Palindrome Page 16

  He quickly looked at the radiology of the case, holding the chest X-ray up to the dim light from the window; it was just sufficient to outline the tumour. After quickly examining the slides under the microscope, he dictated his short report almost without thought, the whole process taking less than a minute.

  The bearded emeritus Fellow opposite Gabriel ate his lunch. He was in his eighties, nearly bald with just a few tufts of hair left round his temples. He wore a somewhat battered dark tweed sports jacket which was tightly buttoned up. Between loud chews after every mouthful he commented to Gabriel, “I usually have the pasta but it’s not on today. When my wife was alive she used to make a very nice pasta with cheese sauce.”

  Gabriel grunted and pushed away his unfinished plate.

  “Isn’t yours any good?” asked the old man solicitously.

  “I’m not hungry,” said Gabriel who wondered what demon had compelled him to come into college for lunch on a weekend.

  “Perhaps you should try the curry,” said the old man. “I can’t take anything spicy on account of my digestion.”

  Gabriel made no reply to this foretaste of his own future. His digestion was at present in good order but he had enough knowledge of morbid anatomy to realise that this happy situation was not guaranteed to last. He looked past the head of the emeritus — similar to his own presumably one day — and scrutinised those of the other Fellows in turn. There were only a handful, mostly old, in the small college dining room. Some had been very eminent in their time. A couple of aspirant younger Fellows sat tieless together; they looked as if they had just come off the squash court.

  “Of course,” said the emeritus, “I never used to go into lunch on Saturday when my wife was alive. It makes a lot of difference when your wife passes on. Are you married, may I ask?”

  “Yes for my sins,” said Gabriel with a touch of self-pity.

  “You shouldn’t speak like that,” said the emeritus between exaggerated chews. You need a wife, you young Fellows.”

  Gabriel was tempted to remind him that he was sixty. The emeritus was silent as he loudly chewed then swallowed.

  Gabriel took the opportunity to explain himself. “My wife has gone to London this weekend to visit relatives.”

  The emeritus wiped his mouth with a heavily wrinkled, dirty handkerchief. He leaned over the refectory table to grab a bottle of water. Gabriel saw that his coat had a stain on the cuff which was missing a button. He wore a coloured shirt and a round neck pullover from which the knot of a black tie poked out. His appearance suggested a small time shop owner and not an emeritus science professor. He held up the bottle of water.

  Gabriel shook his head. “No thanks.”

  There was a brief pause before the emeritus observed, “You’ve no children, I take it.”

  Gabriel nodded. Anna’s father had made the same observation. What was it about him that made people suspect it?

  “I’ve a son,” said the emeritus who looked at Gabriel as if it was the most unlikely thing in the world for a Fellow of the college, even in these times when the statutes permitted marriage, to have a child. “He lives in London, has a job in the City.” There was a note of grievance in his voice. “When my wife passed on a couple of years ago he offered to pay the bills, which was very good of him. He bought me a TV as well. Of course, I already had one and I’d no room for a second — it’s quite large, you see — so I put it outside in the shed. He doesn’t visit much and only rings me once a month.” He looked at Gabriel and his mouth twitched. His wrinkles, like pine needles, fanned out across his cheeks. “What do you think of that?”

  Gabriel did not know what to reply and just shook his head.

  “When my wife was alive I was like you. I didn’t worry my head about such things. But you get to thinking when you find yourself alone.” The emeritus looked Gabriel in the eye. “It makes you wonder why my wife and I worried so much, paid so much, did so much when he was growing up. You’d have thought he could phone more often. He may be busy but so were we when he was a boy. I should tell him all this to his face but I don’t. I keep quiet. And do you know why? Because I’m afraid of upsetting him and then he’ll stop ringing and paying the bills.”

  Gabriel drank the rest of his coffee. It was now stone cold. As something of a consequence he remarked, “It’s the way times have gone.”

