“This is quicker than walking round the outside,” said Dolman. He stopped as they came to a closed door and half turned, saying, “I am afraid we have to pass through here but you being a doctor and all…” His voice trailed off without further explanation and he opened the door. Saracen entered to a sight that took him unawares and a smell that brought his hand up to his face.
The naked corpse of an old woman was lying on a marble slab while two men, one with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, worked on it. A series of plastic tubes led out of the cadaver and were draining away the body fluids into a number of stainless steel buckets on the floor. One of the men was preparing to replace the fluids with a chemical mix.
“Embalming,” said Dolman. “So important that the dead should look their best don’t you think?”
Saracen did not reply. He would cheerfully have blown up the place but saying so was not going to help.
Dolman spoke to the men. “Dr Saracen is here to examine the departed, Leonard Cohen. Would one of you take him through and give him every assistance.” The directive was aimed at the man with the cigarette who responded sullenly by getting up slowly from his stool and leaning over one of the buckets to release the butt from his lips without using his hands. It fell with a hiss into the stinking slop. Still without speaking, he inclined his head for Saracen to follow him. The man put Saracen’s teeth on edge. He found his fingers bunching into fists as he followed him through a narrow stone passage until they came to a room marked ‘Morgue’.
Saracen stood back as his reluctant assistant opened up a refrigerator with space for six bodies; four were in residence. Saracen read the name tags over the man’s shoulder. Carlisle, Hartley, Finnegan and Cohen. So Garten had transferred the remaining two bodies from Skelmore General after all.
The examination did not take long and afterwards Saracen washed his hands in the grubby little sink in the corner and faced up to the fact that he had discovered nothing new. The corpse had been that of a man in his sixties with no unusual features or peculiarities at all. Unless Chenhui had actually known him personally it was difficult to see anything about the man that could have upset her so badly.
Dolman came into the room, hands still clasped together. “Quite finished Doctor?” he asked with an obsequious smile.
“Quite.” said Saracen.
Dolman turned to the man beside him and said, “Return Mr Cohen to the fridge will you and get out Miss Carlisle. She is going at noon.”
Saracen was glad to get out into the fresh air even if it was full of diesel fumes. But anything had to be better than the Hell’s kitchen atmosphere of Dolman’s. He returned to the hospital and questions from Alan Tremaine.
“So you are no further forward then?” said Tremaine when Saracen had finished telling him about Cohen.
Saracen agreed and asked about Chenhui’s condition.
“She’s not upstairs any more. She’s been transferred to the Psychiatric Unit at Morley Grange.”
“On whose say-so?” asked an astonished Saracen.
“Garten’s I suppose. I don’t really know. Why?”
Saracen did not reply immediately. He had to admit to himself that he was in danger of becoming paranoid about almost everything Garten did. Was it really so strange that Chenhui had been taken to Morley Grange? Why should he see something sinister in it? Why should he immediately jump to the conclusion that Garten was getting Chenhui out of the way, putting her some place where people, himself in particular, could not ask her questions. He became aware that Tremaine was still waiting for an answer. “Oh nothing, I suppose that’s the best place for her…if she’s ill.”
Tremaine looked puzzled but then remembered something. He said, “Dave Moss phoned while you were out. He asks that you call him back.”
Saracen called the County Hospital then had to wait while the operator paged Moss.
“You are not going to believe this,” said Moss, sounding slightly embarrassed.
“Try me,” said Saracen.
“That PM on Myra Archer…”
“Yes?”
“There never was one.”
Saracen was struck dumb.
“Are you still there?” asked Moss as the silence lengthened.
“I don’t understand,” said Saracen. “There had to be one. She was a DOA and she didn’t have a general practitioner to sign the death certificate.”
“Well I’ve been right through Wylie’s files. No Myra Archer.”
“Maybe the file has been removed?” suggested Saracen.
“I thought you would say that so I checked Wylie’s schedule from the twelfth to the fifteenth. He had a full list but Myra Archer was not among them. There simply was no PM done on her James.”
Saracen still found it hard to swallow. “So who signed the death certificate?” he asked, thinking out loud.
“If what you say is true I think I would like to know the answer to that one too,” said Moss.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Saracen, slowly replacing the receiver. As he stood there, deep in thought, Sister Lindeman came up to him and waited in silence until she had his attention.
“Yes Sister?”
“If you have a moment Doctor, I’d like a word.”
Saracen followed her into her office and she closed the door. She looked worried. “It’s about the JW you gave blood to,” she began. “The girl has developed hepatitis. She has been transferred to the County.”
Saracen rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and said, “God, that’s all I need. She must have got it from the transfusion.”
“Almost certainly.”
“How is she?”
“She’s holding her own and the parents haven’t said anything as yet but, in the circumstances, they might read more into the complication than might otherwise be the case. If that happens the ball might well land up in your court.”
Saracen nodded and said, “No pun intended on the word ‘court’ I hope Sister.”
Sister Lindeman smiled and said, “Let’s pray it won’t come to that. For what it’s worth I’m with you all the way. You did the right thing in the circumstances.”
Saracen said, “It’s worth a great deal Sister…Let’s go stitch some heads.”
Saracen was sitting on his own in the hospital canteen wondering whether or not to eat the mess in front of him or perhaps underseal his car with it when Jill Rawlings came in and sat down beside him. She joined him in a silent appraisal of what was on the plate before saying quietly, “Give me a stick and I’ll kill it.”
Saracen managed a wan smile and said, “I think somebody already did, a very long time ago.” He pushed the plate away and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“Problems?”
“And how.”
“That bad?”
“Damn near it.”
“My friend Mary is off home for a week; I’m staying in her flat. Why don’t you come round this evening? Bring a bottle of wine and I’ll make you a decent meal.”
Saracen looked at her and smiled. “That sounds good,” he said. “I’d like that.”
“Then it’s settled.” Jill gave Saracen the address and they agreed on eight o’clock.
At four in the afternoon Saracen called the County Hospital and asked Dave Moss about the condition of the girl who had been transferred there with hepatitis.
“She’s OK for the moment. What’s your interest James?”
Saracen told him.
“Ye gods Saracen, you certainly have some kind of professional death wish don’t you.”
“What would you have done?”
“The same…I hope.”
“Do you think she’s going to be all right?”
“If nothing else happens she’ll be fine and if the parents should ask how she got it I’ll tell them the ways of the Lord are strange.”
“Thanks, I owe you.”
Saracen left A amp;E at seven. He stopped at an Off License on the way home to pick up some wine and found the experience less than cheering for he always found such places depressing at night. After a slow saunter along the wine shelves he decided on a litre of Valpolicella and joined the check-out queue behind a man in dungarees carrying a six pack of beer and a very small woman, almost lost inside a purple mohair coat. The woman hugged a half bottle of port to her breast as she counted out the exact amount from the clutches of her purse and paid without comment. Saracen hard to work hard to stop himself imagining the woman’s life. For the moment he had enough troubles of his own.