Tangled Web (14 page)

‘Injecting a single cell sounds horrendously difficult,’ said Gordon.

‘It’s certainly not easy,’ replied Dawes, ‘but equipment is getting better all the time so it’s nowhere near as challenging as it was. It’s a bit like playing a computer game; the more you play, the better you get.’

‘Ran’s too modest,’ said Thomas. ‘It still demands a very high level of skill whichever way you look at it.’

‘Do you do a lot?’ asked Gordon.

‘Maybe a couple a month.’

‘What’s the success rate?’

‘Not as good as we’d like, we’ve had quite a few problems with miscarried foetuses.’

Gordon nodded. ‘Professor Thomas mentioned that it hadn’t all been plain sailing.’

‘It’ll get better with time. The more we do, the more experienced we get, so it’s important we keep trying.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Gordon.

It was time to move on and Gordon thanked the embryologist for the demonstration, saying, ‘I’m grateful, Doctor Dawes.’

‘Ran - everyone calls me, Ran.’

‘Thanks, Ran. It’s not often we GPs get a chance to see what’s going on in the hi-tech world. It’s more a case of lancing boils on bums and treating recurrent bronchitis.’

‘Any time,’ smiled Dawes. ‘You should come along to the symposium next week: you’ll get a much better feel for what’s going on in the field than you get from reading the journals.’

The professor said, ‘I’ve already suggested that.’

‘Maybe I’ll manage to come along at some point,’ said Gordon. ‘I’d certainly like to.’

‘Then make the time,’ smiled the embryologist.

The tour of the department finished with Gordon being shown the long-term storage tanks for embryos – huge, floor-standing, stainless-steel vessels kept cool with liquid nitrogen that swirled around like thick fog when Thomas removed one of the lids. ‘Possible brothers and sisters, should they be required,’ said Thomas.

‘How long do you keep them?’ asked Gordon.

‘We’ve kept them all so far,’ replied Thomas, ‘Partly to avoid the moral dilemma that everyone talks about but we’re going to have to face up to it soon: we’re running out of storage space.’

Gordon thanked Thomas for showing him around and Thomas reiterated that he hoped he might see him at some time during next week’s symposium.

On the drive back from Caernarvon, Gordon returned to thinking about John Palmer and knew that he was beginning to feel the strain of isolation over the affair. He was clearly the only person in the world who believed that
both
the Palmers were innocent. He could explain away John’s confession, but not the fact that the baby had been found buried in the Palmers’ own garden. This was something he’d avoided thinking too much about, perhaps because it stretched his own faith to the limit. But maybe this was exactly what he
should
be doing, he considered; he should be facing the problem head on and trying to figure out why the real killer had done something so bizarre.

Ten minutes had gone by before Gordon came up with a possible motive and it was quite simple. If the murderer had gone to all the trouble of returning the baby’s body to the Palmers’ garden,
he must actually have wanted the Palmers to get the blame for the crime.
But why, for God’s sake? The killer must hold an outrageous grudge against the couple. Could it be that either or both of them had such a monstrous enemy? It was hard to believe. John and Lucy had been generally well liked by people before the event - but it was a thought worth bearing in mind.

‘A new cot-death directive came in today,’ said Julie by way of greeting. ‘I’ve left a copy of it on your desk: it’s over twenty pages long.’

‘Saying what?’

‘Very little, I think the bottom line is that they still don’t know what causes it,’ said Julie, ‘But they take twenty pages to say it.’

‘I suppose it’s only to be expected after the Griffiths baby dying,’ said Gordon. ‘The powers that be have to be seen to be doing something but God, when you think about it, the experts have had the kids lying on their backs, their fronts, their sides, with the window open, the window closed. What is it this time? Upside down from the ceiling?’

Julie grinned at Gordon’s annoyance ‘Our profession has never been noted for its willingness to employ the words, “we don’t know” with any great relish,’ she said. ‘They prefer us to work that out for ourselves … over twenty pages in this case.’

‘I met Carwyn Thomas today,’ said Gordon, changing the subject. ‘He invited me to attend the IVF symposium next week at the General.’

‘You
are
honoured,’ said Julie. ‘Do you plan on going?’

