A Life for a Life (5 page)

‘D’you remember your mother going out last night?’

He made a face. ‘Dimly. I was pretty much out of it. I remember her giving me some pills, though.’

*

The next day, Garrett had Forensic go over their cars: Ian’s and his wife’s, Connie’s and Sebi’s, while he tried to locate Leo Farleigh.

Mr Farleigh was away in London, his secretary told him, and had been for several days, but was due back later that day.

Steve Lovell and the sister from Malvern Ward were questioned and confirmed the times that Ian had given, except that Steve hadn’t seen Ian when he said he’d come back to the lab. All the department’s staff, including Fraser and Terry Stroud, were interviewed, but none of them had anything useful to contribute. The man on duty at the all-night garage remembered Connie coming in to buy the paracetamol at about ten thirty.

Garrett took an almost immediate dislike to Leo when he arrived at the station. Although he was well dressed, he was the type, Garrett thought, who’d have been a spiv in the forties, a ted in the fifties, a mod in the sixties and probably a pusher in the seventies and eighties. So what did that make him now? he wondered.

Yes, he knew about Dr Somersby’s death and was sorry, although he was surprised to hear it might be deliberate… Yes, he’d spoken to Ian and Connie before Somersby about Alkovin because he’d known what Somersby was like, but he’d been surprised by the firmness with which he’d turned the offer of a trial down.

‘It’s a wonder drug, Superintendent, it saves lives. Children’s lives,’ he added virtuously.

‘Found anywhere else to try it yet?’ Garrett asked, unmoved.

‘Yes, a Trust in Birmingham, and I’m working on another in the Smoke.’

‘’Course, you’ll be able to have another go down here now, won’t you?’

‘I think that would be in rather poor taste, don’t you, Superintendent?’

You’ll do it all the same, though
… ‘Where were you on Monday night?’

‘In London. In my hotel from about seven onwards.’

Any witnesses? – Yes, he’d eaten in the hotel restaurant and they’d have a record of that, and he was sure the waiter would remember him.

Then what? – Then he’d gone up to his room, watched telly until about eleven, then gone to bed.

‘I thought you reps liked to live it up a bit?’

‘We do, usually. But I’d had a hell of a day and was due for another the next.’

*

This also checked out. Leo was remembered at dinner, although no one had seen him between eight thirty that evening and eight the next morning.

‘If he left London at eight thirty,’ Lyn Harvey said, ‘he could have made it here by eleven.’

Garrett made a face. ‘He’d have had to have pushed it.’

‘He could have done it, though. Killed Somersby and then driven back.’

They had Forensic check Leo’s car. It was clear, as were all the other cars they’d examined.

‘Bui how do we know which car he was using?’ Lyn asked. ‘It could have been any of Parc-Reed’s fleet. It might have even been a hire car.’

They checked all of Parc-Reed’s cars that Leo had access to. Nothing.

They questioned the local car hire firms, but no one of Leo’s description, or for that matter, Connie’s or Ian’s, had hired one that week. They tried to do the same in the area of London where Leo had been staying, but as Lyn pointed out, Leo could have gone anywhere in London to hire a car.

‘In theory, any of them could have physically done it,’ Garrett said morosely after a few days, ‘just about – but only if they’d used their own car. A different car – well, apart from anything else, I don’t see how they’d have had the time…’

‘Unless they hired someone else to kill him,’ Lyn said.

‘In which case, wouldn’t they have made sure they had better alibis?’ Garrett asked. ‘And there’s something else – Saunders may have known about Somersby playing skittles that night, but the others couldn’t have.’

‘Saunders could have told Farleigh,’ Lyn observed. ‘Or maybe his wife told someone.’

They had Ian in again and this time grilled him, but other than making him admit that no one had seen him return to the lab after seeing the patient, they couldn’t dent his story.

The file had remained open, but over the following weeks and months, with no leads, the enquiry had been gradually wound down. Garrett had even found himself wondering whether it really had been an accident after all, and the perp had then killed Somersby just to make sure he couldn’t identify him, or her, later.

