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.”
“The pathologist?”
“That’s right, but I should be through by nine thirty or so. I’ll come round then if that’s all right with you?”
“Of course it is.”
Saracen had no sooner replaced the receiver than it rang again. It was Sister Melrose from the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital. “You asked to be kept informed about Dr Tang Doctor?”
“She’s come round?” asked Saracen.
“No, she died ten minutes ago.”
“I see,” said Saracen hitting the flat calm of depression. “Did she recover consciousness at all before she died?” asked Saracen.
“Briefly.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Most of it was Chinese but there were a few English words. The nurse wrote them down.” There was a rustle of paper before Sister Melrose read out, “Six days, more than six days, too long, not Myra Archer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you Sister.”
Saracen thought about what he had heard but could make no sense of it although he did remember that the words were similar to those Sister Turner had reported hearing when Chenhui was ranting at Garten during her ‘breakdown’. Six days? Too long for what? he wondered and what was ‘not Myra Archer’? Maybe after seeing Wylie he would understand. He looked at his watch.
Chapter Seven
When Saracen left the flat shortly after eight thirty in the evening it had started to rain. It was light at first but before he had reached the County Hospital it had become the kind of deluge that emptied the streets of people and only the hiss of the tyres broke the persistent rattle of the rain.
The County Hospital stood on the Southern edge of Skelmore and comprised a collection of chalet-like buildings in red sandstone connected by glass windowed corridors that had obviously been added at a later date. It had originally served as a sanatorium for consumptives before streptomycin had all but wiped out the scourge of tuberculosis and, at that time, the hospital had stood at a discrete distance from the town. Passing years and spreading housing estates had brought the town right up to its boundary fence.
Saracen drove through the entrance and turned left to head for the Pathology Unit. Water cascaded off the chalet roofs and threatened to overflow from open culverts. The Pathology Unit was situated well away from the main hospital and lay in a slight dip in the grounds screened from view by a ridge of Poplar trees. A notice at the turn-off said simply, ‘Private’. This was to deter wandering patients and their visitors from approaching the circle of buildings that included the hospital mortuary.
Saracen drove slowly past the sign and turned into the courtyard. Only one other car was there, a dark blue Rover that Saracen took to be Wylie’s. He parked close to the back door so that he would be exposed to the rain for as short a time as possible in his dash to the entrance.
Warn air and the smell of formaldehyde greeted him as he entered the building and immediately evoked memories of the incident at the mortuary in Skelmore General. He had been to the Pathology Unit before but always in daylight. At night it was unpleasantly atmospheric.
All the lights were on but there was no sign of anyone about. This was not unexpected for he knew that Wylie would be alone but he also thought that Wylie would have heard him arrive. As it was, he found himself looking into rooms at empty benches and dust-covered typewriters. Not wishing to relinquish the psychological advantage he believed that he had over Wylie, Saracen refrained from calling out the pathologist’s name.
Half way along the passage he heard something metallic fall on to what sounded like stone but he knew instinctively that it would be marble because the sound had come from the turret room at the end of the building, the Post Mortem examination suite. Saracen walked deliberately towards the tall doors, clenching his teeth slightly for he had not bargained on this. He pushed open one of the doors and stood there as if unwilling to cross the threshold.
