Ken McClure - Fenton's winter

Fenton swore.

"Are you always this sweet in the morning?" asked Kelly.

Fenton apologised for his rudeness explaining that a pet theory had just died.

"Want to tell me?"

"Some other time. You didn't tell me that someone from BTS had interviewed Sandra Murray?"

"What are you talking about?"

Fenton repeated what Murray had told him.

"No way," said Kelly.

"I don't understand," said Fenton.

"He must have been mistaken," said Kelly. "No one from this department would have gone there because we have no interest in what the blood is used for. As far as we are concerned we received a request from Biochemistry for fresh group B blood. We did the paperwork and complied with the request. That was the end of the matter.

Fenton's spirits hit the floor. He started to say something but dejection destroyed any motivation to go on. He managed to summon up enough energy to thank Kelly for his help then put the phone down.

It had started to rain again outside. Fenton idly tapped his pencil end over end as he gazed idly at the drops on the window and faced up to the latest question. If no one from Blood Transfusion had gone to see Sandra Murray, who had? After a moment's thought Fenton found the answer obvious. Neil Munro's killer, that's who. The killer must have gone there to find out how much Sandra Murray knew and when it had turned out to be too much he…had arranged for her death as well…the hit and run accident was no accident at all.

Fenton, almost afraid to face up to this latest possibility, played with the information in his head. It was a piece in a puzzle; he turned it round and round and tried to make it fit. A mistake! The killer had made a mistake he decided. From the way Murray had spoken he might have seen the man who had visited his sister pretending to be from Blood Transfusion and, if that were so, Murray could identify the killer. What was more, if Murray described Nigel Saxon, then he would have enough to go to the police with. They could nail Saxon without actually knowing what was wrong with the plastic.

Jenny telephoned at eleven saying that she couldn’t sleep; she had to know about the blood group idea.

"Wrong again, confessed Fenton.”Sandra Murray was group B not AB."

Jenny made disappointed sounds. "It might still be worth checking further," she said.

"Maybe," said Fenton without any real conviction, "But there's something else."

"Oh yes?"

"I think that Sandra Murray was murdered. I think that Neil told her something was wrong with Saxon plastic and the killer found out. Her death wasn't accidental at all. She was murdered just like Neil."

There was a short silence before Jenny said quietly, "Tonight Tom, tell me tonight," then she put the phone down.

Fenton was irked at Jenny's failure to share his excitement but tried to rationalise it. She had been working all night and hadn’t had any sleep but… she had a point. He was not short of ideas. The trouble was that none of them seemed to be proving right in the long term.

Ian Ferguson came into the room while Fenton was still deep in thought. Thanks to that and the fact that the rain was hammering on the window Fenton did not hear him come in and was startled when he spoke. Ferguson apologised and said, "Is everything all right? The way you rushed past me on the stairs I thought maybe something dreadful had happened?"

"Just the death of another theory," said Fenton glumly.

"Want to tell me?" smiled Ferguson.

"There's not much to tell. I thought I had discovered a fatal flaw in Saxon plastic, something to do with patients' blood groups but apparently I was wrong."

"What made you suspect that?" asked Ferguson.

"A number of things. Neil Munro thought there was something wrong with the stuff too."

"But this is serious. Have you spoken to Dr Tyson about it?"

"He assured me there was nothing wrong with the plastic."

"How about Saxon themselves?"

"I have no evidence to back up my suspicions. I can't say anything."

"I see," said Ferguson. "But surely there is something you could do if you think there's a problem?"

"I have to find out what's wrong with the stuff before I can do anything."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Fenton thanked Ferguson and said that he would let him know if he thought of something. He requested that Ferguson say nothing to anyone else for the time being.

"Mum's the word," replied Ferguson.

When Ian Ferguson had gone Fenton considered his own reluctance to confide in anyone. The truth was that he did need help for he was getting hopelessly out of his depth. The question was who should he talk to? Whom could he trust? He had been tempted to tell Ian Ferguson everything but the fact that Ferguson had considered resigning from the lab when the going had got tough had prevented him from doing so. He needed an ally without a question-mark over his character. The matter was to resolve itself at lunch time when Steve Kelly came into the lab and planked himself down heavily. "Do you fancy a beer?" he asked.

Fenton sipped his beer, aware that Kelly was appraising him but unable to relax and talk freely.

"You're a man with a problem," said Kelly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are so up tight about something that you are going to explode if you go on bottling it up. I thought you might want to talk about it?"

"I don't know what you m…"

"All right, forget I spoke," said Kelly turning to concentrate on his beer.

Fenton considered his own obstinacy in the silence that ensued. Steve Kelly was as good as they came, solid, blunt, unpretentious. He had a bit of a weakness for the women but, in hard times he could do a lot worse than have Kelly on his side. "All right," he confessed. "There is something."

They sat down to talk in one of the alcoves; the pub was still quiet before the lunch time rush. Fenton told Kelly the whole story as the first sunlight for many weeks, albeit weak and watery, rainbowed through the frosted glass and played among the dimples of the beaten copper table tops.

"And there you have it," said Fenton, finishing and taking a sip of his beer while Kelly digested what he had heard.

"That is some story," said Kelly, shaking his head, "I didn't bargain on anything like this. To be frank I had thought that you and Jenny might not be hitting it off or some such thing, but this…Jesus."

"Now you know."

"When are you going back to see Murray?"

"Tonight," said Fenton.

"Want some company?"

Fenton accepted.

The intermittent screen wipe on Kelly's Ford Capri flicked away the drizzle like a cow's tail dealing with summer flies.

"I hope you gentlemen have a productive evening," said Jenny as she got out of the car at the hospital gates to go on duty.

"We'll try," said Kelly.

"Good night Jenny," said Fenton softly, answering the look that was meant for him.

"Take care."

The Ford turned off the main road and Fenton gave Kelly directions as he nosed it along the wet side streets.

"You don't live up here if you work for the Health Service," said Kelly noting the size of the houses."

The headlights caught an elegant lady, swathed in furs, out walking her dog.

"I suppose it just had to be a poodle," said Fenton as they passed.

"Very nice too," murmured Kelly, looking sideways and not referring to the dog.

"Forget it," said Fenton. "You couldn't keep her in dog food. Take the next on the left."

Kelly turned slowly into Braidbank Avenue and Fenton directed him to Fairview where he stopped and turned off the engine to restore satin silence to the night.

"How do we play it?" asked Kelly.

"By ear," said Fenton. "Let's go."

Kelly pushed open the gate. Fenton anticipated the squeal.