  The emeritus seized on Gabriel’s words as one does a free newspaper on boarding a plane. “You’re not wrong there. People just don’t care anymore. They don’t go to church — couldn’t give a damn about it — and there’s no morality. They look after themselves and their own. They’ve no God in their world. There’s only the Devil. It’s every man for himself nowadays.”

  “I agree but I’m not sure the Devil is to blame,” said Gabriel, thinking of the Witch of Edmonton.

  “Who is then?” asked the old man.

  Gabriel was about to say something like, “The bureaucrats and the lawyers” but to make his escape easier he just shook his head and said, “Who knows?”

  Chapter 12

  Some men interpret nine memos

  When Gabriel telephoned Brook on Monday he was told by a blockish policeman’s voice that Brook was busy. It was only after a little persistence that he even managed to leave a message for Brook to call back, which he duly did half an hour later.

  “Did you know that Samant didn’t cycle straight home after finishing work the day Anna was murdered? He bought a lottery ticket from the newsagent’s on the estate.”

  Brook said he was aware of this fact.

  “The thing is I saw him over the weekend and he told me he’d cycled straight home after work. There was no mention of a visit to the newsagent ‘s to buy lottery tickets.”

  “Maybe he misunderstood what you asked him? His English is quite poor.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think so.” Gabriel remembered the fearful expression of Samant’s wife’s when he had answered him. “Isn’t it possible that Samant could have cycled back past Nebotec after going to the newsagent’s and seen something or someone before Anna was killed?”

  “He could be lying, of course, but in his statement he says it was very dark and he saw nothing when he cycled back past Nebotec. And that he got home just after 6.00.”

  “You have his wife’s statement for that, I suppose?”

  “Yes, but we’ve no reason to doubt her. There are a few other witnesses who saw him cycling home. They say that he wasn’t covered in blood. Do you know something we don’t?”

  Gabriel hesitated; it was the natural hesitation of a pathologist unwilling to deliver a diagnosis before it is certain. “No, but it’s all very puzzling. I keep thinking about those slides and the way the microscope stage was in the wrong place.”

  “We’re keeping an open mind on that. You may be right but we carried out a few tests here, substituting a female police officer of similar height and stature to Dr Taylor at the microscope and we found that it was possible that the stage could be moved if Dr Taylor fell forward over the microscope in a certain way.”

  “So, you don’t think the slides were changed?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Brook replied cautiously. “But, as you said the other day, it’s difficult to see why they should have been. Dr Taylor reported that they were normal in her lab book and Nick Grant, Dr Reynolds and you say they look normal as well. So why should they have been changed?”

  “But why did she ask for that particular experiment to be done again. Just to check a result? That meant a lot of work for her. A lot of slides to look at. I can’t believe she would have done all that for nothing. Have you checked the blocks of the slides?”

  There was a brief silence at the other end of the line before Brook answered, “Of course.”

  “And do the sections on the slides match the outline of the tissues in the block?”

  “They appear to. They’re the same shape.”

  “But you can’t say for certain? One mouse bone looks pretty much li
ke any other.”

  “If you can suggest any other test that we should carry out on the blocks then we’ll do it,” Brook answered flatly.

  Gabriel had an inkling that he was irritating Brook with his amateur detective work. “Wait until tomorrow when I look at the slides again.” His job was almost done. He had reminded Brook that the solution to Anna’s murder might yet be in the slides he was examining. It was up to him to identify the one diagnostic feature that would convince Brook (and himself) that he was on the right track. “Anyway,” Gabriel added, “it sounds as if you may not be that interested. Nick Grant tells me that you’ve arrested someone outside Nebotec.”

  “Naughty Nick. He shouldn’t have said anything about that to anyone. We’ve questioned someone to be precise. A member of an Animal Rights Group with a criminal record. We had to eliminate him from our inquiries — which we did.”

