Ken McClure: Tangled Web

There was an interval of less than five seconds before Prosser staggered backwards and dropped the lid on the floor with a clatter, his face filled with shock and horror. He let out a whispered, involuntary expletive and half turned to the side as if unwilling to accept the sight that had met his eyes.

Griffiths, bemused by Prosser’s reaction, looked first at Prosser and then at the coffin before stepping forward in trepidation to look inside for himself. ‘Sweet Jesus fucking Christ!’ he exclaimed, before gagging twice and throwing up on the floor. He sought the support of the cellar wall with his outstretched right arm.

Prosser recovered his composure first, although still badly shaken and having difficulty getting his breathing pattern to settle. The smell of Griffiths’ whisky-tainted vomit on the floor wasn’t helping. ‘There’s been some terrible mistake,’ he said, his voice hoarse and rapid. ‘I’ll get on to the hospital right away.’

Griffiths, wearing the expression of a man who’d just been afforded a vision of hell, looked at him distantly, ‘That’s right, boyo,’ he murmured, ‘A terrible mistake. You get on to that fucking hospital.’

By nine a.m., Prosser had established that the coffin had already been closed and screwed down when his driver had gone to collect it from the hospital so he had not seen the contents. Next to deny any knowledge of the problem was the mortuary technician at the hospital who told Prosser that he personally had not been on duty the previous day and that the man who had was off today. By nine fifteen Prosser had succeeded in getting through to hospital management and finally had the ear of a man who realised just how serious the complaint was and what the repercussions might be.

‘What exactly did you say was in the coffin?’ asked Ronald Harcourt, hospital manager at Caernarfon General.

‘Bits,’ replied Prosser, acknowledging the inadequacy of his description but failing to come up with an alternative.

‘What d’you mean, bits?’

‘Dismembered remains.’

‘Are you telling me that the child’s body had been dismembered?’ asked Harcourt, his voice rising with incredulity.

‘No, no... there was no child’s body,’ spluttered Prosser angrily. ‘Just bits, assorted human bits, lungs, kidneys, a heart maybe and I saw a finger among the mess.’

‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed Harcourt, suddenly getting the picture. ‘Have you spoken to anyone in Pathology yet?’

‘Just a mortuary technician; he wasn’t on duty yesterday. No one else was in when I called.’

‘I’ll get on to them right away and get back to you. Give me your number.’

Prosser gave him the number and added, ‘The child’s funeral is at eleven. We need the body.’

‘Do the parents know about this?’

‘The father was present when I opened the box.’

‘Oh my God, worse and worse,’ gasped Harcourt. ‘Something tells me we’re in big trouble over this one.’

‘You speak for yourself,’ said Prosser. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. My driver collected the coffin in good faith and remember... the funeral’s at eleven.’

A frantic search of the mortuary fridge failed to come up with the body of Megan Griffiths. Harcourt stood beside consultant pathologist, Peter Sepp, becoming more and more agitated as he watched the proceedings. ‘What the hell am I going to tell the parents?’ he demanded in an angry urgent whisper.

Sepp’s expression was cast in stone. ‘There’s only one explanation,’ he said, as the head technician closed the fridge doors and gave a final shake of the head. ‘The child’s body must have got mixed up with the biological waste bag...’

Harcourt looked at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘The biological waste bag?’ he repeated slowly.

‘The bits we don’t need when we’re finished with them,’ said Sepp. ‘They go into a biological waste bag for disposal along with clinical refuse from the theatres.’

Harcourt gave himself a few moments to let nightmare images dissipate before asking, ‘Can’t you recover the child from the bag then?’

Sepp shook his head and looked at Harcourt directly. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘It gets taken to the incinerator every night.’

Harcourt felt himself go weak at the knees, as the full implication of what he was hearing became apparent. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, ‘You’re telling me that pathological... offal was put into Megan Griffiths’ coffin while her body was sent to the hospital incinerator in a biological waste bag?’

‘That’s what it looks like,’ agreed Sepp reluctantly.

‘Jesus Christ! How in God’s name could something like that happen?’ demanded Harcourt in a barely controlled whisper in deference to the fact that several of Sepp’s technical staff were still within earshot.

A shake of the head from Sepp, ‘I really don’t know,’ he said.

‘Christ the lawyers will be gathering like hyenas round a dead mammoth when they hear this,’ said Harcourt. ‘Find out who’s responsible. Blame has to be apportioned and seen to be apportioned otherwise we’ll all be tarred with the same brush.’

‘You’ll tell the parents?’ asked Sepp.

‘I can’t imagine a queue forming to compete for the privilege,’ said Harcourt sourly.

Harcourt’s pager went off and he picked up the phone mounted on the tiled mortuary wall. His expression suggested he wasn’t hearing good news. ‘Tell them we’ll issue a statement in due course,’ he snapped before slamming the phone back on its hook. ‘It’s started,’ he complained. ‘The father must have been on to the papers already. The Bangor Times wants to know if the rumours are true. Have we really lost a baby’s body? God, it’ll be TV and the nationals by lunchtime and something tells me they’re going to think losing the body would actually have been preferable to the truth when they find out.’

‘They’ll lap it up,’ said Sepp. ‘They’ll see it as a good human-interest story and milk it for all it’s worth. Tears make good television.’

‘We’d better have a meeting and agree on what we’re going to say,’ said Harcourt. ‘Damage limitation is the name of the game.’

‘I’ll call my staff together and see if I can find out what really happened.’

‘We need names,’ insisted Harcourt. ‘We must identify the culprit or culprits and be seen to act firmly and decisively. Those responsible must be sacked without delay.’

‘But it must have been a genuine mistake,’ insisted Sepp. ‘No one would want something like this to happen. The guilty party will be just as devastated as the parents, I’m sure.’

‘Won’t do,’ snapped Harcourt. ‘The press will need a human sacrifice, nothing less will do. They must be sacked.’

‘And their heads mounted on the hospital gates,’ added Sepp sarcastically.

‘And as it’s your department...’ continued Harcourt icily.

Sepp’s expression changed. ‘You think I should offer my resignation?’

‘In the circumstances, I think it might be the honourable thing to do, don’t you?’

‘Honourable?’ mused Sepp. ‘Where’s the honour in feeding a media circus? They wouldn’t know honour, or even common decency come to that, if it kicked them up the arse.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Harcourt, ‘But we have to play the game over this one, present a solid front. The hospital’s good name is at stake. I want to be able to tell the Hospital Trust exactly what happened and what’s been done about it. That means finding out who’s responsible and getting rid of them whatever the extenuating circumstances.’

‘And me?’

‘Offer your resignation for the benefit of the press and we’ll decline it when the flak dies down.’