5

May 1999

After two weeks’ treatment with DAP, Frances’ hair began to fall out and they supplied her with a wig. She also suffered nausea, vomiting and a range of other symptoms which were alleviated (to an extent) by other drugs. Fraser saw her twice a day and sometimes spent the night with her, sleeping in the spare bed put in the room for the purpose.

Connie meticulously kept him up to date with her progress, although for the rest of the time they generally managed to avoid each other.

After eighteen days, the first course of drugs finished and Frances was adjudged to be in remission (an absence of any clinical or laboratory evidence of the disease).

‘It’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ she said to Fraser. ‘To be in remission so soon.’

‘It is,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘A very good sign.’

Remission in anything under four weeks is regarded as good prognostically and Fraser wondered fleetingly whether it would have come so quickly without Alkovin. Ironic if the very thing he’d fought against were to save her life… And there was no sign whatever in her of depression or any other neurological symptom.

In fact, she wasn’t looking bad at all, he thought. Her grey eyes were clear and if he’d met her in the street, he’d never have known she was wearing a wig – although no wig could match the lustre of her natural hair. Her skin was dry and there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth that made her look a wee bit older, but all in all…

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘Oh, just how good you look.’

‘Liar,’ she said. Then, Thank you,’ in almost a whisper. She looked away, said, ‘I hope I can feel a bit better now I’ve stopped the drugs…’

They kept her in for a few more days while her neutrophil level (the white cells that are the first defence against infection) built up, then let her go home. Fraser collected her.

‘God, it’s good to be back,’ she said, walking round the living-room, touching the clock on the mantelpiece, the sideboard, the pictures on the walls.

They had an Indian takeaway, and later, when he asked her if she was ready for bed, she said, ‘Fancy it, then?’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Sure I do, but are you sure
you
…

‘I’m not sure of anything,’ she said, putting her arms around him. ‘I only know I want to feel alive.’

It was very gentle, very slow. She didn’t reach orgasm, but she didn’t mind that.

A week later, on the evening before she was due back in hospital for ‘first consolidation’, the second course of DAP, Frances broke down and cried inconsolably, and a clammy hand squeezed at Fraser’s heart. He held her, rocked her and after a while she became calmer.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just that this week has been so good and the thought of going back on those drugs…’

Rational
, he thought with relief,
perfectly rational
… ‘And in three weeks you’ll be back here again.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘But you’ll stay with me sometimes, won’t you?’

‘Sure.’

About ten days after that, he was sitting in the office he shared with Mark and Sophie, going through patient files on the computer for the afternoon clinic. He leaned back for a moment, rubbing his eyes and massaging his temples – worry and lack of sleep were accumulating, not helped by the fact that he’d stayed with Frances the night before. She’d been restless all night, tossing, turning, talking in her sleep, and he’d had very little.

‘Fraser, hi!’

He looked up to see Leo Farleigh framed in the doorway

‘Oh, hello, Leo.’ He hadn’t seen him since he’d been back, which was no great loss.

He came in. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Frances.’

‘Thanks.’

‘How is she at the moment?’

‘Much as you’d expect.’ He took a breath and made an effort to be civil. ‘She’s ten days into first consolidation, so she’s feeling a mite rough at the moment.’

Leo nodded. ‘But she went into remission all right?’

‘Yes, inside three weeks.’

‘Well, that’s a hopeful sign.’

‘Yeah…’
Don’t start on about Alkovin.

He looked back at the computer screen, hoping Leo would take the hint and leave him alone.

But he didn’t, he came into the room.

‘No sign of any of the – er – symptoms you’ve been worried about, then?’

‘No,’ Fraser said shortly.

‘Well, that’s good news then, isn’t it?’

‘There’s no sign of them yet – they tend to appear after first consolidation.’ The muscles on top of his head began tightening, as though there was a weight pressing on it.

Leo said, ‘Fraser, it isn’t going to happen. I beg you to forget about our disagreements and think positive.’

Go, please just go away…
Fraser sat perfectly still, not even breathing, but Leo moved closer and said, ‘Don’t wish it on her, man – Alkovin could be the very thing that –
urggh
…’

He was gurgling because Fraser was on his feet with his collar in his hand.

‘
Don’t
tell me how to think about my fiancée…’ He twisted his hand and forced Leo backwards. ‘Now, get out of here before—’

‘What the
hell
is going on?’ Ian Saunders appeared in the doorway.

