Bloodstains Page 8

  I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to ignore him and pretend I hadn’t understood, then reluctantly followed him. Enough enemies for one day.

  ‘Ah, Mr Jones,’ he said as I entered his office, ‘do please sit down.’

  I sat. The level of the soft armchair was well below that of his, so that I was forced to look up at his silhouette against the window.

  ‘Mr Jones,’ he said for the third time, ‘I thought we had agreed to meet daily to discuss your progress. You didn’t come yesterday.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I had a very busy day.’

  ‘Really?’ I said nothing. ‘What have you done to your hand?’

  I told him the same story.

  He made appropriate noises, then said, ‘Well, have you made any progress?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Only think?’

  ‘Suspect, rather.’

  ‘Whom do you suspect?’

  I hesitated. ‘I’d rather tell you what I think has been going on.’

  ‘Very well, what has been going on?’

  ‘As I said, I have only suspicions.’ He waited for me to continue. ‘I’m sure it hinges on the fact that when a computer tells you something, you accept it as gospel. You forget that it was put there by someone else in the first place.’

  He waved an impatient hand. ‘That much is obvious. Go on.’

  ‘For instance.’ I tried to continue as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘I realized this morning that you know nothing of the fate of the blood once it’s issued. You can key in a donation number, and the computer tells you it was issued on a certain date, and since it hasn’t been returned, you assume it’s been used. But how do you know?’

  ‘Because—’ he began and then paused for thought. ‘Because if you want to, you can trace the fate of any donation at the hospital of issue.’

  ‘But that isn’t done with all donations, is it?’

  He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘It would be impossible.’

  ‘So how do you know?’ I leaned forward. ‘Suppose you have an accomplice at a hospital, he could over-order and put the blood to one side as soon as it arrived.’

  Falkenham groaned. ‘Accomplices at hospitals, I don’t think so.’

  ‘All right then, no accomplice, you simply over-issue. You tell the computer that you’ve issued twenty units to St Helen’s Hospital when in fact you only send ten. You put the other ten aside somewhere, and when they don’t come back — how can they when they never even went — the computer, and the rest of us, assume it’s been used.’

  His thumbnail went up to his mouth. ‘Is this what you think’s been happening?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  You realize that there are very few people in this Centre in a position to do that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Are you accusing Adrian Hodges?’

  I hesitated. ‘I suspect him.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Adrian may have his unattractive side, but I can’t believe him a thief. Have you any evidence?’

  ‘Only circumstantial so far. I need more time.’

  ‘Is that the only way that blood products could be stolen from this Centre?’

  ‘I can think of at least two others.’ He waited, so I continued. ‘If returned whole blood isn’t light-penned back into the computer, it’s assumed used. I’m told that the plasma from it is valuable.’

  ‘But that’s what happened in London.’

  ‘No reason why it shouldn’t happen here.’

  ‘And the other way?’

  ‘This only occurred to me this afternoon.’ I closed my eyes for a moment and concentrated. ‘At this Centre, increasingly large amounts of fresh plasma are being squeezed off and sent to CPPL.’ Suddenly, I had his whole attention. ‘Whoever does it notes each donation number on a sheet which is sent with the plasma to CPPL, then they stick a bar code label on to the pack to tell the computer.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, after the night shift has finished, what’s to stop someone squeezing off another twenty, thirty, fifty packs and keeping the plasma?’

  He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Because the figures wouldn’t tally, that’s why.’

  ‘Why not? You don’t add those figures to CPPL’s list, you just stick on the bar-coded Plasma Reduced label for the computer.’

  ‘And as I said, the figures wouldn’t tally.’

  ‘Are you telling me that the Plasma Reduced figures are totalled from the computer and compared with returns from CPPL?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.’

  I shrugged. ‘Just an idea.’ I didn’t believe he knew.

  He said, ‘Do you have any more ideas?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’

  He stared out of the window for a moment, drumming his desk with his fingers, then back to me.

  ‘I must tell you, Mr Jones, that I’m not very impressed with your progress.'

  Strong stuff. ‘That’s your prerogative.’

  ‘Indeed it is. I believe you intended to finish your work by the end of this week.’

  ‘I had hoped to.’

  ‘I’m going to suggest that if you’ve made no further progress by then, we drop the investigation.’

  ‘Why don’t you wait till the end of the week and decide?’

  ‘What I was trying to say politely, Mr Jones, is that the investigation will cease at the end of the week, come what may.’

  ‘You’ll have to discuss that with my Department.’ I said.

  I telephoned Marcus from the hotel and told him what had happened and asked whether he could get CPPL’s figures for the amount of plasma sent from Tamar.

  He grunted and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Ah!’ he added deafeningly so that I jerked the earpiece away. ‘That reminds me, you were asking about black markets for whole blood. Well, it’s not such a good proposition as plasma in this country, because the red bit tends to go off, but there most certainly is a market for it worldwide. I got on to the World Transfusion League today, and they told me that there’s an Import-Export firm in Switzerland who actually solicit the stuff, provided it’s reasonably fresh—’

  ‘Solicit from whom?’

