Pestilence (10 page)

The number was engaged and Saracen cursed under his breath. When he still got the engaged tone after the third attempt he slapped down his fist on the desk in frustration and caused some ink to jump out of its silver pot and splash on to the leather desk top. He searched quickly through the desk drawers for blotting paper and found some, but there, just below it, was an open letter. Saracen’s eye caught the underlined name near the top of the page. It was Myra Archer.

When he had finally got through to the authorities and set things in motion Saracen returned to the drawer where the letter was lying and drew it out. He overcame his feelings of guilt at what he was about to do and read it. The letter came from British Airways and referred to a request made by Nigel Garten that all passengers and crew on the flight that had brought Myra Archer to the United Kingdom be contacted and treated as recommended. The letter confirmed that this had been done.

“What the hell for?” said Saracen softly as he stared at the letter. If the woman had died of a heart attack. What was all this nonsense about treatment for fellow passengers? Did this mean that Myra Archer had not died of cardiac failure? To find out the answer Saracen knew that he would have to find Garten’s original to British Airways. He started searching through the files.

After a few minutes which seemed like hours he found what he was looking for and read the letter still crouching down beside the filing cabinet. It advised the airline that Mrs Myra Archer, a passenger on their flight BA 3114 to London Heathrow had been shown to be suffering from a Salmonella infection. As a precaution it was deemed advisable for all persons on the flight to undergo a course of preventative antibiotic therapy as there was a possibility that food served on the aircraft might have been responsible.

“Food poisoning?” said Saracen out loud. Myra Archer had been suffering from food poisoning? He shook his head in puzzlement but did not have time to consider the matter further before Chenhui came through the door and said anxiously, “Dr Saracen, I need your help. You come please.”

Saracen followed Chenhui back to the side room where the teenage girl lay.

“I not happy,” said Chenhui.

Saracen examined the girl and checked the monitors. He agreed with Chenhui. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said. “We’ll have to give her blood right now. Has it come up from the bank?”

Sister Lindeman said that it had.

“Cross-matched?”

“Yes. How about the paperwork?”

“We can’t wait.”

“If you say so.” Sister Lindeman enunciated the words very clearly and Saracen recognised that she was inviting him to take responsibility publicly. “I say so,” he said with a barely perceptible smile.

Saracen had set up the transfusion and was washing his hands when Chenhui came up beside him and said, “I puzzled. Why parents say no blood?”

“A religious objection to transfusion,” replied Saracen, pushing off the taps with his elbows.

“I no understand.”

“Frankly Chenhui, neither do I,” said Saracen, baulking at the thought of attempting to explain something he had no heart for. “It’s all part of God’s little obstacle course.”

Chenhui looked more puzzled than ever.

“Let’s go have a cup of tea.”

As they walked across the floor towards the duty room a trolley came through the swing doors bearing a tear stained young boy holding his left arm gingerly. “He fell off a swing,” said the attendant.

“I will do,” announced Chenhui and Saracen nodded. He went to have his tea and found Jill Rawlings had beaten him to it. She was sitting on a corner of the desk holding cup and saucer. “I hear you gave blood to the JW,” she said.

“No option.”

“The authorities might disagree.”

“Sod ‘em.”

“My hero,” grinned Jill.

Saracen ignored the remark and asked, “Did Mary Travers say anything about Myra Archer having had a Salmonella infection?”

“Yes she did, come to think of it. Some days after the Archer case she and the ambulance crew were given a course of antibiotics as a precaution. It didn’t seem to be relevant to what you were asking at the time.”

“I suppose not,” said Saracen deep in thought.

“You’re not dropping the matter?”

Saracen screwed up his face. “So many things are bothering me. For instance how did they know the woman had a Salmonella infection if it was a treble nine call to a heart attack?”

“Presumably it was something they discovered afterwards at Post-Mortem,” said Jill.

“A Salmonella infection is hardly something the pathologist would be looking for in this woman’s case,” said Saracen.

“What are you getting at?”

Saracen shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “To be quite frank,” he said, “I’m not at all sure myself.”

Jill smiled and touched him on the forearm.

“I have another favour to ask,” said Saracen.

“Go on.”

“Would you ask Mary Travers what day she was given the antibiotic cover on?”

“All right,” sighed Jill, “If it will make you happy.” Then, as an afterthought she said, “If they did know that Myra Archer had food poisoning at the time of the call that would explain why they decided to send her on to the County Hospital wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” agreed Saracen. “But I don’t see how Chenhui could have made that diagnosis in the circumstances and that’s what’s niggling me.”

Saracen was in the bath when the phone rang. His first thought, as always when the phone rang in early evening, was that it was Nigel Garten trying to unload his duty stint on some pretext or other so he was relieved to hear Jill’s voice.

“I’ve spoken to Mary Travers. She started her course of treatment on the thirteenth. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Thanks. You’re an angel.”

Saracen felt a weakness creep into his knees. He sat down as the blood began to pound in his temples. Myra Archer had died on the twelfth; the post-mortem would not have been done until the thirteenth at the earliest, more likely the fourteenth or fifteenth. To determine that Myra Archer had been suffering from a Salmonella infection would have required a lab examination of specimens taken from her body. The result could not have possibly been known until the fifteenth or sixteenth. Whatever reason Garten had had for putting Mary Travers and the others on treatment on the thirteenth it had nothing to do with anything discovered at post-mortem. He must have known beforehand.

