Cold Steel (17 page)

Leeson pushed forward, allowing Kavanagh to squeeze in further. The tiny room was now uncomfortably warm and ties were loosened for comfort. Clarke slid the skirt across the workbench. 'You do the honours.'

Molloy inspected the outside material. It looked clean and fresh. The waist had been turned up three rolls to allow a higher hemline. A button had come off at the top and a safety pin held two ends together. He turned the skirt inside out and glided his fingers along the lower hem.

'There's something here.' His voice rose slightly. 'There's something here.'

The hem had been opened for about nine inches and stitched back. The restitching was amateurish, the thread a different colour and looped poorly. 'Cutter.'

Leeson reached for a pair of fine-pointed scissors from inside his side pocket. With two snips the inside hem was exposed. Molloy probed with his little finger and gently eased out a clingfilm wrap.

'What's in it?' Leeson was struggling to see over Clarke's shoulder.

Molloy searched for the outer edge of the wrap. 'Dunno yet.' Finally he snipped a corner and squeezed.

Four small, square blue tablets dropped one by one onto the bench top. Two landed face up. Their upper surface was clearly scored. D117C. The other two were turned over and a different marking showed,
CYN.

'Any idea what that is, Arnie?' asked Clarke.

Leeson picked up one of the tablets and peered at it with the naked eye, then under a pair of reading glasses. 'Never seen this type before. I'll take one and have it analysed. It won't be…'

Kavanagh finished the sentence. 'Ready before the weekend. I'll let you know on Monday.'

Leeson turned on his tormentor. 'Do you know, if you weren't such a big bastard I'd kick you in the balls.'

Molloy looked up from the bench. 'Kick away, Arnie. It's the only bit of activity they'll be getting.'

The banter lightened the moment and all agreed to take a break. They were about to leave when Molloy upturned the canvas schoolbag. Onto the workbench fluttered a roll-your-own cigarette paper. Written on it were the words
EENIE-MEENIE-MINEY-MO.
Over
MO,
and encircling the letters, a heart had been drawn. An arrow had been drawn through the heart. The arrow was a crude attempt at an erect penis.

'Bag it,' ordered Leeson, 'it might mean something, it
might be just juvenile humour.'

Clarke flicked through the school exercise book. It was Jennifer Marks' French homework. It was obvious she had been no language scholar. The blue handwritten text was spattered with red biro corrections. Each second page reflected a new day's work.
'see me after school'
was marked in large red biro at irregular intervals.

The door was locked and the four men shuffled along the corridors making small talk. Clarke had two of the mystery blue tablets inside his jacket. He patted the pocket.

'We're working on some of her clothing.' They were stopped at a locked door. Leeson swiped a security card. 'Follow me.'

The biology section of the forensic science laboratory was four rooms on the west side of the main building overlooking playing fields. The workbenches were topped with microscopes, chemicals, scattered paper and one fume cupboard. In another corner one large funnel-shaped stainless-steel vat had a stainless-steel coat hanger hanging over its upper end. Over the hanger a bloodstained dress was draped and a white-coated technician was painstakingly brushing its surface, watching as dust and fibres dropped and slid to collection plates below.

'Here,' directed Leeson and Clarke hobbled towards a broad worktop. Behind it a young and very pretty dark-haired girl in a white coat was working. 'We're checking the black skirt,' explained Leeson. He waved the girl to continue.

On the bench Jennifer Marks' black skirt was laid, outside surface up, seam carefully cut to allow full width stretched. The white-coated girl set a large sheet of blotting paper on top and wet it with water from a spray gun, careful to shield her eyes. She leaned heavily on the paper from end to end, then side to side, ensuring good contact.

'Okay,' she announced, brushing her hair away from her face, 'another thirty seconds.'

The blotting paper was laid in a fume cupboard and sprayed with Brentamine fast blue B. The cupboard was closed and a switch pulled. The girl waited, one hand resting on the bench.

'Something's showing.'

The cupboard was opened and the white square lifted back out. On one six-inch irregular patch a splattering of purple-red blobs showed.

'Can you see those stains?' the girl directed a gloved finger. 'There's another about an inch above.' The gloved finger moved higher. 'Those are semen stains.'

Clarke turned to Leeson. 'What happens now?'

Leeson's face puckered. 'She'll stain that patch with H&E for cells and spermatozoa. Then a sample will be collected for DNA profiling. We'll be able to use the PCR, polymeraze chain reaction, rather than single-locus probes. That way I'll push for a quick result. I'll clear everything else and move this case up. I'll tell you what we've got on Monday.'

24

4.58 pm

When Frank Clancy had been going through medical school he prepared for exams by interviewing himself and asking the most difficult questions possible. Later, before he presented research papers at conferences, he used the same technique to anticipate hostile queries from the floor. Clancy liked to keep on top of events, disliked situations outside his control. He had a keen analytical mind and would often spend hours in his attic at home toying with new theories on disease processes. His standard protocol was to type everything on a PC, print and read through during the day, then review at night. He consulted with hospital colleagues in different disciplines, inviting their comments on patient management and treatments, and disease progression probability. While he welcomed suggestions and advice, in the end all decisions were his alone. Frank Clancy was his own man.

