The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) (13 page)

But this plea to the void had not even an echo to give it succour.

"Professor?" She moved towards the head of her department. It was as if he was in a fugue. Gently she touched him as she repeated her call.

Quite abruptly and with an exaggerated start he reacted. For perhaps half a second he seemed confused and then, "What the hell?"

He focused on Harriet as if her presence was an affront. Then he looked again at the X-ray films hanging from his hand by his leg. She noticed that he was gripping them so tightly that his fingers appeared a murky white through their opaque blueness. She noticed too that there were sweat marks on the film.

"Get out!" he moaned. "Please get the fuck out of here!"

She wasn't used to this from Turner and was at first puzzled, then outraged. She began to speak, to argue and protest, but the look on his face was implacable. She pinched her face into silent protest and hurried from the office.

He sneezed violently.

*

On the Monday evening, Rosenthal was waiting for Hartmann by the third-year noticeboard in the main entrance foyer of the Medical School. He was closely examining the rugby team lists, the crude, amateur posters that advertised discos from weeks ago, the handwritten small ads for flat-shares and the odd official notice. Hartmann only saw him at the last moment — would have tried to avoid him if he could have — and his expression told of dismay and shame. He didn't want to be reminded of what he had done, both at the hotel in Scotland and subsequently in the department.

Rosenthal had a smile on his face as he turned to Hartmann and said, "Brings it all back. The sad squalor of student life."

Hartmann didn't know how to react. In his mind Rosenthal was associated with memories and emotions that made him feel subhuman, yet the man was behaving as if they were the best of friends, as if no adultery, blackmail or professional misconduct had ever occurred.

"Shall we talk? Over here?"

Rosenthal indicated the seats on the far side of the large foyer. Hartmann didn't say anything, didn't even nod, but then he didn't need to, for Rosenthal was in complete command of this situation. He ushered Hartmann to a seat and they sat together. There were small groups of students scattered around, and passing through there was a small but steady stream of students, nurses, porters, doctors and others, but the foyer was large and there was no chance of being overheard. "Tell me what's happening," suggested Rosenthal. "There was a fuss, I hear, about the body."

Hartmann heard the words but couldn't believe them. To describe the furore that had exploded around the department as a "fuss," to encapsulate the unadulterated torrent of grief that he had known over the past few days in such a belittling way, was too much for Hartmann. He was tired and he was worried and he was sick of himself, and suddenly he wanted to make someone else feel miserable too. He grabbed Rosenthal's arm and said, "'Fuss?' Do you realize what I've been through? Do you know how much shit's been flung at me? Do you? Do you?"

Rosenthal reacted only by looking down at the hand on the arm of his jacket. He regarded it for a moment, much as a cat might examine a mouse, then raised his gaze to Hartmann's face, who was immediately aware that Rosenthal's arm had no give in it. He could have been holding a prosthesis.

"Get the hand off me, will you?" Rosenthal had the accent of an officer and the manner of an easy-going friend. His words were a request but the look in his eyes suggested that it was a mandate backed by force. Hartmann, suddenly feeling as if he'd touched the Pope, released him.

And, as though it had not happened, Rosenthal suggested, "Tell me."

So Hartmann, unable to stop a little fear of the other colouring his attitude, followed orders once again. He told him of the Wednesday when he had changed the labels on Millicent Sweet's body with those of a similar young woman, as Rosenthal had instructed. He described how the first consequences of this action had reached him when he had had to go down to the post-mortem room and had first seen, then been implicated in, the discussions that were occurring between some undertakers, Professor Bowman, Lenny and Denny. The undertakers were returning a body because when Mr Raymond Sweet had gone to pay his last respects at the funeral parlour, he had been presented with a stranger.

From there it had blossomed. It soon became clear to all what had happened — that Millicent Sweet was now labelled as Clara Fox, that unaccountably there had been an almighty cock-up in the mortuary. The Dean of the Medical School got involved; the Bursar of the Medical School got involved; the Chief Executive of the Hospital got involved. When the Chair of the Trust Board rang up (a man normally so somnolent that he was rumoured to have fallen asleep in front of the Queen when she opened the new wing) it percolated through even the brains of Lenny and Denny that here was major shit.

An internal enquiry was instigated and the press got hold of it. There were even rumours that Raymond Sweet had consulted a solicitor. Hartmann was targeted because he had performed the autopsy — was it possible that the labels had become switched during the post-mortem? Purely accidental, of course.

Hartmann had known that he wasn't being suspected — inevitably Denny and Lenny were the main target of the investigators and inevitably they met this threat with intransigence and profanity — but he had known also that his soul was lost, even as he gave profligate assurances of his innocence.

The upshot of all this was that Raymond Sweet had indeed contacted a solicitor, who had written to Bowman, a serious clinical incident had been declared and an investigative team of one manager, one independent clinician and one lay member of the Trust Board had been convened. Denny and Lenny had come close to offering Hartmann physical punishment since they were convinced that he was somehow responsible, although they could not articulate why. It was a minor thing but one that, in Hartmann's mind, seemed unduly significant.

Rosenthal took no kind of note but his expression suggested he was memorizing the detail. "What was the name of the solicitor?" he enquired. Hartmann took a moment to recall it. "Flemming, I think. Helena Flemming."

"And the letter said what?"

But Hartmann hadn't seen it. Rosenthal seemed disgruntled but he didn't push it. Instead he said, "I want a copy of your report."

"My report? Why?"

Rosenthal smiled. "To make sure that you're keeping up your end of the bargain, old chap."

"I've done everything you've asked me to."

"I'm sure you have. I'm sure you have." But Hartmann understood that he would have to provide the copy.