‘I think I’ve got quite enough on my plate already in the way of extra-curricular activity,’ said Gordon.

‘I’d much rather you abandoned one of the other things,’ said Julie but she softened the comment with a smile.

‘Maybe I’ll manage one or two of the talks,’ said Gordon, not wanting to be drawn into any new argument over the Palmer case. ‘Anything new?’ he asked, noticing that Julie was going over their case figures for the month.

‘It’s really been quite quiet,’ she replied. ‘I think this means we’ve successfully come through another winter. The bronchitics are wheezing their way into spring and colds and flu are fading away for another year. We’re enjoying a bit of a lull at the moment.’

‘Until the hay fever and asthma people start up again,’ smiled Gordon.

‘Life’s a circle,’ said Julie.

Gordon, who had been opening the mail that had come in while he’d been up at Caernarvon as they spoke, let out a quiet expletive.

‘Trouble?’

‘It’s Rita Farningham’s histology report; the lump on her breast is malignant: they want her in right away.’

‘Oh, rotten luck,’ sighed Julie. ‘Are we talking radical surgery here?’

‘From the size and position of the lump I think they might well opt for a lumpectomy rather than anything more drastic at this stage,’ replied Gordon.

‘I hope so. She’s young.’

‘We’ll just have to hope for the best until they’ve done the scans,’ said Gordon. ‘And please God, it’s the primary lesion.’

‘Better call her in.’

‘I’ll do it now.’

Gordon poured himself a large whisky when he got in around seven and slumped down in a chair: it had been a lousy day, he decided - a promising start but a hellish end. Having to tell a thirty-four year old woman with two small children that she’d got cancer hadn’t been easy, but then, giving out that kind of news never was. It was something that he hadn’t become hardened to in the job. He’d then come in to find that the heating had failed yet again and there was no hot water for the relaxing soak he’d been looking forward to. He threw back the whisky in one big gulp and opted for a second.

How, he wondered as he sipped it, did one go about getting permission to visit a prisoner being held on remand? He pondered this for a few minutes, allowing the whisky to restore his equanimity, before deciding that he would have to seek advice on the matter. He would telephone John Palmer’s solicitor, Roberts, in Bangor in the morning and ask him. With that decided, he kicked off his shoes and padded through to the kitchen to open the freezer door, only to discover that he’d run out of packet meals. He’d had so much on his mind at the weekend that he’d forgotten to fit in a trip to the supermarket.

He looked at his watch; it was seven-thirty. He could go this evening, he reckoned, many of these places stayed open till late. First he would have some coffee, ignoring the remains of that second whisky, maybe read the evening paper and then drive along to the Tesco store that lay on the main road between Felinbach and Bangor. He’d fill the Land Rover with petrol at the same time and kill two birds with one stone.

He settled down with the paper in front of the electric fire and was reading an article about the problems caused by the spread of wild rhododendrons down in Beddgelert when the phone rang.

‘Is that the Doctor Gordon who came to Prosser’s today?’ asked a gruff sounding male voice.

‘It is. Who’s that?’

‘Maurice Cleef.’

Gordon felt a frisson of excitement grip him but he did his best to keep it out of his voice. ‘What can I do for you Mr Cleef?’

‘Look, I don’t want to get in no trouble over this Griffiths baby business, see.’

‘What sort of trouble are we talking about?’ asked Gordon calmly although he felt very different inside.

‘The deal is, I tell you what you want to know and let that be an end to it, see? You leave me out of everything after that. I had nothing to do with any of it. Is that understood?’

‘Tell me.’

‘There was a pause then Gordon heard Cleef say, ‘Shit, I’ve no more change and I’m in a call box.’

‘Give me the number and I’ll call you back.’

‘I can’t see a number. Bloody thing’s been vandalised. Bastards! Look, I’ll be in the Harlech Arms in Caernarvon. Meet me there in half an hour.’

The line went dead and Gordon replaced the receiver slowly, trying to think logically although his pulse was racing. He felt as if he’d just been given a role in a movie and wasn’t quite sure how to play it. Presumably Cleef was going to tell him who in the Pathology department had been responsible for putting the waste tissue into Megan Griffiths’ coffin.

