Ken McClure - Trauma

“I see,” said Main. “Perhaps I could go up there?”

“I don’t see why not,” replied the well dressed man. “Do you know where it is?”

Main said not and was given directions. He had just repeated them back to the man when the attendant who had gone up to the office returned. Main knew he had to get in first. He said brightly, “Problem solved. This gentleman has been kind enough to work out what has happened. I’m sorry to have put you to all this trouble.” The attendant looked at the well dressed man and said, “Good morning sir.”

“Good Morning Claude,” replied the man. “This chap’s been looking for a Sigma patient. He’s probably still upstairs.”

“Should have said,” said Claude dourly.

“I’m sorry,” said Main. “Thoughtless of me. I’ll be on my way then.” He left the mortuary, pausing for a moment outside to try to hear if anything more was being said. But the door was too thick. He just had to hope that the different patient names he had used weren’t being compared.

Main realised that he could not use the body-measuring ruse to gain access to the Sigma lab. The Sigma technicians must supply that information to the undertakers; they could hardly have outsiders arriving to measure non-existent bodies. He’d have to find some other way of getting inside.

Main found the building he had been sent to. It was a modern, three-storey concrete block growing out of an older blackened-stone one. There was a board about twenty metres from the glass fronted entrance which announced it to be the Gelman Holland Research Institute. The text below explained that the building had been funded by Gelman Holland and that research there was carried out under the direction of Professor Cyril Tyndall. The building had been opened on the seventh of June, 1991 by the Princess Royal. There was a photograph of the ribbon-cutting ceremony. None of this helped Main to think of an excuse for getting inside.

He found a place where he could watch comings and goings from the building without drawing attention to himself and did not have long to wait. In the space of the following ten minutes three people entered the building. Two used an electronic card key which they inserted in a slot by the front door. The third, who did not have such a key, pressed a bell and waited until the doors were opened by a man in uniform. After close scrutiny of a document he presented he was permitted to enter. No way there, thought Main.

Having given up on a frontal assault, Main walked round the outside of the building at a discreet distance, looking for alternatives. He thought he had found one when he saw a side door open and a technician come out to put a large cardboard box in a rubbish skip. To make sure that he could get back inside, the man had propped open the door with a wooden wedge. Main was beginning to think of sneaking in when the man came out with the next load, but there was no next time. The door swung shut and the lock engaged with a loud clunk.

Main cursed under his breath and continued with his examination of the outside. There was one more door at the far side but it, too, was locked with no outside handles visible. After a further ten minutes he was considering giving up when he saw a van arrive outside the building. It had the name of a laboratory supplier on the side. The driver, obviously a stranger to the site, took a slow drive round the perimeter of the building before getting out to press the bell at the front. He presented his delivery notes to the uniformed man who opened them.

After careful scrutiny, the driver was directed to the far side. Main saw this as his chance and circled round to be there before the van reversed back, its reverse-gear-bleeper warning of its approach. He watched as the driver waited for the door to be unlocked.

Once again his delivery notes were examined, this time by a man wearing a brown coat and sporting an Elvis Presley style haircut which seemed to be excessively greased, even from where Main was standing. The storeman, as Main took him to be, pointed to the inside of the building and made a gesture to his right. The driver nodded and opened up the back of the van while the storeman returned inside.

The driver disappeared inside the van for a moment before re-appearing to pile up boxes along the rear of the vehicle. When he had ten arranged along the back edge, he jumped down and carried the first two inside. Main’s pulse rate rose. Could he risk it? Could he just nip over to the van and start carrying the next two inside? By the time he had decided that this was what he would do, too much time had elapsed and he steeled himself to wait for the driver’s next trip. As soon the man had started off inside with the next two boxes, Main broke cover and ran over to the van on his toes. He picked up two of the boxes marked FRAGILE: Laboratory glassware in red, and walked in through the open doors, noting that there was a fire release bar on the back of one of them; there would be no problem getting back out again. He was just in time to see the driver disappear round to the right at the end of the corridor.

Half-way along and still unchallenged, Main found a flight of steps to his left. The fates were being kind; he put down the boxes about twenty metres past the foot of the steps ran back to start climbing. With a bit of luck the driver would think that some helpful member of staff had given him a hand.

Main realised that he would now have to rely on the brief-case he was carrying to give him the apparent authority to be there. He was now in the first-floor corridor. Glass-panelled doors to the left and right of him enabled him to see that they were laboratories. White-coated workers sat on stools at benches, intent on what they were doing. One looked up as Main was looking in. Their eyes met, but the man showed no signs of alarm at Main being there. After all, why should he, Main reminded himself. This was a medical research lab, not a secret nuclear weapons facility. He was there to look for two rogue technicians in an otherwise highly respected institution. What he needed was some kind of a sign-board; he found what he was looking for at the landing of the stairs leading down to the main entrance. Unfortunately none of the directions on it were helpful simply because there was no mention of the word Sigma and, not being a scientist, he didn’t know what alternative heading the Sigma probe service might come under. Would it be, ‘Tissue Culture’ or ‘Stock Virus Laboratory’ or ‘Prep Room’ or ‘CSSD’, he wondered. As he was puzzling over where to try next, he became aware of footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming up from the ground floor. Main felt a momentary panic as he looked about him for some place to hide. There was nowhere. He considered bolting up the stairs to the next level but then decided against it. He would stand and brass it out. He turned his back on the stairs and opened his brief-case, pretending to be searching for something as he heard the steps behind him get louder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a white coated figure pass him and move away along the corridor to the left. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the figure stopped and turned.

“Can I help you?” asked a male voice in tones that suggested that the real question was, who are you and why are you here?

Main gave a slight laugh which sounded terribly forced and said, “I seem to have lost my bearings. I was looking for the Sigma probe lab.”

“The Sigma lab?” repeated the man who had come back along the corridor to stand directly in front of Main. Main noticed that his accent and tanned skin colour suggested that he might be Middle Eastern. “What on earth do you want there?”

“My company manufactures the probes,” lied Main. “I thought as I was in the neighbourhood I would call in and see if there were any problems.”