  ‘Anyone who’ll sell. Apparently, they can easily re-sell it to their “foreign customers”. Red Gold, it’s called in the Trade. Any help?’

  ‘It could be. Supposing someone here got in touch with them, and transport could be arranged; it would save messing about separating it, wouldn’t it? I’ll look into it.’

  ‘Well, don’t go getting beaten up again. What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Gotta date.’

  ‘Really? What’s she like?’

  I told him, and he said, ‘Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’

  I said, ‘You’re always so original, Marcus,’ and hung up.

  Chapter Seven

  Indicator flashing, the silver Metro detached itself from the stream of traffic and swooped into the space in front of the lobby. The uniformed attendant just beat me to it. ‘You can’t park ere, miss.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ 1 soothed. ‘We’re just going.’

  ‘Hi,’ she called brightly as I eased in beside her. ‘Been waiting long?’

  ‘Bout ten minutes.’

  ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you?’

  ‘OK,’ she said, sounding for a moment very American, and with a glance behind, took off into the traffic.

  She concentrated on her driving without saying much, so I concentrated on her. She drove confidently without haste or fuss. She was wearing the sort of light summery dress that makes even the palest skin look tanned — not that she needed it: her arms and legs shone a nutty brown with health. Still, not really my type.

  The suburbs straggled for about fifteen minutes and then we were in the country, really in it, as though the town didn’t exist. She turned off into a car park.

  The pub was all beams and horse-brasses,
but pleasant for all that.

  ‘Let’s take them outside,’ she said when I bought the drinks.

  The air was light and scented, and swallows shrilled overhead as they hawked for insects. We sat in a small walled garden at the back, at a white-painted metal table made golden by the last of the sun. The light magnified the hills that hung over us, making them seem more like mountains.

  ‘So that’s Dartmoor,’ I said.

  ‘Mmmm.’ She nodded.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to explore it,’ I said, ‘ever since I saw it when I was seventeen.’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance. Why don’t you?’

  ‘No car.’

  ‘Well, I—’ She changed her mind. ‘When were you here before?’

  No harm in telling her. ‘Army exercises.’

  ‘You were in the Army?’

  ‘You needn’t sound so surprised. Do I look that soft?’

  ‘You don’t look soft at all,’ she said slowly, ‘Rather nuggetty and hard. And sometimes all tensed up, like a spring.’ Pause. ‘What made you join the army?’

  ‘To get away from home.’

  ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ I said shortly, then: ‘Not an interesting subject. What about you? I’d have put you down as the University type.’

  ‘The dream of all bright young things! I could have, I just didn’t want to.’

  ‘No regrets?’

  ‘None. I like my job, I get a lot out of it.’

  ‘It shows.’ I smiled. ‘But don’t you think you could do better in a bigger Centre?’

  ‘Possibly.’ She took a mouthful of her drink. ‘But I like it here.’

  ‘You live at home, don’t you?’

  ‘Mmm. I get on very well with my parents.’

  ‘And I suppose you’ve got friends here,’ I said quickly shying away from families.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘How about the people at the Centre, d’you get on with them?’ Time to get to work again.

  ‘Pretty well, yes.’

  ‘Do I detect a hint of reservation?’

  ‘You might.’

  ‘I’d have thought you were ambitious, that’s why I asked if you thought of moving.’ My turn to smile. ‘D’you think you’d have a chance of Trefor’s job if he did retire?’

  Her eyes gleamed for a moment, then faded. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing, they’d never appoint a woman.’

  ‘They appointed Trefor.’

  ‘Ooh, you bitch!’ She laughed. ‘Trefor’s not that bad, he does try.’

  ‘What about Falkenham?’

  ‘He’s a poppet, all bark and no bite.’

  ‘Doesn’t he ever bite?’

  ‘Only when people deserve it.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  She smiled, her face glowing in the sunset. ‘I’ll say this, I think he’s got a soft spot for women. I get on with him.’

  ‘But he won’t be around by the time Trefor retires, will he?’

  Her smile vanished. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind, Tom Jones.’

  ‘Sorry, not meant that way.’ I drank some beer. ‘But he’s already well over retiring age, isn’t he? I wonder what made him want to go on working.’

  ‘You’ve been listening to Steve, haven’t you?’ Her voice held an edge.

  I shrugged. ‘He just mentioned that he thought it was odd for a man in his position to go on working.’

  ‘Perhaps he loves his work, what’s odd about that?’ She leaned forward. ‘I’ll tell you this: he knows more about blood transfusion than anyone else at the Centre.’

  ‘Even Chalgrove?’

  ‘That’s Steve again, isn’t it? Yes, even Dr Chalgrove. He’s a brilliant man, but not mature enough to be Director.’

  ‘How do you mean, not mature?’

  ‘Well, it’s hardly mature to hide yourself away and sulk just because you don’t get a job, is it?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘And I suppose he passed on the rumour that the Director’s short of money and has to go on working?’

  ‘No, he didn’t tell me that,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Well, if it were true, I’d feel sorry for him. And now I think it’s time we changed the subject,’ She stood up. I’m going to buy you a drink, Tom Jones, and while I’m gone, you can think of something else to talk about.’