"You swapped the samples that were taken at autopsy?"

"Yes, yes."

"And the special ones?"

For a moment Hartmann didn't know what he meant, then he understood. The fresh samples that Belinda had taken for genetic analysis. His instructions from Rosenthal had been quite explicit — he was to dispose of all evidence that might suggest that Millicent Sweet had died from multiple cancers and he was to substitute evidence that she died from something else. Hartmann had had to exchange the specimens he had taken for microscopic examination with others from a case of lymphoma, then tailor his report to reflect the new diagnosis. His only difficulty had been with Belinda, since she had not taken to his conclusions easily.

"Lymphoma?" she had said, her voice not so much carrying incredulity as being moulded from its substance. "That was lymphoma?"

Hartmann's nod had been as natural and convincing as he could make it. He did not feel that he made a great job of it. "I know. I couldn't believe it either, but here are the slides. Take them and have a look yourself."

And this she had done, returning an hour later, admitting that he seemed to be right but perplexed nonetheless. It was then that she had asked, "What about doing some molecular biology? We've got those fresh samples, don't forget. I've already extracted the genetic material."

But he had forgotten, and the shock when she said these words was almost sickening. "But you can't!" he shouted.

The vehemence of this caught Belinda by surprise. She wasn't prone to break down under difficulty or stress but the shock of being harangued by Hartmann — someone she considered to be somewhat weak and shallow — unnerved her. "But … "

"You had no right!"

" … But why not?"

And this question, it seemed, was a good one, for Hartmann appeared to have to think about the reason. Then, "You know the rules. The cause of death is known. The Coroner's jurisdiction is over and we can't do any more investigations."

"But is it? I mean, you saw the body. I've never known a lymphoma do that before, have you?"

" … Oh, yes. On occasion."

But the pause had picked out the lie and Belinda's vision was acute. "I'm sure if we explained to the Coroner, he would allow … "

"No!" Again the violence of his refusal was surprising. Perhaps aware that he had overstepped the mark he added more gently, "The coroner has my definitive cause of death. He won't allow further investigation without the permission of the next of kin, and I really don't have the time or the inclination to pursue it."

Belinda knew that this was odd, that this wasn't just another cancer death, and she wanted to argue but he was the Consultant and she only the Registrar. He said, "We cannot justify extracting or analysing the genetic material from this tumour. Please destroy it."

And reluctantly she had nodded.

In the foyer of the Medical School he said to Rosenthal, "Don't worry It's all been disposed of."

*

Helena's journey back home was long and frustrating due to a huge points failure in Berkshire causing an hour-long delay. It was unseasonably warm and the air-conditioning in the carriage didn't seem able to cope with her temperature or her mood.

He had refused, and that was bad enough, but there was something else. Something that she now put from her mind. She had undertaken a round trip of three hundred miles only to have him say that he was sorry, but no, he wasn't able to help her. Bloody man. Why couldn't he behave normally? Why did he constantly have to make her life difficult?

The train began one of its sporadic, slow and brief crawls forward and for a few seconds her mind wandered from her anger at John Eisenmenger. He had looked ill — awful, in fact — and there was no doubt that the night's sleep had done him no good. His pallor had become more pronounced and his skin had seemed almost transparent, as if he were covered in a thin, plastic film of exhaustion. Words had been few from him, and those that he found had been for her the wrong ones.

Over a breakfast of fruit and coffee he had said, "I'm sorry, Helena."

"You're not interested in helping?"

He had smiled as if he had heard her tone and understood its purpose. "It's not that I'm uninterested … "

"Not interested enough, though."

He shrugged, refusing to react to her jibe. He had dropped his head at once as if afraid that she would see something in his dark-rimmed eyes. For a moment she had allowed her frustration to swell, then she had seen not intransigence but fear in his demeanour and she had understood. Marie.

She hadn't dared mention Marie by name before and in truth she didn't dare to now. She could appreciate how Marie hung over Eisenmenger like a wraith, how her terrible, terrible death had eternalized her so that perhaps he would never be free of her. Certainly as long as the scars from his burns persisted, she suspected that he would have to endure her memory.

She reached across the small wooden table and touched his hand. It was the first time that she had touched him and his head jerked up as if shocked at such forwardness. For a moment he just stared at her hand over his, then his eyes moved up to her face and she had suddenly realized how deeply she could fall in love with him.

If she ever allowed herself to.

As soon as she had seen this truth, it must have shown on her face for his expression had changed to sorrow almost at once and her hand had been lost from the touch.

She had left shortly afterwards, wondering to whom she could turn now.

*

Turner had always been a driven man, whipped by ambition to ever higher peaks, but always deep down he had wondered if he was being forced away from his past rather than towards his future. An occasion in his childhood when he was perhaps six rested within him like a splinter of metal, unremembered and unforgiving. He had come home from school early, dropped by a neighbour, assuming to find his mother home. She had not been there, although there was no fear of loneliness for his father had been unexpectedly present. Present and standing to attention, in the company (and body) of his sister-in-law, known to little Robin as Aunt Andrea.

His surprise was one of uncomprehending stupefaction, theirs one of comprehending fear and alarm. He had run away despite their calls that he should return, his consciousness filled with certainty that here was
sin
, here was a monumental
wrong
, yet incapable of analysing just what he had seen and why it was so wrong.

He had taken what refuge he could in the garden, in the overgrowth at the back of the shed, oblivious to the calls, first of his father, then of his mother. Only when darkness had given him smothering did he come into the house. If his father was worried about what might be said, he concealed it perfectly as he beat his son slowly, methodically and with enthusiastic grimness. His father had never actually threatened him to keep silent, but the malevolent, burning gaze had been message enough.