Fraser released his grip and Ian said, ‘Into my office, both of you, now.’

He followed them in, shut the door. ‘Now, what the hell was that about?’

Leo said quickly, ‘I just went to say how sorry I was about Frances and ask how she was and the next thing I knew he was choking me.’

‘Fraser?’

‘He started lecturing me about Alkovin and in the circumstances it was more than I could take. I lost my temper and I apologise.’

‘Is that true, Leo?’

‘I was trying to be positive, believe it or not, encouraging,’

‘Perhaps not the most tactful scenario,’ Ian said.

‘I suppose not, although I didn’t mean to upset anyone…’

‘Perhaps you should tell Fraser that.’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Fraser. I’m sorry.’

‘All right,’ Ian said. ‘You’d better go now. I’ll speak to you later.’

Leo gratefully withdrew and Ian regarded Fraser for a moment. Then: ‘We’re all very sorry about what’s happened and I can understand the strain you’re under, but you can’t go about manhandling people. In theory, he could sue you.’

Fraser nodded. ‘You’re right, Ian, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

‘It better not – I mean that, Fraser.’

‘It won’t,’ Fraser repeated.

‘OK.’ Ian paused. ‘You look pretty rough. Did you have a bad night?’

Fraser nodded. ‘I stayed with her. She was very restless and I didn’t sleep much.’

‘Then I’m not surprised you look rough. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and try and get some sleep now?’

‘Well, Connie’s away and there’s the clinic this afternoon…’

‘We’ll manage. Go home.’

Fraser went home.

Would things have been any different if Ian had got JS’s job instead of Connie? he wondered as he sat back on the sofa with a glass of whisky in his hand.

Maybe, maybe not…

They’d run the department more or less as a team both before and after her appointment, but there was no doubt that Connie’d had it in for him ever since the Christmas party…

6

December 1997

The disco lights flashed in time with the beat, subtly changing the colour of the shandy in Fraser’s glass: red, blue, yellow…

‘Bloody row,’ said Mark Ashcroft, next to him.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, get a life,’ said Chloe, his girlfriend. She was a nurse with straight blonde hair, vivid blue eyes and a heart-stoppingly pretty face. It was the department’s Christmas party, a more sumptuous affair than usual because Parc-Reed had added a substantial sum to the slush fund – a ‘token of appreciation’ of the fact that they’d started the trial on Alkovin.

Leo Farleigh was there; he’d been the life-spirit, if you could call it that, of the party, cracking jokes throughout dinner and playing the obsequious host to Ian and Connie. And now, as Fraser watched, Leo got up and put his hands on the shoulders of Frances, the raven-haired girl, bent and said something to her. She smiled and shook her head. He took her arm and pulled her up. She resisted at first but then, still laughing, allowed him to lead her on to the dance floor.

There was a burst of applause as they began dancing. Leo was wearing a dress shirt of startling whiteness and tight black trousers. He wasn’t a big man, maybe an inch or two taller than her five feet six, but he moved like an eel, Fraser thought, weaving his body round her like a spell.

She began to respond. Strobe lights accentuated the darkness of her hair, the pale of her face – it was that that Fraser had noticed about her, the blackness of her hair like curtains round her face…

Her face was almost plain compared with, say, Chloe’s, but it had far more character, Fraser thought, like her body – that was almost tangible as it moved inside her white dress.

Other couples got up and joined them.

‘Come on, Mark,’ said Chloe.

‘Must I?’

‘If you don’t, I’ll ask Fraser. Would you like to dance with me, Fraser?’ She batted her eyes at him, only half joking.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Mark quickly. They hadn’t been going out for very long.

The floor became a jungle. Fraser watched for Leo and Frances, but they were lost in the mêlée.

Leo certainly knew how to get things moving, he thought wryly. He wondered for a moment about the ethics of Parc-Reed paying for the party, but decided it was probably all right – drug companies had provided sustenance for their customers since medicine began, so why not a disco party?

Ian had become acting director after Somersby’s murder. Once the initial shock had passed, he and Connie had approached the Trust’s medical committee and said they wanted to take on the Alkovin trial. There were one or two murmurings as to whether the reversal of Somersby’s policy so soon after his death was in the best taste, but when the committee heard about the money that might be saved in the future, they quickly agreed.