  The sun had gone, a blackbird stuttered its alarm somewhere in the shadows, and the black moor hovered. I was the only person in the garden.

  ‘A pint of beer, Tom Jones.’ She set it beside me.

  ‘Why do you call me that?’

  ‘It’s your name, isn’t it?’ She sat down. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Tell me something,’ I said.

  ‘No more shop.’

  ‘All right.’ I took a pull of beer. ‘Are you American?’

  Silvery laughter broke the shadows for a moment. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You sometimes sound like one. Not always.’

  She swallowed half her drink and leaned forward. ‘Steve once said the same thing, just after he came. Didn’t you do history? Don’t you remember a ship called the Mayflower that sailed not a million miles from here?’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ I said slowly. ‘So, your accent’s the prototype.’

  ‘By the same token, hadn’t it ever occurred to you that you could be mistaken for an Australian?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Snob,’ she said, laughing. ‘The first Australians were convicts transported from London. Think about it.’

  ‘Do I sound that bad?’

  ‘What’s so bad about it?’ She took another drink. ‘No, you don’t, but you’re obviously a Londoner, looks, voice, manner, everything.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes, except for your name. Were your ancestors Welsh?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something else.’ She finished her drink and leaned nearer. ‘You must be the first man I’ve met who doesn’t want to talk about himself.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘So, you should be. D’you know what they used to call me at the Centre?’ Her face glowed solemnly. ‘I’ll tell you, Auntie Holly.’

  ‘I prefer just Holly. It’s a nice name.’

  ‘People like to confide in me, tell me their guilty secrets.’ her eyes twisted away to the nearly dead sunset. ‘Then they resent me for knowing. They don’t realize that I don’t want their secrets. Not usually, anyway. Let’s go in—’ she broke off abruptly. ‘I’m cold.’

  She moved like a wraith in the semi-darkness, the faintest rustlings telling of her body’s warmth.

  I bought more drinks, we found a table in a corner and for a while talked of more neutral things. She told me about her parents who owned a small-holding the other side of Tamar, about their small struggles and triumphs, and I wondered how she would get on with my photosynthetic friends. Not very well probably, she was too much the real thing.

  ‘Another drink?’ I said.

  ‘Better not. I’m driving.’

  ‘An orange juice, then?’

  ‘All right.’

  Back to work, I thought as I bought them.

  Holly, I am sorry about today, it must have been embarrassing for you. I am puzzled, though: why does Adrian dislike me so much?’

  ‘Why do you dislike him? You did make a bit of a fool of yourself.’

  ‘I know, but it takes two.’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s jealous.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Me. All men.’ Another pause while she looked down at her drink. ‘If you haven’t already guessed, we had a brief fling.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why.’

  She looked up. ‘Why what?’

  ‘I dislike him.’

  She smiled a tiny smile.

  ‘Tom Jones,’ she said after a pause, looking for something to say, ‘d’you realize that you’ve still managed to say almost nothing about yourself?’ Her eyes
touched mine, slid away, returned. ‘D’you like your job? How long have you been doing it?’

  ‘Yes. And about six months. In that order.’

  ‘What did you do before that?’

  Damn! I’d have liked to tell her. ‘Worked with computers. Always have, for different firms.’

  ‘And before that, the Army?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She regarded me with open curiosity, no longer needing something to say.

  ‘You’ve been very unhappy in your life, haven’t you? Are you married?’

  I coughed to clear my throat. ‘No, I was, but it didn’t work.’

  She nodded slowly, her eyes fastened on me. I could understand people confiding in her — the mixture of innocence and sexuality drew like a poultice.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No. Just as well. Not fair on them.’

  ‘Is that what happened to you?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I was going to tell her. Perhaps I had always been going to tell her. ‘I have a problem — Auntie Holly.’

  She shut like a clam. ‘Please don’t call me that.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll be quiet.’

  ‘No, Tom!’ She squeezed my arm. A tingling remained after her hand withdrew.

  It was so simple. ‘It’s so simple,’ I said, and stopped.

  She said nothing.

  ‘The truth is — I’m scared stiff of blood.’

  She nodded again. ‘Haemophobia — so that’s why you jumped out of your skin today. Why did you take this job?’

  ‘Had to. It was that, or Out. Boss said it would do me good.’

  ‘How very insensitive.’

  ‘Not really. I’m beginning to wonder if he was right. Got to come to terms with it.’

  ‘Perhaps. D’you know why? Why you’re scared, that is. All phobias have a cause, you know.’

  Wise girl. ‘Yes. I know why.’

  Another hurdle.

  ‘My brother’s a haemophiliac.’

  She nodded slowly. Something inside me began to relax.

  She said, ‘You know who you ought to speak to?’ I watched her warily. ‘Dr Chalgrove.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t, but he understands haemophilia better than anyone else I know. He gave me a lecture once,’ she continued reflectively. ‘He used to work in a haemophilia unit, you know. He actually said that one of the greatest problems was handling the siblings of haemophiliac children. Talk to him, Tom.’