Ken McClure - Pestilence

The question now for Saracen was how to go about making enquiries discretely, how to find out what he wanted to know without having to make any direct approaches. That, he concluded, meant paperwork, always assuming that it existed for there was nothing more to be gleaned from A amp;E records. Myra Archer had been admitted as ‘Dead on Arrival’, no file would have been opened on her. That left the Post Mortem report which would record the exact cause of death, something that might or might not prove useful for Saracen’s purpose, and, as an afterthought, Medic Alpha’s log book. If there had been any untoward delay or mix-up it would be recorded in the log.

Nigel Garten appeared in the Department at six thirty pretending that he had just had an exhausting and demanding day. He had ‘popped in’ to ensure that everything was running smoothly. Saracen assured him dryly that it was and smiled thinly when Garten announced that he would have to rush off again. “Dinner with the in-laws, old man. You know the form.”

Garten checked quickly through the mail lying on his desk before leaving and Saracen kept watch out of the corner of his eye to see if Chenhui would make any kind of approach towards him. To his relief she did not although he could not be sure whether this was because Garten appeared to be in such a rush or whether he had managed to convince her that his question about Myra Archer had been quite innocent. With a bit of luck, thought Saracen, her lack of English might have pushed her towards the latter view.

Soon after Garten had gone Tremaine and Prahesh Singh arrived to take over the night shift in A amp;E. Saracen went through the report with Tremaine and made a conscious effort to appear humorous and relaxed for Chenhui’s benefit for he could sense that she was watching him in what he feared might be a text book case of guilty conscience. When it was time to leave, he said good-night to her with an extra big smile then waited round the corner in the car park till Chenhui herself had left then he walked down the hill to the ambulance depot to look for a member of the Medic Alpha crew.

When he got there he found the rest room empty, the only signs of life being a thermos flask sitting in the middle of the table with its lid screwed on the wrong thread and a piece of grease proof paper that had recently held sandwiches. He looked out of the window and saw an attendant cleaning the windscreen of one of the vehicles.

“Where is everyone?” asked Saracen.

“Try the duty room.”

Saracen walked slowly through the corridor to the back of the building. He passed a room emitting bursts of static noise and looked round the door to see the sole radio operator engaged in conversation. He continued along to the door marked, ‘Duty Room’ and heard voices coming from inside. They were arguing about football. Saracen knocked and went in. The talking stopped.

“Can I help you?’ asked a short bald man in shirt sleeves.

Saracen looked around for a familiar face and picked out Leonard Wright, a driver he knew to be on the Medic Alpha rota. “Could I have a word,” he asked.

Wright followed Saracen out into the ambulance yard and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to examine Medic Alpha’s log book if that’s possible,” said Saracen. Saracen thought he saw the smile on Wright’s face waver but it was only for a second and it could have been his imagination.

“What’s the problem?”

“No problem really. I just need some information about the time of the smash up on the ring road a few days ago. I forgot to make notes at the time.

Wright appeared to hold his gaze for a moment before saying, “I’ll get it.”

Saracen was aware that his pulse was racing. Lying was hard work when you weren’t used to it and the guilt of knowing that you were lying changed your perspective on everything.

Wright returned with the log book and Saracen smiled in what he hoped was relaxed fashion but he felt the strain at the corners of his mouth. Wright had opened the book at the correct page for the ring road accident. That made it more difficult for there was no excuse for thumbing through the pages. Saracen pulse grew even faster.

“I’ll just make a note of these,” he said stalling for time. He fumbled in his pocket for a pen and found an excuse instead. He left his pen where it was and said, “What a twit. I don’t seem to have a pen with me. I wonder…”

Wright held his gaze again and Saracen read accusation in it, or imagined that he did before Wright said that he would fetch one and turned to go back inside.

Saracen flicked through the pages with what he felt were five thumbs and found the entry he was looking for. Call to Flat 2, Palmer’s Green Court. Patient Myra Archer…severely cyanosed…suspect cardiac arrest…medical officer on board, Dr Tang. Alarm raised by neighbour, Mrs M. Le Grice. Time of call, 21.34 hours. Arrival at Palmer’s Green, 21.47 hours. Arrival at Skelmore General, 22.04 hours.

Saracen felt a strange mixture of deflation and relief. There appeared to be nothing wrong at all with the response of Medic Alpha, no suggestion of delay or mix-up. So why had Chenhui Tang behaved the way she had when the name of Myra Archer had been mentioned?

Saracen noted that the driver on the night of the twelfth had been Leonard Wright whom he now saw returning with a pen. He let the pages fall back but as he did so he felt the one he had been looking at come loose. There had been no reason for it to have done so apart from the one that flew into Saracen’s head. It was not the original page! It was a substitute that had been lightly glued in!

Saracen accepted the pen from Wright and wrote down some details of the motorway accident before returning it to him. “Good, all done,” he said, closing the book and handing that back too. “Much obliged.”

“No problem,” replied Wright.

Saracen walked out of the ambulance station with contrived casualness, conscious of every movement of his limbs and convinced that Wright was staring at him all the way up the hill to the gate but he steeled himself not to turn round and check.

Saracen made directly for the whisky bottle when he got in to the flat and took a big gulp. Just what the hell was he getting himself into he wondered. The thing seemed to be snowballing out of all proportion with first the suggestion of a cover-up and now the deliberate falsification of records. The question of what he should do next bothered him. Commonsense and a desire for self preservation said that he should drop the whole affair like a hot potato but he recognised that that was no longer an option. If he were to do that then the unanswered questions would gnaw at him until he finally did seek the answers put the matter to rest…or whatever.

It occurred to Saracen that there would have been a nurse from A amp;E on board Medic Alpha when it had answered the call to Myra Archer. Perhaps he could persuade Jill Rawlings to make a few discrete enquiries and find out what she could. He picked up the phone and dialled the Nurses’ Home. It was engaged, come to think of it, thought Saracen, it always was. He tried twice more before he eventually got through and asked for Jill. There was a long pause while distant voices echoed along corridors.

“Hello,” said Jill Rawlings’ voice.

“Hello Jill. It’s James Saracen. Are you free this evening?”

Jill Rawlings agreed to meet Saracen for a drink at The Blue Angel at eight.

The pub was busy when they arrived but a couple obligingly vacated a table as they entered and they took it before anyone else did. They were served by a teenage girl who sniffed intermittently as though she had a heavy cold and spoke very slowly and deliberately. Asking Jill if she wanted ice and lemon in her drink amounted to an ‘in depth’ interview.