The murder investigation wound down, and before long it was almost as though JS had never been. Leo was much in evidence, round the department as well as at medical meetings, and Fraser, although he agreed with the trial and its aims, had found the rep’s anguilliform pervasiveness increasingly hard to take. So was he an eel, he found himself wondering now, or a lamprey…?

‘’Ello, sailor,’ said a voice, and Connie dropped into a seat beside him. ‘Lonely, ducks?’

‘Hello, Connie,’ he said, pulling himself up. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She held up a glass of wine and took a mouthful. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder champagne dress that made the most of her breasts and neckline. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes. I’ve been watching Leo strut his stuff.’

‘Yes, he’s rather good, isn’t he?’

‘Multi-talented,’ said Fraser, smiling at her.

‘You don’t like him much, do you, Fraser?’

He briefly pondered a denial, then said, ‘How did you know?’

‘I’ve watched you watching him.’

She was watching him now and he thought,
She’s had a few
… Maybe it was
she
who was lonely.

She looked over at the writhing mass of dancers. ‘It’s like an organism, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘With a life of its own.’

‘Waiting to swallow us all, perhaps.’

‘With Leo at its nucleus?’

‘I hadn’t thought of him in that way.’

‘It hasn’t swallowed you yet, has it, Fraser?’

‘Oh, I’m not much of a dancer.’

‘No, it’s not the foremost of your attributes, is it?’

She smiled as she said it and he realised several things at once: she’d made reference to Birmingham, she’d done so quite deliberately and she was his for the asking.

And it wasn’t just his brain that knew, it was his body as well. He could feel himself hardening in sympathy – it had been a long time and for a moment he was tempted…

No. It was a bad idea, and when it came down to it, he didn’t really want her…

He was rescued from having to say anything by the return of Mark and Chloe.

‘Hello, Connie,’ Mark said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘No, thank you, Mark, I was just going.’ She emptied her wine glass and put it on the table. ‘To be swallowed,’ she added with a smile.

‘What did she mean, swallowed?’ Chloe asked Fraser.

He explained, watching as Connie tapped Leo on the shoulder and said something to him. Frances, the raven-haired girl, withdrew – not ungratefully, it seemed to Fraser. Connie and Leo began dancing and disappeared into the crowd.

Well, that’s all right then
, Fraser thought, relieved.

Frances looked over at him suddenly as she reached her table and smiled at him, and without thinking, he got up and went over to her.

‘Would you like me to take over?’

‘To be honest, I’m flaked.’

‘I’m nothing like such hard work as Leo.’

‘Oh, all right.’

In the midst of the organism, where his lack of grace didn’t show, Fraser was rather enjoying himself until he suddenly bumped into someone.

‘Sorry,’ he mouthed, then realised it was Connie.

She didn’t reply, just shot him a look of pure malevolence before disappearing in the press of bodies.

Oh dear
, he thought.
Not all right
…

Frances had seen it too and was looking at him quizzically… then the music came to an end and Ian, who’d been lurking in the background, took the microphone from the DJ and made a short speech, thanking Parc-Reed for their hospitality.

The party went on, but Fraser decided to leave before he could do his career any more damage.

*

Early in January, to everyone’s astonishment – including, apparently, her own – Connie got the job as director. The rumour was put about, some said by Connie herself, that the Trust, tired of hearing that they’d never appoint a woman, decided to prove ‘them’ wrong. Ian seemed to take it equably and they continued to run the department in tandem.

One of her first acts as director was to send Fraser away to a hospital in Bath for three months. It was something he’d known was going to happen, and he had no objection, but he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he was being sent away as a punishment.

*

In Fraser’s dream, no sooner had he picked up one phone than another took over from it, so that when he did become awake enough to snatch up the real thing, he couldn’t quite believe it when the ringing stopped.

‘Dr Callan,’ he said, unsure that he’d be answered.

‘Fraser, it’s Frances Templeton. I’m at the lab. Brian Goodman’s been brought into A and E with slashed wrists.’

‘Ach,
shit
! – Sorry, Frances…’ He was on call, having been back from Bath for three weeks.

