would send the sample off for analysis under cover of a
fictitious patient's name. He would make a special request for
animal inoculation and ask for blood samples from the test animals.
When he had evidence of the infective agent he would present it to
Tyson.

"How long?" asked Jenny.

"Five days."

With hope restored to her
Jenny's morale began to improve. She began to think of her return
to work, of hearing the apologies, the assurances that, 'not for
one moment had anyone really believed...'

Fenton was pleased at the
change in her, it was so good to see her smile again, but he also
felt a burden grow on his shoulders. What if the tests should prove
negative? How could he bring himself to tell her? He knew very well
that the repair to Jenny's psyche was only in the nature of a
temporary patch. If the patch were to fail the wound might well
split open and that could be disastrous as he knew from experience.
Life could so easily become a desert of depression, a limbo where
time stood still. That must not happen to Jenny.

Tired with talk of the weather.
She said, "You will get the report today."

"Should do," said Fenton in
what he hoped was a matter of fact voice. In truth he had thought
about little else all night. His stomach was tied in knots at the
very thought of it. Unwilling to look at Jenny in case she read his
mind, he went to the window and drew the curtains back. "I have had
it with 'Bonnie Scotland'," he announced, spitting out the words as
he looked at the rain lashed roofs. "You have got to be a bit soft
in the head to live here. Why don't we get married, pack up and get
the hell out?" He turned to look at Jenny.