"You've got lipstick on your cheek," said Fenton
Saxon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, scattering as he did so, some loose change over the pavement. Fenton helped pick it up and paused to look at something that turned out not to be a coin. It appeared to be some kind of silver medallion with a tree engraved on it. "Very nice," he said and handed it back to Saxon only to be surprised at the intense way Saxon was looking at him. It was as if Saxon had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer.
Saxon dabbed absent-mindedly at his cheek.
"Other one," said Fenton.
There were three policemen in the hallway when they entered the lab. "Mr Fenton?" said one. Fenton nodded. "Inspector Jamieson would like to see you again sir if that's convenient?
"Of course. I'll be in one-oh-four."
"You know I still can't believe it," said Saxon as he and Fenton climbed the stairs to the first floor, "I keep expecting to see Neil." Fenton nodded but managed to convey to Saxon that he did not want to speak about it.
"I was wondering if we might have a talk about the Blood Analyser,” said Saxon.
Fenton said that he was about to suggest the same thing himself and told Saxon that he had arranged with Susan Daniels to see the machine in action that afternoon. Saxon said that he would join them and asked when. "As soon as I finish with the police," said Fenton
As Fenton closed the door he heard the rain begin to lash against the windows once more He glanced out at the sky and saw that it was leaden. Mouthing a single expletive he turned to Munro’s personal research book and started through it again. He wanted to know why Munro had asked the Blood Transfusion Service for a supply of blood and what exactly he had planned to do with it. Kelly had not said how much blood Neil had asked for and he had neglected to ask. He picked up the internal phone and asked the lab secretary to check the official requisition.
As he waited for a reply a knock came to the door. It was Inspector Jamieson and his sergeant, whose last name Fenton could not remember. He motioned them to come in and said that he would be with them in a moment.
"What day did you say?" asked the secretary's voice on the phone.
"Monday."
"That's what I thought you said. There isn't one."
"Are you quite sure?"
"I've checked three times."
"Perhaps I misunderstood," said Fenton thoughtfully. He put down the phone. So Neil had made the request privately without going through channels. Curiouser and curiouser. He became aware of the policemen looking at him and put the thought out of his mind for the moment.
Fenton had taken a dislike to Jamieson after their first meeting but had been unable to rationalise it, thinking perhaps that he might have taken a dislike to anyone who had appeared to be asking such apparently pointless questions.
"I thought we might just go through a few of these points again sir?" said Jamieson.
"If you insist," said Fenton.
"I'm afraid I do sir," said Jamieson with an ingratiating smile.
So, thought Fenton, the dislike was mutual.
Jamieson at five feet ten was small for a policeman in the Edinburgh force but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth and his shoulders filled his tweed jacket, providing a firm base for a thick neck and a head that appeared to be larger than it actually was because of a thick mop of grey hair. He sported a small clipped moustache and this, together with the twill trousers and checked shirt, gave him the appearance of an English country gentleman in week-end wear. The voice however belied the image. It was both Scottish and aggressive.
As the interview proceeded Fenton was convinced that he was answering the same questions over and over again. It irritated him but, not knowing anything of police procedure, he concluded that this might be a routine gambit on their part. Annoy the subject till he loses his temper then look for inconsistencies in what was being said. It annoyed him even more to think that he might be being treated as some kind of laboratory animal. His answers became more and more cursory while, silently, he became more and more impatient. Of course Neil had not had any enemies. He had no earthly idea why anyone would want to kill him. Wasn't it obvious that some kind of deranged psychopath had committed the crime? Why were they wasting time asking such damn fool questions? Did the police have no imagination at all?
"Miss Daniels tells us that Dr Munro seemed very preoccupied, to use her word, over the last week or so. Do you have any idea why sir?" asked Jamieson.
Fenton said that he did not.
"Miss Daniels thinks it may have had something to do with his personal research work." There was a pause while Jamieson waited for Fenton to say something. When he did not Jamieson asked, "Would you happen to know what that was sir?" Again Fenton said that he did not. "But you were a friend of the deceased were you not?" said Jamieson, turning on his smile which Fenton could see he was going to learn to dislike a great deal. "Yes I was, but I don't know what he was working on."
"I see sir," said Jamieson, smiling again. "I understand from Dr Tyson that you will be tidying up the loose ends in Dr Munro's work?"
Fenton said that was so.
"Perhaps if you come across anything that might indicate the reason for Dr Munro's state of mind you might let us know?"
Fenton was nearing the limit of his patience. What possible relevance could Neil's 'state of mind' have had to the lunatic who murdered him? Were the police seriously considering suicide? Did they imagine that Neil had climbed into the steriliser and closed the door with a conjuring trick? Did they believe that he had operated the controls from inside the chamber by telepathy? A child of ten could have eliminated the suicide notion within seconds but he bit his tongue and refrained from pointing that out. Instead he said that he would pass on anything he came up with.
"Then I think that's all for the moment sir," said Jamieson getting to his feet. "But we may have to come back to you."
"Of course," said Fenton flatly.
Fenton came downstairs to join Susan Daniels in the main laboratory, a large bay-windowed room that had once been a Victorian parlour. He apologised for being late. Nigel Saxon was already there and was making an adjustment to the machine in response to something that Susan had mentioned. "Well, impress me," said Fenton.
Susan picked up one of the plastic sample spheres that Fenton had seen earlier and held it over a blood sample. "In normal times we would be doing this at the patient's bedside after a simple skin prick with a stylette, but for the moment we're using samples that have been sent in the conventional way." She touched the sphere to the surface of the blood and Fenton saw it charge. "That's all there is to it," she said, removing the sphere and introducing it into the machine. She pressed a button and the analyser began its process.
"Amazing," said Fenton, "But what happens when the temperature varies and the sampler takes up more or less blood. The readings will be all wrong."
"That's where you are wrong old boy," said Saxon with a smile. "The plastic is special. It's thermo-neutral; it doesn't go soft when it warms up and it doesn't go hard when it's cold. It's always the same. Well what do you think?"