evidence amounts to – and what we can do to counter it.’
Richard folded his hands on top of his papers, as he knew the facts by heart after hours of reading.
‘Dr Smythe said that he could find no immediate cause of death, such as a coronary or a pulmonary embolus. The morphine levels were substantial, but not in a lethal range. No barbiturates were present, so Pentothal could not be implicated. He admitted that advanced pancreatic cancer with multiple secondary growths were present, but analysis of blood plasma, cerebrospinal fluid and the fluid from the vitreous of the eye showed high concentrations of potassium. He considered this last one quite abnormal and could see no other explanation but that a significant quantity of a potassium compound had been administered.’
‘Why would Angus Smythe have taken samples from the spinal fluid and the eye fluid?’ barked the QC. ‘I can understand the use of blood samples – they are the obvious source of most analyses I’ve dealt with – but why these more exotic ones?’
Richard automatically slipped into lecturer mode.
‘It’s been known for many years that blood is rapidly contaminated and altered after death, so that many substances diffuse around and their concentration bears little comparison to their level during life – especially for small molecules like sodium, chloride and potassium. However, the eye and to a lesser extent the spinal fluid are in compartments relatively isolated from other tissues and may retain the living levels more accurately.’
The others digested this explanation in silence until Nathan Prideaux snapped another question. ‘And what do you think of his findings, doctor?’
Richard considered this slowly, then made a careful reply. ‘Until I was asked to look into this case, I would have agreed with him, as they have been the accepted wisdom for many years. But some very recent research, which is still ongoing and published only in preliminary report form at scientific meetings, casts doubt on his opinion.’
He paused before continuing even more carefully. ‘In addition, there is another factor, known to physiologists but perhaps not to pathologists unless, like myself, they had specifically to seek it out.’
He then spent a quarter of an hour in laying out, in as non-medical language as he could manage for such a technical subject, why he thought Angus Smythe could be challenged.
After a number of supplementary questions by both barristers, the leading counsel again cut to the core of the matter.
‘You say that one part of your hypothesis rests on very recent work, not yet published in the scientific journals. So how did you come across it, Dr Pryor?’
‘I recall sitting through a paper presented at an International Forensic Congress in Brussels last year, when a German researcher gave a short account of his preliminary findings. That led me to delve in what little literature there was about vitreous humour, which is the jelly-like fluid inside the eyeball.’
The meeting in Belgium was one he had come from Singapore to attend, afterwards taking the opportunity to visit Britain to deal with his aunt’s will and to finalize legal affairs concerning his divorce. It was also the meeting where he met Angela Bray and hatched their scheme to turn Garth House into a private consultancy.
Nathan Prideaux’s leonine features became set in a scowl.
‘So how are we to place your contradiction of Dr Smythe’s opinion before the court in a form strong enough to convince a jury, if there is no published data to support it?’
Richard had anticipated this challenge and was ready with answers. ‘The first proposition is no problem, as it can be supported by well-known authoritative textbooks – and if needs be, calling established experts in physiology. The other one, which is so new as not to have percolated into the forensic literature, will need direct contact with the pioneers of this technique.’
‘And how do we do that, may I ask?’ demanded the QC.
‘With your agreement, I could contact the man I heard give the lecture in Brussels to confirm his findings and possibly to learn of others who may be following up the same line of research.’
‘Where is this person, d’you know?’ queried the junior counsel.
‘Last night I looked up the old programme from that Belgian meeting and found his name and academic affiliation. He is a Professor Wolfgang Braun from the University of Cologne in Germany.’
‘Presumably he speaks English, if he gave that lecture you heard,’ growled Prideaux. ‘Unless you are fluent in German, perhaps?’
Richard grinned. ‘Not a word, I’m afraid. But Professor Braun was quite proficient in English.’
The two barristers looked questioningly at each other.
‘Time is of the essence, doctor. We have only a fortnight before trial,’ said Leonard Atkinson. ‘If these foreign gentlemen have anything useful, we would have to arrange to get sworn statements made by lawyers in their home countries.’
‘Or even get them over here in person to give evidence,’ snapped Prideaux. ‘I think that you are going to have a busy time for the next few days, Dr Pryor.’
The discussion went on for a time, but they all knew that they were dependent on the results of Richard’s labours if this tenuous defence ploy was to be firmed up sufficiently to be used in court.
On the way out, Richard found himself talking to the solicitor, George Lovesey, as they went down the stairs.
‘Keep in touch, doctor,’ said the lawyer. ‘Every day if necessary, as time is breathing down our neck. Spend what you like on phone calls overseas, as long as you get some results!’
As he went to his car and started the journey to Merthyr, Richard hoped that his optimism about contacting Professor Braun and getting something useful from him was justified.
It certainly looked like a busy week ahead.
TWELVE
He arrived at his parents’ home in the early afternoon, to be faced with a huge cooked lunch that his mother had waiting for him. This was the usual routine for his weekend visits, Lily Pryor trying to make up for the two decades since he last lived at home. She was convinced that he had not been fed well enough through all these years, ignoring his normal wiry body, which he inherited from his equally stringy father.
After a couple of hours’ relaxation, in which he was brought up to date with the local gossip, tea was served, with sandwiches and home-made cake. When he had recovered sufficiently to move, he was hawked off in the family Standard Vanguard to visit his widowed Aunt Emily and her spinster sister Bronwen, who lived in a terraced house in Cefn Coed a couple of miles away. Thankfully, he was only expected to have a glass of sherry and some Welsh cakes, while he was interrogated about his divorce and the prospect of getting married once again.
He took it all in good part, as he was fond of his family. It was just as well, as he had aunts, uncles and cousins scattered all over the nearby valleys and was dragged to visit them in rotation whenever he came home. Later that evening he went up to his father’s golf club on a high plateau above the town and had a couple of pints with men he had known since he was a boy. Contentedly, he went to bed in his old room, with his pre-war books and toys still in cupboards and on shelves.
He slept well, though the task of pursuing the impending murder case revolved in his mind for a time before he fell asleep and was there again when he woke late in the morning.
A full Welsh breakfast was shaken down by a walk with his father around Cyfarthfa Park, where a Victorian castle belonging to one of the rich ironmasters was a visible reminder of the days of the industrial dominance of Merthyr Tydfil, as well as violent labour relations, squalid living conditions and epidemics of cholera and typhoid.
He planned to set off for Tintern Parva soon after the inevitable large Sunday lunch. When this was over, he was drinking his coffee when he heard the telephone ringing in the front hall.
As his mother went to answer it, his father smiled complacently.
‘I wonder how many times your mother’s done that for me?’ he asked. ‘That’s the one thing I don’t miss since giving up the practice – the damned phone dragging me out at night and weekends!’
As if to mock him, his wife’s head came around the door. ‘It’s for you, Richard. It’s the police. They want to call you out!’
‘Sorry to drag you out on a Sunday, doc, but we felt we should get you to deal with this, as you are already involved.’