  “Whoever killed Anna must have had sufficient motive to carry out a brutal murder. His (or her) clothing would have been covered in blood. Of course, it’s possible that some provision was made for that. The murderer might have worn an overcoat as well as boots. Taylor was the only one with blood on him. Lots of it too. Do you think he did it?”

  “He’s certainly in the frame.”

  “So, why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “We’ve not worked out the details and we’ve no real evidence. We really need the murder weapon to wrap it up, all neat and tidy. We may never find it if it was thrown into the stream by the cycle track. It’s a branch of the Cherwell and it could have been dragged down river toward Oxford and the Thames.”

  “Taylor doesn’t strike me as the type somehow to have done it. At least not alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not imaginative enough. He’s not an ideas man. He doesn’t initiate the experiments. Palmer does. Taylor just carries them out.”

  “He may not have had ideas of his own but he could have harboured ambitions or resentments. I’ve been twenty years in this game and I’ve seen all types commit murder. There was a pause before Brook added darkly, “But, of course, this may not just be about the Nebotec slides.”

  Gabriel wondered if that was a reference to Anna’s relations with Hewitt.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.” Hewitt?”

  “No. But there may have been someone else. We went through the student records of Anna Taylor and found that she had to miss a term for medical reasons in her second year.”

  “Did you find out why? Gabriel asked, impressed with the thoroughness of Brook’s research.

  “Apparently she had a curettage for vaginal bleeding when she was a student in Nottingham.”

  “Do you know what for? A pathologist would have looked at the curettings.” Gabriel quickly considered the diagnostic possibilities before asking, “Was it because she was pregnant? That would be the most common cause.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “I wonder if that was why her father was angry with her. He told me that she had shamed the family.”

  “It’s very likely.”

  “I didn’t ask but I assume Anna wasn’t pregnant at the time of her death, was she?”

  “No,” Brook answered simply.

  Gabriel recalled his conversation with Pat and wondered if Brook’s investigations now covered the same possibilities. Very likely.

  “You don’t know who was the father of Anna’s child?” he asked. “Unless there were fetal contents in the curettings, which is unlikely, then all the DNA would be of maternal origin.”

  “Is that the case? No, we don’t know who was the father. We are using traditional police methods to go through the medical school records.”

  Gabriel thought of quiet, fearful Tom Duncan who had been in Anna’s year at medical school.

  “You will let me know if you find anything in the Nebotec slides, won’t you?” Brook spoke in a way that Gabriel interpreted as an attempt to end the conversation more amicably than it had begun.

  “Of course,” Gabriel answered before plaiting together the skeins of Tom Duncan’s life into a cord. “But there’s something else you should know. About one of my staff in the Pathology Department...”

  “Poole and co are hell bent on a rebanding exercise,” Gabriel told Liz who had popped in before going home to discuss the outcome of the meeting of the hospital management board. “They’re going to make every non-clinical staff member write their own job description and then offer a new grade on that basis.”

  Liz was not amused. “That sounds very much like constructive dismissal to me.”

  “You know, I never thought of it that way, but you’re probably right.” Gabriel looked down; he seemed to be apologising for his role in the whole business. “Still, they wouldn’t be attempting it if they didn’t think they could get away with it. They want to save money on support staff like medical secretaries, reorganising them into teams and giving them a new job title. It all sounds barmy...”

  “Talk about using a sledge hammer to crack a nut. It’ll cause chaos.”

  Gabriel echoed her tone. “And I bet it won’t save a penny. It’s only a matter of time before they do the same to doctors.”

  They discussed ways and means of minimising the effect on their department. They had a common purpose and their solidarity was for a moment familiar and confidential. This was followed by a short silence from which they both immediately deduced that, despite all their talk, they had achieved nothing.