Maybe, he thought, he should contact one of the other members of the inquiry team – say Swanson, and get him to come along as a witness. On the other hand, you didn’t have to be Albert Einstein to work out that the presence of another person would almost certainly scare Cleef out of saying anything at all. There was no alternative; he would have to go up to Caernarvon and meet Cleef alone if he really wanted to find out the name of the culprit.

Gordon had only a vague notion of where the Harlech Arms was in Caernarvon and he could still be wrong, he admitted as he turned left in the square opposite the castle and drove down the steep hill leading to the docks. He thought he’d seen a pub of that name down on the lower dock road to the west of where he usually parked his car.

The rows of dark sheds and warehouses did not seem encouraging and he was beginning to think that he’d been mistaken when a yellow pub sign loomed up out of the darkness and he read to his relief,
Harlech Arms
, above the door. A soldier, wearing a red tunic holding a musket and standing to attention, looked out from the sign to the dark Menai.

The road was too narrow to park outside so he crawled slowly past until he found a clear stretch of tarmac outside the entrance to a warehouse. It seemed a reasonable bet that access would not be required until the morning so he left the Land Rover there and walked back.

He was expecting the pub to be quiet, being a bit off the beaten track, so he was surprised to find it busy. The clientele were mainly men although there were a couple of women sitting at a table just inside the door. The pub itself was like a million others of its sort - smoky, dirty and less than welcoming to strangers. Cleef did not appear to be there.

‘What’ll it be?’ asked a fat barman with thinning blonde hair and a smile that might have been more convincing had it featured teeth. Gordon started to wonder what had happened to them but thought it best not to continue with this line of thought. ‘Half of Fosters,’ he said.

He was down to the last two inches in his glass and was checking his watch for the third time when Cleef finally arrived. He looked very scared.

ELEVEN

Cleef joined him at the bar and Gordon could see that the man was living on his nerves.

‘What will you have?’ he asked, trying to introduce a note of normality.

Cleef looked at him distantly as if drink was the last thing on his mind. ‘Err … pint of bitter,’ he said.

‘I was followed,’ said Cleef in a hoarse whisper. ‘That’s why I’m late - I had to give him the slip.’

Gordon found this melodramatic. ‘Followed? Are you sure? he asked handing over a five-pound note as the pint arrived.

Cleef waited until the barman had given Gordon his change before saying, ‘I’m sure all right. This guy was hanging about outside Prosser’s at knocking off time, and there he was again, standing across the road from my house when I left to come here. I walked around the block just to test him like, and sure enough, the bastard followed me. I had to nip up a lane and take him for a tour round the docks to lose him.’

‘But why would anyone want to follow you?’ asked Gordon.

‘It’s this Griffiths baby business,’ said Cleef, ‘I’m sure of it. I wish to Christ I’d blown the whistle at the time and been done with it.’

‘Go on.’

Cleef looked nervously around about him before saying, ‘Look, all I did was keep my mouth shut about the coffin being closed when I arrived. I didn’t know the kid wasn’t in it for Christ’s sake.’

‘Who asked you to keep your mouth shut?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You don’t know?’ exclaimed Gordon, his voice full of disbelief.

‘I’d never seen the guy before.’

‘It wasn’t one of the mortuary attendants, then?’

‘No, nothing to do with these guys - I know
them
well enough. They weren’t around when I got there. In fact, I was looking for them when this guy came up to me and asked what the problem was. I told him I was looking for someone to tell me why the Griffiths coffin was all closed up and he said it was nothing to worry about; they’d done it because they’d needed the space.’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘I told him they’d just have to open the bloody thing up again because I’d brought up the clothes the couple wanted their kid to wear for the funeral.’

Cleef paused and Gordon had to prompt him to go on.

Cleef looked sheepish. ‘He gave me a hundred quid to go away and keep my mouth shut - said there was no need for it to bother my conscience. The kid was dead, didn’t matter what she wore.’

‘You took the money?’

Cleef shrugged defiantly. ‘‘Course I took the money. Humping stiffs around doesn’t exactly put you at the top of the earnings league.’

‘So you took the money and brought the coffin back to Prosser’s without saying anything to anyone.’