‘He’s in Resus. now, but his platelet count’s only nineteen. He’s A pos and we’ve got one adult platelet dose, but only two units of blood that are irradiated, leukodepleted and CMV neg. I’ve issued them, but they’ve asked for red label—’

‘
Don’t
let them have ordinary blood, whatever you do. Order some more irradiated from the transfusion centre.’

‘I’ve done that and it should be here in a quarter of an hour. Shall I cross match it or issue it red label?’

‘Start the cross match while I go and see him. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

He glanced at the clock as he quickly dressed – nearly one – then, still swearing, he drove to the hospital.

He should have seen it coming. Brian Goodman was in his fifties and had been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia three months earlier. He’d been put on DAP and within three weeks was in remission. He’d been a cheerful, optimistic man, not particularly intelligent, but determined to ‘have a crack’ at beating the disease.

Then, after his first consolidation, he’d become withdrawn and morose. His wife said he was depressed, but Goodman himself insisted there was nothing wrong and refused the offer of antidepressants.

They should have found some way of persuading him, Fraser thought now – Goodman was naturally the kind of man who’d think admitting to depression wimpish.

He arrived at Accident and Emergency and the harassed young house officer in Resuscitation told him how Goodman had been found in the bath by his wife.

‘It’s only one wrist, but very deep. He’s lost a lot of blood.’

‘What have you given him?’

‘Haemocell and two units of blood. He’s having the platelets now, but he desperately needs more blood.’

‘You can have some more in’ – he looked at his watch – ‘half an hour.’ Seeing the look on her face, he said, ‘In his state, it’s not worth the risk of infection or transfusion reaction to give him red label. Is he conscious?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s in there if you want to see him.’ She indicated a curtained cubicle. ‘His wife’s with him.’

She was on one side of the bed, holding his hand, and a staff nurse was on the other. The shallow rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that he was still human. His wife said, ‘Can I speak to you, doctor?’

He took her to a corner and she told him how he’d seemed much happier that day. ‘I should have guessed it was because he’d made his mind up to do this…’ He’d told her he was going to have a bath and that she should go to bed. She’d dozed off, then woken to find herself alone and gone to look for him.

‘Oh, the silly old fool…’ She wept briefly, then said, ‘Will he be all right, doctor?’

‘I think so, once we’ve got some more blood into him.’

He went back to the bedside with her, then walked over to the lab and found Frances.

‘Has the blood arrived yet?’

She nodded. ‘Should be ready in about twenty minutes.’

‘Well done.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘Yes, and his wife.’

‘What made him do it? He was doing so well…’

‘I know.’ He repeated what Mrs Goodman had told him.

She said, ‘I didn’t think they did slash their wrists if they really meant it, I thought it was usually a cry for help.’

‘Oh, he meant it fine well, he used a Stanley knife.’

‘Ugh.’ She shuddered. ‘Poor man. His poor wife.’

‘In a way, it fits in with his personality.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Old-fashioned, too proud to admit he was depressed, using what he saw as a macho way to finish himself off.’

‘Will it affect his chances?’

‘Well, it won’t help them.’

A timer went off and she went to see to the cross match.

On impulse, he followed her. ‘Can I help?’

She looked at him in mild surprise. ‘D’you know how to issue blood through the computer?’

He shook his head.

‘Then thanks, but not really.’

‘Can I make you a coffee, then?’

‘Not coffee – I’ll never sleep. A glass of squash would be nice.’

The phone rang. She picked it up, said ‘Yes’ a few times and wrote some details down, then replaced it and turned back to Fraser. ‘There’s another cross match on its way, so perhaps I will have that coffee.’

She joined him in the rest room fifteen minutes later.

‘All done?’ he asked.

She nodded as she sat down. ‘Six units.’

‘That should see him through,’ He got up and made the coffee. She’d taken off her lab coat and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, he noticed – she’d probably just got into bed when she was called. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked.

‘Just milk, please.’

He handed it to her.

‘Thanks.’ She took a sip. After a short silence, she said, ‘Pleased to be back with us?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘How did you like Bath?’

‘It’s a fine city.’

‘But not really for you.’

‘How did you know?’

She shrugged. ‘Your expression.’