Jamieson stared at the spectre for some seconds, unable to do anything. He was mesmerised by the sheer horror of Richardson's appearance, his cyanosed complexion and bulbous eyes. Incongruously, the watch on his wrist was still going. In the silence Jamieson could hear its tick and saw the second hand continue its sweep round the face as the dial passed in front of him. He thought about cutting Richardson down but that would be easier said than done. Apart from the physical difficulties involved in doing this, there was no point. Richardson was very clearly dead; there was no possibility of resuscitation. The police would probably prefer that everything was left exactly as it was.
Jamieson called them from the nearest lab phone. When he had done that he asked the telephone operator on duty in the hospital front office to call out both the medical superintendent and the hospital secretary. He did not say why, just that it was very important and that they should come right away. Jamieson replaced the phone and the lab was returned to silence. At times like this he wished that he still smoked. He had given up some five years before but right now it would have been awfully nice to light up a cigarette.
Jamieson stood in the background while the police photographer took pictures of Richardson from every angle before the corpse was cut down and laid out on the floor. The Inspector in charge saw to it that the forensic people were doing their thing and then came over to Jamieson. 'I understand you found the body,' he said. 'I'm Ryan. Is there some place where we can talk?'
Jamieson nodded and led the way to Richardson's office. He thought that Carew and Crichton would both call in there first when they arrived. When they did he could tell them what had happened.
Jamieson gave Ryan details of how and when he had discovered Richardson's body. He said who and what he was and what he was doing at Kerr Memorial.
'You and me both,' replied the Inspector when Jamieson said that he had been investigating the cause of an outbreak which had resulted in the deaths of three women patients at the hospital.
'I beg your pardon?'
'I'm investigating the deaths of a couple of women myself,’ said the policeman.
'Oh, the murders? I read in the paper that you were looking for a gang in connection with the latest killing,' said Jamieson.
'They were involved,' said the policeman. 'But they didn't do the actual killing. Our nutter did that.'
'Nutter?'
'A ripper,' said Ryan. 'Forensic told us. The woman was badly beaten and mutilated but she was dissected just like the first.'
'God, it sounds awful,' said Jamieson. 'Do you have any ideas to go on?'
Ryan shook his head and said, 'This is always the worst kind of killer to find. Most murders are domestic, plenty of leads and ready-made suspects. When it's a nutter, it's different. It's odds on he's a loner with no friends or family and there will be no personal motive connected with the victims. At best it will be some kind of general obsession, at worst no rhyme or reason at all other than the fact that the victims were in the wrong place at the wrong time.'
'I see,' said Jamieson. 'If it's any comfort I thought I had found my killer or rather, he had.' Jamieson gestured with his head to where Richardson had been found. Now I'm not at all sure about what's going on.'
Carew and Crichton arrived almost together and were shocked at the news. Jamieson noted that both of them immediately assumed that Richardson had committed suicide. 'Why?' asked Jamieson, pre-empting Ryan's question.
'John has been under a great deal of pressure over this infection problem,' said Carew. 'Much more than he ever showed. It's pretty clear that it just got all too much for him.'
'But a lot of that pressure was relieved on Friday.' said Jamieson. 'Dr Richardson called me at home. He had proof that Mr Thelwell had been carrying the bug that was causing the infection.'
Carew and Crichton exchanged glances.
'Mr Thelwell did not believe him,' said Carew.
'Worse than that,' said Crichton. 'He insisted that Dr Richardson had deliberately fabricated the result. He insisted that the opinion of another lab be sought.'
'And?'
'The Public Health Service carried out a second swab test on Mr Thelwell on Saturday. He got the result this morning. It was negative.'
'I see,' said Jamieson slowly, still reluctant to believe that Richardson had really falsified the lab test. 'That in itself isn't conclusive,' he said. He mentioned Thelwell's use of antiseptic creams in earlier tests.
'When I told Dr Richardson this morning about the PHS result he behaved very strangely.' said Carew.
'How so?'
'It was almost as if he expected it.'
'I don't understand,' said Jamieson.
'When I told him he turned ashen and had to sit down. Then he said, 'It's all my fault.'
'You mean he confessed to faking the swab test?' asked an astonished Jamieson.
'Not exactly,' replied Carew. 'He seemed somehow to be talking to himself when he said it. When I asked him what he meant he said that he now knew what had been going on and that it would all be over soon.'
'What did he mean?'
'I don't know and he wouldn't say any more. But now it seems quite obvious what he meant, wouldn't you say? He seemed quite ill, poor man.'
'I'm afraid,' said Crichton, 'that all the evidence points to Dr Richardson being responsible for deliberately engineering a positive swab test on Mr Thelwell. I think the pressure of continuing failure to find the cause of the outbreak must have pushed him too far and he saw a way of relieving it. By contaminating Mr Richardson's swab with the killer strain of Pseudomonas he would at once appear to have identified both the cause and the carrier.'
Jamieson noticed that Ryan had a bemused look on his face and caught his eye. 'Is this for real?' whispered Ryan during a lull and while Crichton and Carew carried on a conversation of their own.
'I'm afraid so,' replied Jamieson
'What's happened?' said a voice at the door.
Jamieson turned to see Clive Evans standing there.
'There's been… an accident,' replied Carew with what Jamieson thought was an air of melodrama worthy of a school play.
'Dr Richardson is dead. He hanged himself,' said Crichton.
Evans sank down into a chair and shook his head slowly. 'I don't believe it,' he murmured.
'May we ask what brought you here this evening doctor?' asked Carew.
'I'm on call,' said Evans distantly. 'I'm the duty bacteriologist. John was on this afternoon.'
Later on, Jamieson sought out Evans and found him working in his own lab. He had remembered that he had been in Richardson's office when Thelwell's swab had arrived. He also remembered that Richardson had delegated the test to Evans. Now he asked Evans about it.
The Welshman adjusted his spectacles and said, 'That's right, I inoculated the swab into two cultures.'
'Then what?'
'I don't understand,' said Evans.
'What did you do with the cultures? Did you keep them in your lab? Did you put them somewhere else? Did you read the results in the morning? Did you find and identify the Pseudomonas in them?'
'No,' replied Evans looking confused at the line of questioning. 'Dr Richardson said that he wanted to read the tests personally so I put the cultures in the incubator in his lab. He read the results. He found the Pseudomonas and made out the report.'
'Do you think it possible that Dr Richardson could have interfered with the cultures you put in the incubator?' asked Jamieson.