pathologist, one of two who covered the County Hospital as well as forensic work for the district. They were both based at an office in the County Hospital. Saracen phoned Dave Moss, his friend at the County to find out which one was on duty. It was an important consideration for one of the two was approachable while the other was a paranoid alcoholic who attempted to cover up his failing abilities with increasing pomposity. The latter would not take kindly to inquiries coming from someone of Saracen’s lowly status. He would almost certainly mention the matter to Garten.
“Dave? It’s James Saracen.”
“Saracen! If you are about to tell me that you are sending down a dozen patients knee deep in shit I’m going to put down the phone and pretend you never called.”
“Nothing like that…Actually it’s three nuns with gonorrhoea.”
When the banter had stopped Saracen asked who the duty pathologist was.
“Hang on, I’ll look.” After a few moments Moss returned and said, “It’s Peter Clyde. What’s the problem?”
“No problem. I just want to check up on something.”
“Uh huh,” said Moss knowingly. “I see, it’s cover up your mistakes time. Say no more.”
Saracen tried to laugh then asked, “Is he in the office this morning?”
“I think so. I saw him about half an hour ago come to think of it. His extension is 431…But I suspect it says that in your directory too…”
Saracen took the point Moss was making and said, “I’m sorry, I had to make sure it wasn’t Wylie today. The inquiry I have to make is rather delicate.”
“I understand,” said Moss. “I keep hoping that Wylie will retire soon and save us the continued embarrassment of pretending that he’s not pissed out of his mind all the time.”
“At least his patients are dead.”
“Just as well,” said Moss. “A hamster with a hacksaw could have made a better job of the last PM I saw him do.”
They made their usual assertions about having to get together for a drink and Saracen put down the phone. He lifted it again and dialled 431. Peter Clyde answered. After an initial exchange of pleasantries Saracen came to the point and asked about the Post-Mortem report on Myra Archer.
“The name doesn’t mean much,” said Clyde. “Hang on a moment.”
Saracen could hear the sound of paper being shuffled at the other end of the phone while he waited then Clyde’s voice said, “Not one of mine I’m afraid. I’ve only had one at the General in the past four weeks and that… was a man…Robert Nolan, aged sixty nine, done on the eighth.”
“Damn,” said Saracen softly. “I suppose that means that Cyril Wylie must have done it.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow. You can give him a ring.”
Saracen gave a non-committal grunt that Clyde took up on. “Is there some problem?” he asked quietly.
“It’s rather awkward. I’d rather not ask Dr Wylie.”
“I see,” said Clyde thoughtfully, assuming that Saracen’s reluctance had something to do with Wylie’s drink problem. Saracen saw no reason to disillusion him. “One moment.” said Clyde.
Saracen was left holding the phone again. He hoped that Clyde had gone to check through Wylie’s records.
Clyde returned. “No joy I’m afraid. I thought that Cyril might have left his filing cabinet unlocked but no such luck. You’ll have to approach him yourself tomorrow.”
“Thanks anyway,” said Saracen. He put down the phone and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“Problems?” asked one of the nurses.
“You could say that,” said Saracen with a wan smile but let it go at that.
All thoughts of Myra Archer were dispelled from Saracen’s head with the arrival in A amp;E of a badly injured thirteen year old girl who had been involved in a road accident with her bicycle. Both legs had been badly damaged where the car had hit her side on and she had lost a lot of blood.
“Have you alerted the theatre Sister?” Saracen asked.
“Yes Doctor.”
“Permission forms?”
“There’s a problem.”
“Can’t contact the parents?”
“No, it’s not that. They are here…but they won’t give permission for a blood transfusion. Religious reasons. They are Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
Saracen’s head dropped and he massaged his left temple with the fingertips of his left hand. It was his way of counting to ten.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“The small waiting room.”
“Put them in the office will you. I’ll talk to them.”
Saracen took a deep breath and entered the room to find a middle aged couple sitting there with their arms around each other. The woman was sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. Saracen said who he was and came straight to the point. “Let me be perfectly frank with you,” he said, “If your daughter does not have a blood transfusion soon she will die. There is no other possible outcome. Do you understand?”
The man nodded silently. The woman continued to sob.
“Will you please give me your permission?”
The woman sobbed harder. The man squeezed her shoulder and said, “I am afraid our beliefs forbid such a thing Doctor. We cannot give our permission.”
Anger simmered inside Saracen and he remained silent for a moment until he had regained his composure. He was about to say something else when they couple looked up at him and his anger was replaced by frustration. Instead of the smug self righteousness he thought that he might find in their faces he could see only pain and torment. The couple were suffering doubly, firstly because their daughter had been so badly injured and secondly because they felt compelled to block the one thing that could save her.
Saracen said, “I will now apply to have your child made a ward of court for the duration of her treatment. Do you have any questions?”
The couple remained silent but as Saracen got to the door the woman asked, “How long will that take Doctor?”
“One hour maybe two.”
“Will she…” The words died on the woman’s lips as she realised that it was a question she should not be asking.
Saracen left the room with the impression that the couple were really quite glad to have had the onus removed from them although he also suspected that they would never admit as much to anyone, not even themselves. The games people play, thought Saracen as he returned to the treatment room to check on the girl’s condition before entering Nigel Garten’s office to find the card that held the telephone numbers and instructions for instigating ward of court proceedings.
The number was engaged and Saracen cursed under his breath. When he still got the engaged tone after the third attempt he slapped down his fist on the desk in frustration and caused some ink to jump out of its silver pot and splash on to the leather desk top. He searched quickly through the desk drawers for blotting paper and found some, but there, just below it, was an open letter. Saracen’s eye caught the underlined name near the top of the page. It was Myra Archer.
When he had finally got through to the authorities and set things in motion Saracen returned to the drawer where the letter was lying and drew it out. He overcame his feelings of guilt at what he was about to do and read it. The letter came from British Airways and referred to a request made by Nigel Garten that all passengers and crew on the flight that had brought Myra Archer to the United Kingdom be contacted and treated as recommended. The letter confirmed that this had been done.
“What the hell for?” said Saracen softly as he stared at the letter. If the woman had died of a heart attack. What was all this nonsense about treatment for fellow passengers? Did this mean that Myra Archer had not died of
