Chameleon

'When did you last check the surgical steriliser in CSSD?' asked Jamieson.

Evans looked surprised. 'This morning. Why do you ask?'

'Was it all right?'

'Perfect. It always is. I don't see what you are getting at.'

'This lab has so far failed to find the contaminating organism in the theatres, the wards, the air samples or anything else for that matter. Correct?'

'I'm afraid so,' said Evans.

'As I see it there are only a limited number of ways this infection problem can come about. One is that some person is carrying the infection and passing it on to the patients undetected.'

'Like Thelwell.'

'Like a carrier,' agreed Jamieson. 'Another way would be for the instruments or dressings in theatre to be contaminated.'

'That's impossible,' said Evans. 'They are autoclaved in sealed packs.'

'So the lab never bothers to check them, right?'

'There's no need.'

'You check the machines but you don't check what comes out of them.'

'There's no need,' repeated Evans.

'I want you to carry out a spot check on an instrument pack from the gynaecology theatre.'

'When?'

'I'll tell you when.'

'You're the boss,' said Evans but he said it in a way that made it plain that he thought what he was being asked to do was a waste of time.

Jamieson understood his point of view but did not tell him about Thelwell having collected the instruments from CSSD. It would have been too easy for Evans to read his mind and know what he was thinking. For the moment that was too terrible to be voiced out loud. If the instruments were at fault, the contamination must be occurring after they had been sterilised. That meant that it was not accidental. The contamination had been deliberate! Women were not dying of an unfortunate, accidental infection at Kerr Memorial. They were being murdered.

NINE

The possibility that Gordon Thomas Thelwell might actually be interfering with the sterility of surgical instruments before they were used in theatre was an idea so horrendous that Jamieson had great difficulty in even considering it without his sub-conscious sending up a stream of objections and telling him that there must be some mistake. Such a thing just could not be. This was the stuff of surreal nightmares, the province of the lunatic asylum. It had to be some wild figment of his imagination born out of his intense dislike of the man but still the thought would not go away.

Later, as he lay on the bed in early evening, staring idly up at the ceiling, something inside Jamieson's head kept telling him that he had to consider it. He had to think everything through logically and without emotion. He did not have the right to dismiss anything out of hand, however repellent the notion might be. Apart from anything else it was his job to consider all the possibilities. He should do it coldly and dispassionately and eliminate each of them one by one. Jamieson started out on the process feeling that he was starting out on a journey that he had very little heart for.

It was a fact that Thelwell had collected surgical instruments personally from the CSSD. To Jamieson's way of thinking, there could be no valid reason for him to have done so. The man was a consultant surgeon, not a porter, not a theatre orderly but a surgeon. If he had gone to pick them up personally then it could only have been because he had had some strong personal reason for doing so. He had wanted to get his hands on them before they reached the operating theatre. Why? What did he want to do with them? Jamieson knew that the answer would not appear out of the blue. This was something he would have to investigate. The time for thinking was over. It was time to do something.

Jamieson knew the reference numbers that were marked on the packs that Thelwell had collected earlier from CSSD. He had made a mental note of them when he examined the graphs from their sterilising records. He would go up to the Gynaecology Department and look for them. But first he had to make sure that Thelwell was no longer around. He checked his watch and saw that it was eight o'clock. The chances were that the surgeon had gone home ages ago but just in case he called the switchboard and asked them to page Thelwell. After a wait of two minutes the switchboard confirmed that Thelwell was not in the hospital.

Jamieson entered the Gynaecology Department by the side door deciding that the fewer people who saw him the better. He did not resort to hiding in corners but did however, pause at the head of the stairs until a nurse's footsteps had faded into the distance before turning the corner and hurrying quietly along the corridor. The gynaecology theatre was right at the far end. Two swing doors, each with a circular glass window and scrape marks where trolley handles had worn away the paint led through to an outer chamber where the orderlies brought their patients on operating days. Here they would be handed over to the care of the theatre team.

A vague smell of anaesthetic mingled with a stronger odour of disinfectant as Jamieson entered the main theatre and turned on the lights. The room was instantly bathed in bright, shadowless light. Although the air temperature was at least seventy degrees the stainless steel and ceramic tiling made the room seem cold. The gas cylinders on the anaesthetics trolley, scratched and scarred on their surface through continual re-cycling, seemed incongruous amidst otherwise unblemished metallic perfection. Jamieson rested his hand on a black oxygen cylinder with its white top and looked about him. A metal cupboard caught his eye and he remembered Thelwell telling him on his tour of the department that this was where the instruments were stored.

Jamieson was conscious of the sound of his own heart beating as he crossed the theatre floor and knelt down to open the cupboard. There were six packs of instruments inside. He examined each in turn and checked its number. Packs twelve to seventeen were present. Packs eighteen to twenty-four, the packs that Thelwell had taken from CSSD earlier in the day, were missing!

Jamieson closed the door slowly and put his hand to his forehead to massage it absently with his fingertips as he thought what to do next. It was already clear that Thelwell had not brought the instruments directly to the theatre. What had he done with the missing packs? Again, there was no way that Jamieson was going to come up with the answer by thinking about it. This matter had gone far enough. He would confront Thelwell face to face and ask him what the hell was going on. He returned to the residency and asked the switchboard for Thelwell's home number.

One of Thelwell's daughters answered. 'Father is out this evening. He has a choir practice. Whom shall I say called?'

'Don't bother. It's not important,' said Jamieson. He replaced the receiver.

Jamieson felt deflated. He had prepared himself mentally for the confrontation and now it hadn't happened. He had been thwarted by a choir practice. Frustration started to gnaw at his stomach. Thelwell seemed to go to a lot of choir practices, thought Jamieson, St Serf's Church, he remembered, the Te Deum. This would, he decided, not wait till morning. He would go along to the church and talk to Thelwell when he came out. He had put on his jacket and was about to leave his room when the phone rang.

'Macmillan here.'

'Who?'

'Macmillan… Sci Med, London.'

Jamieson apologised. He was more up-tight than he thought.

'The information you asked for. The bones belonged to one Mary Louise Chapman, reported missing by her husband last night. She was twenty eight years old and five months pregnant. Forensic identified her from dental records.'

'That was quick,' said Jamieson.

'Reports of missing women have taken on a new dimension in that particular city at the moment,' said Macmillan. 'All the stops are pulled out.'