Ken McClure - Fenton's winter

I don't believe this, thought Fenton. They want their names in the paper. He smiled wanly and said, "Thanks, I'll remember that."

"Right then," said granite eyes, "Is that your bike ower there?"

Fenton said that it was.

"Well ye better get oan it then!" Granite eyes broke into bronchitic laughter at his own joke and turned to yellow skin and the fat woman for support. Fenton smiled weakly and started to walk towards the Honda.

"Just a minute pal!"

The words hit the back of Fenton's neck like bullets; he turned slowly.

"Whit paper did ye say ye worked fur?"

"The Guardian," said Fenton, saying the first name that came into his head.

"Jesus," said granite eyes as if that were sufficient.

Fenton continued towards the bike feeling as if he was walking on thin ice with a thaw in the air. He heaved it off its stand and mounted it as casually as he could in the circumstances then pressed the starter as if it were the ejector button in a burning aircraft. The Honda growled into life and sounded like a Beethoven sonata. He was moving, motion beautiful motion, spinning wheels, faster, faster, away.

To Fenton's annoyance Jenny found the story funny when he told her what had happened in Glasgow. She rocked with laughter when he told her of the feeling in his gut when he had first seen the open razor. "It serves you right for prying," she said.

"It was no joke," Fenton protested, "These things can cut you to the bone before you even realise it and you'll end up carrying the scar for the rest of your life, assuming there is a rest to your life."

"I'm sorry," said Jenny, "It was just the way that you told it. You know I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

They sat down and Fenton told Jenny of his conversation with the Lindsay woman.

"So you are no further forward?" said Jenny.

"I suppose not," agreed Fenton. He leaned back on the couch and Jenny snuggled up close to him to play with the hairs on his chest through a space between his shirt buttons.

"What did you hope to find out?" she asked.

Fenton sighed and said, "I suppose…I hoped to discover that Lindsay had not committed suicide at all, that he had discovered something awful about Saxon plastic and had been murdered to keep his mouth shut."

Jenny rolled her eyes and said, "That was a bit strong."

"It was also wrong," said Fenton.

"Then he did commit suicide?"

"There's not much doubt about that. He was up to his neck in debt to back street money lenders and not the kind who were content to send him rude letters."

"Poor man."

"I think he must have seen stealing tools from the factory as a way out of his troubles but when he was caught his position became absolutely hopeless, no money, no job, no nothing."

"How will his wife manage?"

"The way women do," said Fenton quietly.

Saxon Medical again featured in the newspapers on the following day, this time in the financial section. It was not a part of the newspaper that Fenton would normally read but the word 'Saxon' had caught his eye as he flicked through the pages and had registered in much the same way as hearing one's name mentioned in a crowded room. He read that rumours of a take-over involving International Plastics were rife in the city and a deal, said to be worth millions and founded on Saxon having obtained a license for their new plastic, was in the offing. The new material, it was predicted, would revolutionise equipment in science and medicine. Saxon Medical, a small family based concern, was deemed too small to exploit the enormous potential of the new discovery and was now up for grabs to the highest bidder.

"Have you seen Saxon since the Sunday you helped him with the analyser?" asked Jenny.

Fenton said that he had not.

"Then he doesn't know you think that there's something wrong with the plastic?"

"No. Tyson told me to keep my mouth shut about it in no uncertain manner. You don't walk up to a manufacturer and suggest that his product is a killer without the slightest shred of evidence. You could get very poor that way."

"Or worse," said Jenny thoughtfully as she considered the affair with the fume cupboard.

"Or worse," agreed Fenton.

"Did you tell Tyson about the fume cupboard?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The engineers who came to re-set the fire damper found the retaining clips in the flu. They said they were in bad condition. They could have failed of their own accord causing the damper to close."

"But the cyanide in the drain?"

"We use cyanide quite a lot in the lab. I couldn't prove anything. It could have been coincidence."

"But you don't believe that?" asked Jenny.

"No," replied Fenton.

Jenny's sigh was full of frustration.

Fenton said, "I'm going to take a good look at the people who have died so far. Perhaps they have something in common, something that would point to why they were susceptible and others were not. You could help if you could lay hands on the ward files on the dead children?"

"I'll try," said Jenny. "Have you considered talking to Inspector Jamieson again?" she asked.

"No I haven't," snapped Fenton.

"That sounded a bit personal," said Jenny.

"It is entirely personal," said Fenton, recalling his conversation with the policeman just after Jenny had been taken into custody.

"But they are the professionals."

Fenton remained adamant.

Fenton found a message lying on his desk when he got in to the lab. It was from the Blood Transfusion Service and said simply, Phone Steven Kelly. He did so and had to wait for what seemed an eternity while someone on the other end went to look for him. He was on the point of putting down the receiver when Kelly finally answered. "It's about the blood that Neil Munro asked for…Can I take it that you don't need it any more?"

Fenton had forgotten all about the request that Munro had made. He said so to Kelly and apologised, adding truthfully that he had not as yet come across any reason for Neil having asked for it in the first place.

Kelly accepted Fenton's apology with his usual good humour and then said, "So I can take the donors off stand-by then?"

Fenton was puzzled. He said, "I thought Neil ordered blood from the bank?"

"No, he needed fresh blood; we had to send out postcards to suitable donors."

"Was this the first time Neil had asked for blood?" asked Fenton.

"The second," said Kelly. "We had to call in a donor about a week or so before. The blood was taken off in your lab as I remember."

Fenton had a vague recollection of having seen Munro in the lab with a stranger about seven or eight days before he was murdered. He said so to Kelly.

"It's just that we sent out postcards to three people warning them that they might be called at short notice. Two of them have phoned to ask if that is still the case."

"You can tell them no," said Fenton, trying to think at the same time as talking. "Are you absolutely sure that Neil never mentioned what he wanted the blood for?" he asked.

"Absolutely," said Kelly.

Fenton had an idea. He said, "Do you think you could give me the name of the donor who gave blood the first time? It's just possible that Neil might have said what he was using it for, especially if the donor came here to the lab and he had to make conversation."

"Hang on."

Fenton put down the phone and read back what he had scribbled down on the pad. Miss Sandra Murray, 'Fairview', Braidbank Avenue, Edinburgh.

It was a quarter past seven before Fenton had finished the day's blood lead estimations. As a consequence he had to alter his original plan to go back to the flat before going up to Braidbank Avenue. Instead he would have to shower at the lab, grab something to eat at the pub…no, better not, he did not want to smell of beer. He would eat in the hospital restaurant and go straight from there. He called Jenny to say that he would not be home before she left for the hospital. She assumed that he would be working late at the lab and, while not actually saying that this was the case, Fenton said nothing to disillusion her.