Ken McClure - Chameleon

Jamieson had difficulty in finding Moira Lippman's flat. He had to stop twice and ask for directions before finding the small back street and the number he was looking for. He had half expected to find no one at home, fearing that Moira's flat mate might have gone to work, so he was pleasantly surprised when a voice behind the door replied, 'Who is it?'

'It's Dr Jamieson from Kerr Memorial. I spoke to you on the phone last night.'

'Can you prove who you are?' said the voice.'

Jamieson put his ID card through the letter box and waited patiently while the door was unchained and then unlocked. The door opened a few inches and Jamieson could look down at a thin, dark girl in her mid twenties. She had a sallow skin and large hazel eyes which mirrored the apprehension she felt.

Jamieson smiled.

'You can't be too careful,' said the girl opening the door further and taking off the final restraint to allow Jamieson to enter.

'I thought you might have gone to work,' said Jamieson.

'I couldn't after what happened to Moira,' said the girl. 'Besides the police wanted to ask me a few things.

'Like what?'

'Like what time Moira got in last night and what time she left. Things like that.'

'Were you here when she got back from the hospital last night?' asked Jamieson.

'Yes I was.'

'Was Moira carrying anything?'

'Only her briefcase. Why do you ask?'

Jamieson, excited by the girl's reply, ignored her question and asked, 'Can I see it please?'

The girl shook her head. 'No you can't.'

'Why not?'

'Because she took it with her when she went out.'

'Are you absolutely sure?' asked Jamieson.

'Absolutely. I watched her take out some papers from it and check them over before putting them back. I remember her actually saying that she had to show them to someone from the hospital. Thelwell I think she said his name was. Would you like some coffee?'

Jamieson agreed absent-mindedly because, for the moment, his mind was elsewhere. If Moira had taken her notes with her why hadn't he found them in Thelwell's house? What had happened to them? The briefcase hadn't been in the hut with her body and it hadn't been in Thelwell's study so where the hell was it?

'Penny for them,' said Moira Lippman's flat mate returning with two mugs of instant coffee.

Jamieson smiled apologetically and said, 'I'm sorry, that was rude of me.' They spoke a little about Moira and agreed what a nice person she had been. Jamieson asked the girl if she was in the same line of work.

'I'm a physiotherapist at the Royal,' replied the girl. 'Bacteria give me the heebie jeebies.'

'So you two wouldn't talk about work much?' said Jamieson.

'Not really, although I did ask her about the infection problem of course.'

'What did she tell you?'

'That is was caused by bacteria that were very difficult to treat. I can't remember what she called them.'

'Nothing more than that?' asked Jamieson.

'Maybe,' smiled the girl. 'But it probably washed over me. I didn't understand most of it.'

Jamieson smiled and they fell to talking about other things while he finished his coffee. During the lulls he took note of his surroundings. The flat was clean and tidy but none of the furniture matched. There were several small piles of crockery on an old Welsh dresser but again, it didn't match. It was a typical rented, furnished flat, the kind he used to live in when he was a student. He drained his coffee and took this as his cue to get to his feet. He shook hands with the girl and they said that they would probably see each other at the funeral.

Jamieson sat in the car for a moment before starting the engine. He wondered about the missing briefcase. It was important. Maybe Thelwell had dumped it somewhere outside his house after murdering Moira Lippman. An outside rubbish bin, the garden compost heap? He decided to drive back to Latimer Gardens and check.

'Something in particular you're looking for sir?' asked the constable as he watched Jamieson empty the rubbish sack outside the kitchen door of the Thelwell house.

'A briefcase.'

The officer gave Jamieson a hand to sift through the refuse and then replace it when they had no luck. They pitchforked their way through the compost heap with the same lack of success.

'What makes you think it's here sir' asked the policeman.

'I just hoped it was,' said Jamieson.

The constable gave Jamieson a puzzled look. 'Hoped sir?'

Jamieson shrugged and said, 'Because if it's not here it means that someone took it and that means I have to figure out who and why.'

'You're not happy,' said Sue as Jamieson stood with his back to her at the window.

'I'm not happy,' agreed Jamieson.

'Want to talk?'

'I'm uneasy about the whole thing. There's something fundamentally wrong.'

'Explain.'

First Richardson finds something out about the infection and then commits suicide before telling anyone. Then Moira Lippman finds out something, maybe the same something, and gets herself murdered before she can tell anyone.'

'Thelwell killed them both to keep them quiet,' suggested Sue.

'And then committed suicide himself? Why go to the bother of killing someone to keep them quiet when you are going to kill yourself anyway?'

'The man was deranged.'

'Maybe, but it’s all a bit too convenient.'

'I don't follow.'

'There were no papers or notes in Richardson's office to suggest what the theory was he had been working on. None at all.'

'So Thelwell took them,' suggested Sue.

'And now the same thing has happened with Moira Lippman's notes. She gets murdered and now there's no trace of them.'

'Same thing. Thelwell took them.'

'But Thelwell didn't have them. I looked everywhere.'

'Maybe he destroyed them.'

'But how? Marion Thelwell is positive that her husband did not leave his study last night. According to her he did his damndest to dissuade Moira Lippman from coming round; it was she who insisted. So now we have to believe that Thelwell climbed out of his study window and waited for Moira to arrive. He murdered her in the garden, climbed back into the house, destroyed her notes and her briefcase, God knows how, and then committed suicide. It doesn't make sense.'

'What's the alternative?' asked Sue.

Jamieson turned round and faced her before saying, 'The alternative is that someone else killed Moira and took her notes.'

'Not Thelwell? I don't think I like the sound of that,' said Sue slowly.

Jamieson agreed with a forced smile. He said, 'But maybe you are right. Maybe it was just the irrational behaviour of a lunatic.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Leave it all to the police. For my part I am going to insist that all instrument packs in storage and all dressing packs in the Gynaecology wards are re-sterilised. When that is done I think surgery can re-commence safely and I can report as much to Sci-Med.'

'And then we can go home?'

'Yes,' smiled Jamieson.

'How long?'

'Couple of days.'

'I'm counting the hours.'

'Let's count them in bed.'

Once again the rain started and pattered against the window pane.

The rain persisted through the night, waking Jamieson who was a light sleeper at the best of times, with the noise it made against the tall windows of the residency. At seven he gave up trying to sleep and got up. He washed and shaved as quietly as possible to avoid waking Sue who was still in a deep sleep.

As he emerged from the bathroom holding the towel to his face he looked down at her left profile against the pillow and was filled with affection. He reached out with his hand intending to trace the back of his fingers down her cheek but stopped when she moved in her sleep and turned over. He finished patting his face dry and walked over to the window to see if the rain showed any signs of slacking off.