The possibility that the killer might actually be one of the lab staff was not mentioned but it ran through everyone's mind. The staff of the lab was small, sixteen in all including the two women who washed the glassware. There were no convenient strangers to suspect. Everyone knew everyone else, or so they thought.
Another day passed and the work of the lab went on as usual, it had to, but the atmosphere had changed dramatically. The light, good humour which had made it such a pleasant place to work in disappeared overnight. Neil Munro and Susan Daniels had gone and in their place had come fear and suspicion. The constant comings and goings of the police only served to heighten the tension as they returned to ask the same questions time and time again.
Fenton's spirits hit a new low on Friday at Neil Munro's funeral. The unrelenting wind and rain swept through an unkempt cemetery as they lowered Munro's coffin into the ground with prayers that were carried away on the wind and a handful of earth that spattered irreverently on the lid and turned to mud almost immediately. Tyson, Ross and Fenton, the three representatives from the lab, went to a nearby pub afterwards and drank whisky without speaking as water still trickled down the back of their necks and wet grass from the graveside clung to their shoes.
Fenton got home at six to find Jenny already there. 'It was that bad?' she asked, reading his face.
'That bad,' Fenton agreed quietly
'Do you want to stay home and brood about it or shall we go out?'
Fenton thought for a moment then said, 'We'll go out. Somewhere noisy.'
They had no trouble finding a noisy pub in Edinburgh on a Friday evening. They picked one near the west end of Princes Street that proclaimed 'Live Music Tonight' and pushed their way through the throng to the bar. Jenny watched the changing expressions on Fenton's face as he tried unsuccessfully to attract the barmaid's attention. He had the most expressive of face of anyone she had ever known. His eyes could sparkle with good humour one moment and turn to dark pools of sadness the next. His mouth, wide and generous, always searched for a reason to break into the boyish grin she loved so much. As he turned away from the bar she smiled quickly to conceal the fact that she had been watching him. 'Hey, look,' said Fenton, pointing with his elbow, 'They are just leaving.'
Jenny saw the couple who were about to rise and led the way over to the table. Fenton followed, holding their drinks at shoulder level to avoid being bumped and saying, 'Excuse me' at appropriate intervals. He laid the glasses on the table then took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair before sitting down to look around at the Friday night people. Groups of girls, groups of boys, all pretending to be engrossed in their own conversations but being betrayed by constant side-long glances, the occasional loner, more interested in the alcohol than the company, couples old, couples young.
Intermittent and discordant tuning noises suddenly coalesced into a solid wall of electric noise, wiping out conversation like a shell burst. 'Release me!' demanded a spotty youth through his over amplified microphone as he gyrated inside black leather trousers. 'Satan's Sons,' proclaimed the gothic script on the bass drum. Fenton exchanged painful glances with Jenny, his head reeling against the sheer volume. He saw her mouth move but could not lip read the comment. The song ended leaving their ears ringing in the sudden quiet. 'I feel a hundred years old,' said Fenton.
'Let's go,' said Jenny. They finished their drinks and got up to leave as the spotty youth prepared to launch his second front.
The wind had dropped and the air smelled fresh and sweet as they emerged from the smoke and noise on to the still wet street. 'I think a trifle more sophistication is called for at your age,' said Jenny with a smile.
They walked for a while before turning off along a wide, sweeping Georgian terrace where most of the houses had been turned into hotels, each engaged in a neon struggle with its neighbour to attract attention. They decided on the 'Emerald Hotel' and found the bar to be uncrowded and, more important, quiet. Green shaded table lamps and oak panelling on the walls suggested a country house library.
'How are things in the lab?' Jenny asked.
'Terrible,' said Fenton, 'Nothing is said but suspicion is rife. One of the juniors brought me a cup of coffee this morning and I actually toyed with the idea of pouring it down the sink when he had gone, just in case.'
'But surely the killer could be an outsider?'
'I suppose so but it's obvious that the police are concentrating on the lab.'
'What do you think?' asked Jenny.
Fenton shook his head. 'I have no idea, no idea at all.'
On Monday the secrecy contrived at by the police and hospital authorities came to a sudden dramatic end. 'Mystery Hospital Deaths' in The Scotsman became, 'Maniac Stalks Hospital Corridors' in the Daily News and ensured that the hospital switchboard was jammed all day with calls from anxious relatives seeking reassurance. Tyson called the lab staff together to warn against talking to reporters and making things worse. The official line was to be that two members of staff had died in suspicious circumstances and the police were investigating. No details were to be furnished. But too many people in the hospital knew the details. Tuesday morning brought, 'Steriliser Horror,' and, 'Girl Dies in Pool of Blood.'
The idea of a psychopathic killer being at large in a city hospital fired the imagination of the front page of every newspaper in the country. Radio and television reporters interviewed anyone with even a remote connection with the Princess Mary and the Chief Constable of Edinburgh appeared on television, in full dress uniform, to assure a worried public that matters were well in hand and a speedy arrest could be confidently expected.
In private, Inspector Jamieson could not share his superior's optimism. With no obvious logic or motive behind the killings police routine was largely useless. Their best hope lay in the possibility that the killer might get over confident and reveal himself in the process. Of course there was always the chance that the murderer, like Jack the Ripper, might just stop but he would not be betting his pension on that. Special passes were hurriedly printed and issued to staff and relatives to allow them to cross the police picket at the gates which had been mounted to keep the morbidly curious at bay.
Fenton was speaking to Nigel Saxon about the enforced delay in completing the paperwork for the Saxon Blood Analyser when Ian Ferguson came into the room. Ferguson was obviously surprised to find Saxon there and said, 'Sorry, I just wondered if I might have a word.'
Saxon got to his feet, 'No problem. I was just going anyway.'
Ferguson stood to one side to allow Saxon to pass then closed the door. He seemed embarrassed.
'What can I do for you?' Fenton asked.
''Fact is,' faltered Ferguson, 'Well…I've decided to apply for another job. Can I put you down as a referee?'
Fenton stared at him for a moment for it was the last thing he had expected to hear from Ian Ferguson. 'What's the problem?' he asked.
Ferguson looked at his feet. He said, 'There's a job going at the Western General. I quite fancy a change. More experience and all that…'
'And you are scared,' said Fenton.
Ferguson looked as if he were about to argue but then he simply sighed and said, 'Aren't you?'
'Yes,' said Fenton.
An uneasy silence reigned for a moment before Ferguson said, 'You must think I'm a right coward.'
Fenton turned to face him. 'I don't think that at all. I'll even give you a good reference but, what I won't give you is a round of applause. There are three hundred children in this hospital and if you leave we will be three under strength. We'll manage but it will be that much harder on those of us who stay.'
'Well,' sighed Ferguson, 'I hadn't quite thought about it that way. You don't beat about the bush do you?'
The question was rhetorical but Fenton chose to reply anyway, “No, I don't.'
Charles Tyson put his head round the door as Ferguson left. 'What was all that about?' he asked, feeling the atmosphere in the room.'
'Ian is thinking of applying for another job.'
'That would be a pity,' said Tyson. 'He's one of the best we have.'
'It would also leave us up shit creek without a paddle,' added Fenton.
Tyson grimaced at Fenton's expression and said, 'A fact I'm sure you managed to convey to him with admirable clarity.'
Fenton grunted.
