Ken McClure - Pandora's Helix

“No, I’m fine,” replied Neef, shrugging off the blanket that was being draped round his shoulders. He looked around for Mrs Little’s body and spotted a stretcher between two of the fire appliances; it was covered by a tarpaulin but there was an unmistakeable human shape underneath. He walked towards it.

“I really don’t think you should, sir,” said a policeman, putting a restraining hand on his arm.

Neef freed himself saying, “Just give me a moment, will you.”

Assuming that Neef must be in some way related to the dead woman, the police and fire-fighters remained in a huddle in the background while Neef knelt down and drew back the cover from Ann Little’s broken body. Surrounded by the emergency vehicles, she seemed so small and insignificant, just like a rag doll. Neef was consumed with anger. Farro-Jones had come into this woman’s life, conned her into trusting him and used her only daughter as a guinea pig to further his research career. He had murdered her daughter just as surely as he had murdered her, the bastard. But such a gentleman... he really cared about the patients... he had even turned up at Susan’s funeral... such a nice man. Neef stood up and took a deep breath. He felt he knew where Farro-Jones must have gone.

An ambulance technician appeared at his elbow. “Are you ready now sir? It’s best if you come along and have a check-up even if you feel OK right now.”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Neef without taking his eyes off Mrs Little.

The ambulance man moved back to be replaced by a policeman. “I’m afraid we need to ask you a few questions sir, if you feel up to it?”

“Can it wait?” said Neef. “I’m going up to the hospital for a check up.”

“Of course sir. Maybe just your name and address for the time being?

Neef complied.

“You’re a doctor?”

“At St George’s.”

As the policeman put his notebook back in his pocket and turned to walk back to his colleagues, Neef saw that, for the moment, no one was actually looking at him. He seized the opportunity and moved swiftly round the back of one of the fire appliances. Shielded from view by it, he started running to the car park where he’d left his car. He was relieved to find the Discovery still with all its wheels. It started first time and he was on his way, tyres squealing in protest.

He felt sure that Farro-Jones would have gone straight to Pathology at St George’s to look for the letter he had lied about sending to Frank MacSween. The fact that it didn’t exist meant that he’d probably still be hunting for it down in MacSween’s office. In all probability he would be under the impression that he and Ann Miller had died in the fire.

The sight of Farro-Jones’ car outside Pathology at St George’s brought a knot of fear to Neef’s stomach. It was only a car but it seemed to symbolise much more than that. For the first time in his life he felt that he was coming up against real evil. He should have realised something earlier but he hadn’t. There was only one explanation for Farro-Jones trying to kill him and Ann Miller at the flat the way he had. He was mad. This was not a comforting thought to nurture as he made his way downstairs to the pathology lab.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs and listened for a moment. He couldn’t hear a thing. Frank MacSween’s compassionate leave and Charlie Morse’s death had meant that hospital pathology work was temporarily being carried out over in University College Hospital. The St George’s technicians had been sent over there too. Neef looked along the basement corridor and saw a light coming from under Frank MacSween’s door. He stared at it, a thin horizontal strip of light in the darkness that said he had been right. Farro-Jones was here.

Neef noted the broken lock and pushed open the door, his bulk almost filling the doorway.

“You!” exclaimed Farro-Jones. He was sitting in Frank MacSween’s chair and had been rummaging through the pile of papers that had been accumulating in MacSween’s absence.

“You won’t find it. I sent it to his home address.”

Farro-Jones got up slowly from the desk and moved backwards, his eyes looking left and right as if to assess his options. He only had one and that was to open the connecting door behind him that led directly to the PM room. This he did.

“It’s over,” said Neef, moving towards him. “The police are on their way and you, you bastard, are going to prison for the rest of your life.”

Farro-Jones spread his hands in front of him as if to appease Neef’s anger. “Like I said, Neef, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was all just bad luck, that’s all. It all went wrong; I panicked and everything just seemed to get worse.”

“You treated the Littles as if they were lab animals. They trusted you and you destroyed them! And you call it bad luck!”

“So Ann Little is dead,” said Farro-Jones. His eyes had taken on a different look as if he had just realised something. “And you expect me to believe that if the police were coming they would have let you come on ahead on your own? Come on Neef. You’re playing the Lone Ranger. You are the only one who knows.”

“That’s enough,” said Neef, still stalking Farro-Jones. They had passed the PM tables and were backing towards the body vaults.

“You know what Neefy old son? I don’t think there’s any letter either. Fancy your chances? Come on then.”

Farro-Jones had now adopted an aggressive stance. He had stopped backing off and was prepared to fight it out with Neef. Neef had the advantage of height, weight and probably strength but Farro-Jones had the build of a natural athlete. He was light on his feet. Farro-Jones made a feint to the left and Neef blocked the move. He was gradually backing Farro-Jones into the far corner of the room where there would be no escape. Farro-Jones could see it. He dummied a move to the right then corrected and came straight at Neef. Neef was ready; he side-stepped and caught Farro-Jones on the side of the face with a vicious right hook. Farro-Jones went down. He remained on his knees, rubbing his cheek.

If Neef had known anything about street fighting he would have gone for Farro-Jones with his feet and finished the fight there and then but it wasn’t in his nature. He waited for Farro-Jones to concede. Farro-Jones remained on the floor until he had got his breath back and then pretended to get up. “All right, Neef. You win,” he said as he started to rise. Neef relaxed ever so slightly and Farro-Jones lunged at him, head first. He caught Neef in the midriff and knocked the wind out of him as his back was slammed against the doors of the body vault. Neef, to his credit, recovered quickly and slammed both his fists into Farro-Jones’ ears at the same time. He tried to finish the move off by raising his knee into Farro-Jones’ face but missed as Farro-Jones backed off.

There was still no way that Farro-Jones could get round Neef and his headlong assaults were not paying dividends. He looked around him with darting glances as Neef waited for him to try again. His eyes fell on a jar of lubricant that the mortuary porter used for the hinges on the body vault doors. It was sitting on a window-sill to his right. He quickly averted his eyes lest it alert Neef and started circling in that direction. Two or three feinted moves later he was within range. Without taking his eyes off Neef, he shot out his arm behind him, grabbed the jar and let fly with it. Neef simply moved his head a little to the left and it sailed harmlessly past to shatter on the body vault door and fall to the ground. For the first time, Neef saw defeat in Farro-Jones’ eyes and it lifted his spirits. It even made him a little careless. He had avoided the flying missile with such ease that he had overlooked the fact that its contents had spilt out on to the floor behind him. Farro-Jones saw what had happened and the look in his eyes changed again. Neef did not have time to work out why before Farro-Jones faked a lunge towards him and made him step backwards into the spreading puddle of lubricant. His feet slid away from him and he toppled over backwards against the body vault door. As luck — or no luck, would have it, his head hit the heavy metal clasp securing the door and he almost lost consciousness for a few moments. It was enough for Farro-Jones to seize the initiative. He was on Neef in a flash, raining in blows to his head until Neef was lying supine on the floor in a black world of his own.