  Liz Reynolds carefully pulled down her skirt to the level of her knee and stood up. The movement was so sudden that for a moment Gabriel had the embarrassing notion that she was going to pat him on the shoulder, or worse, hug him, but she abruptly wheeled away and, coolly changing the subject, said, “Speaking of other useless activities, I saw Palmer and Hewitt again at the college the other night. They both asked me when our final report on the PLF histology would be ready. I said you’d taken charge of it.”

  Gabriel cleared his throat. “It’s all typed up and ready to go. I don’t know why I’ve delayed delivering it to them.”

  Liz’s face wore a slightly acid smile. “I do.”

  “Why then?” Gabriel asked, genuinely curious.

  “Because the slides are all normal and, being a pathologist, you keep thinking there must be some pathology that you haven’t spotted. Isn’t that right?”

  He nodded. “I still can’t help feeling that I must have missed something Anna noticed in those slides. She was murdered when she was looking down the microscope at them. I’ve found out that she wasn’t entirely happy about the results of some of the experiments that were going on at Nebotec. Wasn’t happy with a few people at Nebotec, in fact.”

  Liz stood very still. “But you can only report what you see. Isn’t that what you’re always telling the trainees? And what you see looks normal. Why don’t you just get rid of it and move on? I mean, it’s not as if you’ve nothing else to do. There’s all the diagnostic work and your own research. Don’t you think...”

  Liz stopped, aware that she was perhaps talking a little too harshly, scolding him in fact. The uncomfortable pause that followed was brushed away by Gabriel with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “I don’t see any harm in holding onto the slides a day or so more. I still have a few things to get straight before letting them go.”

  “Such as?”

  “I need to know more about the palindromes Palmer was working on.”

  A smile faded from Liz’s face — too quickly for a genuine smile. “I thought you said that no sensible man should waste his time on palindromes. I’ve been there and I know you’re right. I wasted a year of my D.Phil studying them before switching to proper genes. Palmer hasn’t converted you, has he?”

  “Hardly. Let’s just say I’m making a few inquiries. I need to know a little more about them.”

  Liz raised her eyebrows. As ever, she was quick to sense a change in the wind. Much too quick. “The trouble with you Adam is that you’
re too clever by half.”

  Gabriel pursed his lips but said nothing.

  “You’re both never satisfied.”

  “Both?”

  “Palmer and you,” she explained.

  Gabriel was genuinely surprised and a little hurt to be linked with Palmer in the same breath.

  “You’re like he was when I worked with him as a student.”

  “Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind having one last gander at the slides of the PLF-treated mice before signing them all off as normal. I’m treating them as I would the slides of any case that’s difficult to diagnose. I’ve put them to one side and deliberately not looked at them for a couple of days. I’ll see if I have any fresh ideas when I look at them tomorrow. If I don’t spot anything new, I’ll hand in the report unchanged.”

  “I’ve had enough of them. I’m sorry I ever got involved again. They’ve brought me nothing but trouble.”

  “I just feel we should know as much as we can about what we’ve been asked to give our opinion. After all, isn’t that what we’d do if it was a tumour we had to diagnose? Why should this be any different?”

  These questions summarised their divergent opinions which, deeply held, they both seemed to realise would not profit from being aired any further. Not now anyway.

  Liz nodded. She said goodbye and, with a wave of her hand that was something of a peremptory command to get on with it, added, “Okay Adam, if that’s the way you want to play it, it’s your funeral.”

  Gabriel noted the mixed metaphor.

  Gabriel tried to return to his work after Liz left, but in the same way that the elusive diagnosis of a tumour nagged him he could not get the problem of Anna out of his mind.

  He became aware of the sound of rain outside; he went to the window and parted the blinds. Steady rain was falling. By tomorrow the fields would be sodden.

  Why the letter? That was what puzzled him more than anything else. Why had it been sent to his home address rather than to his work? After all, it was in his department in Oxford Anna was applying for the job. How had the letter read? For a number of reasons things haven’t worked out for me at Nebotec. And then there was what she had told Liz? Something about it being necessary to make a fresh start.