Ken McClure - Pestilence

Saracen realised that this was the second time in as many weeks that he had lain awake in the early hours feeling troubled about things at the hospital. The first time had been after the affair at the mortuary when the explanation on offer had seemed too pat and convenient, just like now. Thoughts of that incident had been receding but now they surfaced to niggle at him again. He reached out for the lamp switch and abandoned all hope of sleep. Any remaining reluctance to get up was solely concerned with temperature. The flat did not have central heating and maintained at best an ambience between lukewarm and cold. At four thirty in the morning it was on the freezing side of cold.

Saracen turned on the gas fire and squatted down in front of it for a few moments, trying to cram as large an area of body as possible into the path of the radiant heat before making for the kitchen to switch on the electric kettle. He lifted the kettle first to make sure it had enough water in it. It had not. He breathed a single expletive and padded over the cold lino in his bare feet to the sink. In his haste to get back to the fire he wrenched on the cold tap too hard and overdid it. The mains pressure at that hour in the morning ensured that he received an icy spray all over his bare chest. Single expletives were no longer sufficient, he launched into an adjectival soliloquy.

As he sat nursing his coffee Saracen’s gaze fell on his text books arranged in neat rows in shelves by the fire. The group nearest to him were concerned with pathological technique. Their titles reminded him again of the horror of waking up on the post-mortem examination table. It made him think of how he had come to be there in the first place. He imagined his body being dragged across the courtyard and into the mortuary, his wrists scraping the stone floor, the coldness, the stillness, the sweet sickly smell and the forgotten fact that still eluded him, the connection between formaldehyde and ammonia. He withdrew a large tome on histology and looked up formaldehyde.

Saracen found only what he already knew. Formaldehyde was a gas that could be dissolved up to a concentration of forty percent in water. A ten percent solution, known as formalin, was commonly used as a general fixative for the preservation of dead tissue. The book went on to list appropriate occasions for the use of formalin fixation in preference to others. Saracen closed it and put it back on the shelf. He lay back and idly scanned the other titles on the shelves. His eyes stopped at Cruikshank’s Medical Microbiology and he sat up sharply. That was it! Formaldehyde did have another use. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it would be used as a tissue fixative but it could also be used to kill bacteria. It was a powerful disinfectant!

Saracen thumbed quickly to the relevant section on sterilisation and methods of disinfection. He found what he was looking for. Paraformaldehyde tablets, when placed in a spirit lamp evaporator, gave off formaldehyde gas capable of disinfecting entire rooms. At the end of the process the toxic formaldehyde gas could be neutralised by throwing in rags soaked in…ammonia! He had found the connection. It made sense. He had been lying unconscious for many hours in a room next door to one that was being disinfected by formaldehyde gas.

One question had been answered but a much bigger one had loomed up. Why had it been deemed necessary to disinfect the entire mortuary in the first place and why all the lies about thieves in the night? Could it be that the affair at the mortuary and the cover-up over Myra Archer’s death were in some way connected? The flood gates to Saracen’s imagination opened up. Just how did Myra Archer die?

Skelmore General did not have a full time pathologist of its own. Post-mortems were carried out by a rota pathologist, one of two who covered the County Hospital as well as forensic work for the district. They were both based at an office in the County Hospital. Saracen phoned Dave Moss, his friend at the County to find out which one was on duty. It was an important consideration for one of the two was approachable while the other was a paranoid alcoholic who attempted to cover up his failing abilities with increasing pomposity. The latter would not take kindly to inquiries coming from someone of Saracen’s lowly status. He would almost certainly mention the matter to Garten.

“Dave? It’s James Saracen.”

“Saracen! If you are about to tell me that you are sending down a dozen patients knee deep in shit I’m going to put down the phone and pretend you never called.”

“Nothing like that…Actually it’s three nuns with gonorrhoea.”

When the banter had stopped Saracen asked who the duty pathologist was.

“Hang on, I’ll look.” After a few moments Moss returned and said, “It’s Peter Clyde. What’s the problem?”

“No problem. I just want to check up on something.”

“Uh huh,” said Moss knowingly. “I see, it’s cover up your mistakes time. Say no more.”

Saracen tried to laugh then asked, “Is he in the office this morning?”

“I think so. I saw him about half an hour ago come to think of it. His extension is 431…But I suspect it says that in your directory too…”

Saracen took the point Moss was making and said, “I’m sorry, I had to make sure it wasn’t Wylie today. The inquiry I have to make is rather delicate.”

“I understand,” said Moss. “I keep hoping that Wylie will retire soon and save us the continued embarrassment of pretending that he’s not pissed out of his mind all the time.”

“At least his patients are dead.”

“Just as well,” said Moss. “A hamster with a hacksaw could have made a better job of the last PM I saw him do.”

They made their usual assertions about having to get together for a drink and Saracen put down the phone. He lifted it again and dialled 431. Peter Clyde answered. After an initial exchange of pleasantries Saracen came to the point and asked about the Post-Mortem report on Myra Archer.

“The name doesn’t mean much,” said Clyde. “Hang on a moment.”

Saracen could hear the sound of paper being shuffled at the other end of the phone while he waited then Clyde’s voice said, “Not one of mine I’m afraid. I’ve only had one at the General in the past four weeks and that…was a man…Robert Nolan, aged sixty nine, done on the eighth.”

“Damn,” said Saracen softly. “I suppose that means that Cyril Wylie must have done it.”

“He’ll be here tomorrow. You can give him a ring.”

Saracen gave a non-committal grunt that Clyde took up on. “Is there some problem?” he asked quietly.

“It’s rather awkward. I’d rather not ask Dr Wylie.”

“I see,” said Clyde thoughtfully, assuming that Saracen’s reluctance had something to do with Wylie’s drink problem. Saracen saw no reason to disillusion him. “One moment.” said Clyde.

Saracen was left holding the phone again. He hoped that Clyde had gone to check through Wylie’s records.

Clyde returned. “No joy I’m afraid. I thought that Cyril might have left his filing cabinet unlocked but no such luck. You’ll have to approach him yourself tomorrow.”

“Thanks anyway,” said Saracen. He put down the phone and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Problems?” asked one of the nurses.

“You could say that,” said Saracen with a wan smile but let it go at that.

All thoughts of Myra Archer were dispelled from Saracen’s head with the arrival in A amp;E of a badly injured thirteen year old girl who had been involved in a road accident with her bicycle. Both legs had been badly damaged where the car had hit her side on and she had lost a lot of blood.

“Have you alerted the theatre Sister?” Saracen asked.