Chameleon

'You're too modest,' insisted Sue. 'We must have a small celebration.' She held up a bottle of German wine that she took from the fridge in the kitchen. 'What do you say?'

'Why not,' agreed Jamieson.

After dinner Jamieson took off his shoes and lay along the couch pleased at the feeling of contentment inside him.

'What like was Kerr Memorial?' asked Sue.

'A gloomy place, dirty, run down, full of people doing their best against the odds. The usual.'

'If the phone call in the morning confirms that the surgeon was to blame, will you have to go back up there?' asked Sue

'Briefly, to tidy things up.'

'Then what?'

'Whatever Sci-Med has in store.'

Sue moved to the couch. She lifted Jamieson's head momentarily to sit down and then replaced it in her lap. 'Did you miss me?' she asked.

'More than I can say.'

'What did you miss most?'

'What do you think?'

'My cooking? suggested Sue.

'No…' replied Jamieson hesitantly as if he were considering.

'My… conversation?'

'Not… exactly.'

'Then what?' asked Sue feigning wide eyed innocence.

'Come closer.'

Sue inclined her head and Jamieson whispered in her ear.

'Scott!' exclaimed Sue.

'You asked and I told you,' said Jamieson matter of factly. And if a man can't tell his wife that then it's a sad state of affairs.' Jamieson was enjoying Sue's discomfort.

'It's not that,' said Sue. 'But you didn't have to be so…so…'

'Vulgar,' suggested Jamieson with an amused smile. He drew Sue down towards him and whispered hoarsely, 'Yes I did. I feel vulgar. I feel earthy. I want you. I want to rip off your clothes and have you right now. His hand began to move over Sue's knee.

'Scott!' protested Sue. 'Put me down!' But the protest was half hearted and betrayed by laughter. Jamieson could tell from the warmth of Sue's lips when he pulled her face down on his that she too was aroused. He sat up on the couch and turned so that he could have her beneath him. He started taking her clothes off, first her blouse so that she was left with just her bra on her top half while he undid the zip on the side of her skirt.

'I take it we are not going to bed?' asked Sue with a smile.

'Correct.'

'Daddy said he might call round.'

'He's going to have to wait.'

'Sometimes I don't believe how much I love you,' murmured Jamieson as he lay on the cushion gently stroking Sue's hair.

'Believe it,' whispered Sue. 'Please believe it.'

Jamieson rose first in the morning and made the breakfast. It was a beautiful morning and he took the opportunity to stand out in the garden while he waited for the kettle to boil. There was hardly a breath of wind and dew drops hung on spiders' webs in the bushes. A village cat scurried away from its hide where it had been stalking birds as Jamieson neared the spot idly kicking a crab apple that had fallen from its tree. He was up at the top of the garden when he heard the telephone ring.

It was John Richardson. He said, 'I thought I would phone you and then I wouldn't have to wait around for you to call me.'

'Good thinking.'

'I'm afraid the strain from Thelwell is the killer strain. It has the same immunity pattern to antibiotics.

'So that is that,' said Jamieson conclusively.

'Ostensibly,' said Richardson, his voice pregnant with hesitation.

'I don't understand.' said Jamieson. 'You have found the source of the infection. Thelwell was carrying the bug. It all fits. What more conclusive evidence could you hope for?'

'I know that's how it seems,' agreed Richardson but I want to talk to you before we say any more.'

'What about?'

'I'd rather not say on the telephone. Perhaps you could come in to the lab on your return?'

'That won't be until tomorrow evening unless of course there’s some good reason for coming back sooner?'

'Tomorrow evening will be fine. I'll stay behind in the lab until you get here. Any idea what time that will be?'

'About eight.'

'Fine.'

'Who was that?' asked Sue from the bedroom.

'John Richardson, the Consultant Bacteriologist at Kerr Memorial.' said Jamieson thoughtfully. ‘The surgeon was carrying the killer strain.'

'So it's all over?'

'I think so,' said Jamieson distantly. 'But Richardson wants to talk to me before he makes the report.' Jamieson came back inside to get on with making the breakfast.

Sue dressed and came downstairs. She sensed that Jamieson was troubled about something and asked what it was.

'Richardson,' said Jamieson.

'What about him?'

Jamieson paused while he inserted bread into the toaster then he said, 'It was as if he really didn't believe what he was telling me.'

'You mean he thinks he's made a mistake?' asked Sue.

Jamieson smiled wryly. 'That's what Thelwell would maintain. He thinks that Richardson in some way engineered the whole thing.'

'Good Lord, what a place,' said Sue. 'And what do you believe?' she asked.

'I saw the culture. It was Pseudomonas.' said Jamieson. 'He didn't make that up.'

'Then I can't see the problem,' said Sue.

'Neither can I,' confessed Jamieson. 'That's what's bothering me. But if there is one I'll find out tomorrow night.'

The traffic was light on Sunday evening and this, combined with the fact that he had had such an enjoyable week-end, ensured that Jamieson did not lose his temper once on the journey north. He was still in a good mood when he got into his room and unpacked his bag. He would have a coffee before going down to see Richardson then he would come back and write up his report for Sci-Med. If there was time after that and Richardson had introduced no new problems he would go out for a couple of drinks at a nearby hotel and then have an early night.

As he rounded the corner to cross the courtyard to where the steps leading down to the lab were he saw a figure hurrying along the far side. Jamieson recognised the walk. It was Gordon Thelwell. He wondered what the surgeon was doing in the hospital at this time of night.

Jamieson took extra care on the stone steps to the lab for the light was failing and the nearest wall lamp was faulty. He pushed open the door and fumbled for the switch before finding it at the third attempt and clicking it on.

He could see a light coming from under John Richardson's door but when he knocked there was no reply. He tried again and then entered to find the room empty. The desk lamp was on and some papers were lying there as if Richardson had been reading them. The swivel chair behind the desk had been swung to the right as if Richardson had just got up from it. Thinking that Richardson had just stepped out for a moment to go to the lavatory perhaps, Jamieson sat down to wait. The minutes passed and Jamieson had to abandon his theory. He left the room to go in search of Richardson.

A quick search of the ground floor failed to reveal any sign of the consultant. Calling out his name did not help either. Jamieson started down the stairs to the basement. He stopped on the third step when he thought he heard something. It sounded like a creaking tree. 'Is anyone there?' he asked. The steady timbre of his voice thankfully breaking the silence which was breeding a distinct unease in him. There was no reply. Just the creaking sound again. 'Dr Richardson?'

Jamieson reached the bottom of the stairs and was feeling for the next light switch when something hard brushed against his face. He took in breath sharply and stepped backwards, throwing up his hands to push away whatever it was. When he touched it he knew exactly what it was. It was a foot, a human foot wearing a shoe but it was at face level!

Jamieson's pulse rate soared and he broke out in a sweat as he continued his frantic, flat handed search for the light switch like a mime artist faced with an imaginary wall. At last he found it and lit up a nightmare. John Richardson was hanging from one of the wooden support beams in the ceiling. He was hanging by a leather strap that had bitten deep into his fleshy neck. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and his tongue, blue and distended, lolled out of his mouth at one corner. The creaking sound was being made by his body revolving slowly in response to the positive air flow through the lab.