The bath water had gone cold. Saracen dried himself and put on a towelling robe. He sat down to wonder how Chenhui and Garten could possible have made the diagnosis. From all accounts Myra Archer had been unconscious when the ambulance was called and had not regained consciousness. She had told them nothing and died of cardiac failure yet they had known that she also had a serious infection. It didn’t make sense. Not only had they been able to diagnose Salmonella but they had been able to determine that it was one of the more serious strains if Garten had deemed it necessary to contact the airline and to disinfect the mortuary. Could it have been typhoid? the ‘top’ of the Salmonella range. But if so why the secrecy? There were one or two cases every year. If only he could see a copy of the PM report, thought Saracen, perhaps he could work backwards from the exact cause of death and figure out how they knew. Wylie or no Wylie he would have to get his hands on that report.

Saracen rested his neck on the back of the chair and looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. He was tracing the path of a thin crack that radiated out from the light fitting when the telephone rang; it was Dave Moss.

“I’ve just had your Dr Tang on the phone,” said Moss.

“Oh yes.”

“She seemed to be in a bit of a state, ‘trouble is, I don’t really know what about. I only managed to pick up every fourth or fifth word. I think she wanted me to take a patient, maybe two, she kept saying ‘two’ then the line went dead.”

“I see,” said Saracen feeling anger rise within him, “And you are phoning to find out why a doctor who can barely speak English has been left in charge of A&E at Skelmore General?”

“More or less.”

“Well I’d like to know the answer to that too,” said Saracen getting out of the chair and gathering his clothes. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll get back to you.”

Saracen was furious. How could Garten do such a thing? How could he be so irresponsible? His toes got stuck in the heel of a sock in his haste and he cursed out loud as he disentangled himself then he lost a shoe which led to more cursing. He slammed the door behind him and ran downstairs to the car, making a conscious effort to control his temper and prevent its translation into sheer bad driving. With only partial success in that direction the front tyres squealed as he swung the wheel over to enter the hospital gates. In truth, this was due more to the fact that he had wrenched the wheel over sharply than to any excess of speed but it made the duty porter lift his eyes from his newspaper and half get out of his chair to glance out of the gate-house window. When he saw that it was Saracen he slumped back into inertia.

Saracen burst in through the swing doors of A&E and looked around for Chenhui, ignoring the smile of a junior nurse in his preoccupation. Sister Turner, the night sister, came out of the sluice room and looked surprised when she saw Saracen.

“I didn’t realise that Dr Garten had called you,” she said.

“He didn’t,” replied Saracen.

“Oh, I thought when I saw you there that he must have called you out to cover for Dr Tang…”

Saracen was puzzled. “Why should he? What’s wrong with Dr Tang?” he asked.

“She’s had some kind of nervous breakdown. She’s been admitted to the wards.”

Seeing that he had read the situation all wrong Saracen calmed down and felt rather foolish. “And Dr Garten?” he asked.

“He is with her right now.”

“So she wasn’t left on her own in A&E?”

“Good heavens no, she can hardly speak a word of…”

“Yes Sister,” interrupted Saracen. “What did you mean some kind of nervous breakdown?”

Sister Turner, a spinster clinging to late middle age and fond of tittle tattle, warmed to her task and said conspiratorially, “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was shouting and raving, ‘practically attacked Dr Garten when he tried to calm her down.”

“But why? What happened to upset her?”

The night sister looked perplexed. She said “The ridiculous thing is, we don’t know. She was raving in her own language.”

“But something must have triggered it off?”

“Not really. It’s not as if she hadn’t seen a dead body before.”

“Go on.”

“We had a ‘dead on arrival’ at around eight o’clock; Dr Tang was asked to certify the patient dead. When she came back she bust into Dr Garten’s office and started shouting and carrying on.”

“In Chinese?”

“Not at first.”

“Could you make out anything that was said?” asked Saracen.

“Not much. She has such a heavy accent but it sounded like, ‘six days, more then six days.’ But I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Then what happened?”

“She came rushing out of Dr Garten’s office and started telephoning. Dr Garten tried to reason with her but in the end he had to get the porters to restrain her while he sedated her.”

“And what did Dr Garten say about all this?”

“He said that Dr Tang had been under great strain recently and was suffering from nervous exhaustion. She would probably be as right as rain in a couple of days so it would be a kindness if none of us mentioned the incident outside A&E.”

Saracen nodded and said that he was going up to see Chenhui.

Away from A&E the corridors of Skelmore General had quietened as they always did around nine in the evening. The last visitors had gone and custody of the wards had been handed over to the night staff. Saracen had only the echo of his footsteps for company as he made his way along the entire length of the bottom corridor to reach ward eight. He disliked the hospital at night for it had a Dickensian dreamlike quality about it, an image intensified by the poor lighting in the corridors and the peeling green paint on the walls. To be admitted at night as a patient to Skelmore General, thought Saracen, must be an unnerving experience, being wheeled headfirst on a trolley with nothing but the cobwebs and dark shadows of the ceiling vaults to concentrate on while the trolley squeaked and echoed its way along a seemingly endless tunnel to an unknown destination Poor sods.

Saracen opened one of the two tall glass fronted doors to ward eight and went in. He winced as the door creaked loudly on its hinges but no one came out to investigate. He looked into the duty room and got a quizzical look from the staff nurse in charge. He said who he was and why he was there.

“She’s in the second side ward. Dr Garten is still with her.”

Saracen went in search of the side ward. He went inside and closed the door quietly behind him. Nigel Garten was sitting beside Chenhui who seemed fast asleep. He looked up as Saracen came in and looked startled but recovered his composure quickly. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said with a smile that seemed less than genuine.