The smile faded from Moss’s face. “Do you know what you are asking?” he said seriously.
Saracen nodded and said, “It’s my only chance.”
“All I have to go on is the schedule. Even if he hadn’t done it he could simply say that there had been a change in the listings and he had done the Archer woman instead of somebody else.”
“I think it has happened twice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Garten showed me a PM report on Leonard Cohen that Wylie was supposed to have done this morning. I don’t believe he did it.”
“I can check,” said Moss. “I’ll call you this afternoon.” Moss got to his feet and said, “I’ll have to go.” Saracen was left with an empty feeling in his stomach as he realised that he himself had nothing to hurry back for.
Saracen started to walk back to the flat in the watery sunshine that had broken through after a morning of mist and drizzle but the looming prospect of brooding in silence made him change his mind. He opted instead for a walk. He needed distraction and noise and the unwitting camaraderie of the streets would make him feel less vulnerable.
The sun broke from behind its thin filter of cloud and warmed Saracen’s cheek as he turned off the main thoroughfare to enter Coronation Park. He held the iron gate open for a young mother pushing a pram before letting it bounce back on its post and continuing down the central path to its junction with a riverside walk. The people he met on the way were either young women with children or old men and it made him wonder about the lack of old women. What did they do while their men folk followed the meandering trails of the park? Was it just that, after a lifetime of going out to work, the men felt a greater compulsion to be out and about while women were more used to the confines of the home? There did seem to be an artificial sense of purpose about the way the men moved. Even the oldest of them, backs bent as if some unseen hand were pushing them into the earth, never seemed entirely aimless in their choice of direction.
Saracen stopped as he came to a willow tree. It arched out from the embankment and hung over the river, boughs heavily pregnant with the new season’s leaves. He wondered what would have happened to him by the time it was full and green. At the moment it seemed that his only hope of professional survival lay in Moss being able to come up with some kind of proof that the PM examinations on Archer and Leonard Cohen were never carried out. But what would that mean? That the reports were forgeries? Surely not. Garten would not be that crude. But if Cyril Wylie had actually prepared them without actually doing the autopsies what did that mean? Why would he do such a thing? If the worst came to the worst, thought Saracen as he threw a pebble into the river, I’ll ask him.
The telephone was ringing in the flat when Saracen finally got home. He had the feeling that the caller would hang up just as he reached it but, for once, it didn’t happen. It was Jill. “James? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. Where have you been?
“I went for a walk.”
“I heard what happened, you must be feeling awful.”
“Not good,” agreed Saracen with a half hearted attempt at a laugh.
“Oh James,” sighed Jill, recognising the resignation in Saracen’s voice, “They can’t possibly make it stick. Everyone knows the child would have died. Dr Tang knows it; Sister Lindeman knows it. You’ll be cleared, you’ll see.”
In his heart Saracen could not share Jill’s conviction. Chenhui was in no position to back him up and Sister Lindeman’s opinion would not be sought in a purely medical dispute. But he did not say so. He said simply, “We’ll see.”
“Can I come round tonight or would you like to come round here? I’m still at the flat.”
Saracen hesitated while he thought what he had to do. “Can I leave it open at the moment? I’m waiting for Dave Moss to call.”
“Of course,” said Jill. “If you want to come round just come. I’ll be there.”
Moss called at three thirty. “Sorry I took so long. I had to wait my chance. It’s as you suspected, there’s no record of Wylie doing a PM on Cohen this morning. He did carry out an examination but it was on an eighty three year old woman named Isabella Leith.”
Saracen felt relief flood through him. “I can’t thank you enough Dave.
“There is one thing…” Moss began.
Saracen thought he detected a note of uneasiness in his voice. “Yes?”
“There’s really not much more I can do…I’d appreciate it if somehow you could leave me out of things from now on?”
“Of course, I understand,” said Saracen and thanked Moss again before putting down the receiver. He smiled wryly. Perfect friends were for books and films, real ones were human.
Saracen gave himself a moment to compose himself before dialling the number of the Pathology Unit at the County Hospital but his pulse rate rose while he waited for an answer.
“Pathology.”
“Dr Wylie please.”
“One moment. Who’s calling please?”
“Dr Saracen.”
A lengthy pause.
“Yes what is it?” snapped Wylie’s voice.
“I wonder if I might talk with you, Dr Wylie?”
“Who is this?” demanded Wylie, making no attempt to disguise his irritation.
“James Saracen, I am, or rather, I was Nigel Garten’s registrar at Skelmore General.”
“Garten you say,” said Wylie, his tone of voice changing though Saracen could not tell whether it was from surprise or something else. “What do you want to see me about? I’m a busy man.”
“Myra Archer and Leonard Cohen,” said Saracen bluntly.
There was a pause before Wylie asked quietly, “What do you mean?” This time Saracen had no difficulty in interpreting the nuance in Wylie’s voice. It was fear. Hearing it filled him with confidence. Wylie was going to be Garten’s Achilles heel, the weak link that he was going to break. “I want to know why you signed Post Mortem reports for these patients without carrying out the autopsies,” said Saracen. He heard Wylie swallow hard at the other end of the phone before he replied, “This is preposterous!”
“I agree,” said Saracen evenly. “The trouble is it is also true.” He endowed the words with the slow but irresistible momentum of an ocean liner nudging the quayside.
“You are Garten’s registrar you say?” Wylie stammered. Saracen could almost see the sweat on his brow. “Garten won’t save you,” he said, “I know all about Garten’s involvement. He is in it up to his neck. I just thought I would ask for your side of things before I went to the Police. It would be a pity of you had to take all the blame on your own.”
The words had the desired effect. Wylie started to panic. “The Police? Surely there is no need for the Police. I mean, there must be some alternative?”
“I don’t think so,” said Saracen, turning the screw.
“Look, can’t we discuss this?”
“I don’t see that there is anything to discuss really,” said Saracen coldly. “Do you?”
“But you don’t understand. At least give me the chance to explain. That’s all I ask.”
“Go ahead.”
“No. not over the phone. I’ll stay on in Pathology this evening. Come round here about nine. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Saracen could hardly believe his luck. The bullying, blustering Cyril Wylie had collapsed like a house of cards and it had been so easy. He concentrated on keeping a hard edge to his voice when he said, “I’ll be there, and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t go calling Garten or anyone else for that matter. If you do I’ll know about it and go straight to the police.” Saracen put the phone down before Wylie had had a chance to reply, confident that Wylie would not call his bluff. He was too scared.
Jill rang at four thirty. She said, “I don’t really have a good reason for calling you again. I just wanted to know how you were.”
“That was nice,” said Saracen softly, “I appreciate it. I’ve got to go out tonight to see Cyril Wylie.”