On the afternoon of Friday, 15 May, Clancy was troubled, unsure of himself for the first time in many years. He sat at his desk on level three of the Mercy Hospital, his dark curly hair reflected in the clear glass of the office window. His head was bent, he was deep in thought. Fingers played with the keyboard of the PC in front. He had created a file, code name
GRANNY
,
for his assessment of the deaths from agranulocytosis. He'd typed in the two previous deaths, those of James Murphy and Mary Hyland
and their possible link with the cardiology centre on the top floor. Then he'd added the latest details of his patient on the ward, Harold Morell. Then he made six quick telephone calls.

'Hi Gerry,' he spoke to Gerald Hanson, Head of Haematology in Barton's Hospital in north Dublin. 'I'm doing a little research on agranulocytosis and was wondering if you could help?'

'Fire away.'

'Have you noticed any unusual clusters of cases recently, you know, a sudden increase in patients turning up in the wards with this problem?'

Hanson didn't need to consult any files. He came back immediately. 'No, haven't had a case in' the past year in fact.'

The same trend was reported from hospitals in the southern city of Cork, Galway on the western seaboard and Belfast in Northern Ireland. For good measure Clancy rang haematology centres in London and Edinburgh. No one was aware of an unusual recent cluster of the rare blood disease.

Type, type, type. The information was entered into

GRANNY.

By five thirty Clancy had placated his ward sister who had been hovering around waiting for late decisions on treatments before the weekend. He'd asked his registrar to deal with most of his patients and rang his wife to let her know he'd be home later than usual. He hung up quickly to avoid her wrath. Then he picked up the telephone again and dialled long distance.

'Drugs Assist Helpline.' It was the same broad mid-western accent, his nurse contact in Chicago on the assist line for queries on pharmaceutical products.

'Hi there,' said Clancy. 'It's me again. Dr Frank Clancy ringing from Dublin, Ireland.' He sounded embarrassed.

'Well hello, Dr Clancy. You're getting to be a regular customer. What can I do for you this time?' The voice was
just as pleasant as before and Clancy relaxed a little. He was becoming keyed up with the paper chase.

'You're not gonna believe this,' Clancy started, 'but that patient I was on about has produced another tablet we can't identify. I was hoping you could do a search for me.'

'No problem, Dr Clancy. Just give me as much detail as you know.'

'Well, it's not a lot,' Clancy apologised.

'Tell me what you have. We can only do our best.'

'Okay,' Clancy drew a deep breath. 'Small, square blue tablet. Letters in capitals on both sides.'

'One moment,' the nurse interrupted, 'I'm typing as I

go.'

'One side has C,Y and N. The other side has capitals, slightly smaller.' As he spoke Clancy was inspecting one of the tablets Ned Hyland had given him the night before.

'And what are the letters?' asked Chicago.

'X and P.'

'Anything else?'

'No, that's all I have.'

'One moment.' In the distance the sound of keyboard tapping could be heard.

Pause.

'Nothing on colour description. I'll try on letters.'

'Thanks.' Clancy began chewing on his thumbnails, a nervous habit he'd given up in his teens.

Pause.

'Nothing on letters either. Hey, you've really got me on this one, Dr Clancy. Let me try one other approach.' Tap, tap, tap on the faraway keyboard.

Pause.

'Well, would you believe it, I don't have anything on that product. Are you certain it's from the USA?'

'As far as I can be sure of anything,' said Clancy.

'It's definitely not one of the pharmaceutical products licensed for use in this country.'

Clancy's pen hovered over a blank pad, ready to record any information.

'Still there, Dr Clancy?'

'I'm still here. I'm thinking.'

Pause.

'Let me go into the pharmaceutical companies' logos,' offered Chicago. 'Maybe it's an experimental product not yet licensed.'

It clicked in Clancy's mind immediately. 'That's it,' he exclaimed excitedly. 'That's what it is. Do a search on that, please.' He was begging.

'Okay,' laughed Chicago. 'One moment.'

Pause. Tap, tap, tap.

'Something's coming up.'

The pen in Clancy's hand pressed against the blank pad.

'Nothing on the actual product, just the manufacturing company.'

'Give me anything you've got.'

'Capital letters CYN on blue tablet background is used by one company only. It's their trademark. They don't manufacture in any other colour.'

'Who are they?'

'Cynx Pharmaceuticals.'

'Know anything about them?'

'Just headquarters and telephone, fax and e-mail addresses. They have an assist line for problems with their products.'

'Where is Cynx based?' asked Clancy.

'Boston. Would you like the exact address?'

Boston. Clancy leaned so far back in his chair he almost fell over. Then he pushed forward to scribble the details coming down the line.

'Would you like me to contact Cynx directly and ask about this tablet?' the nurse offered.

Clancy nearly had a heart attack. 'No, no, no. Most certainly not.' He had difficulty controlling his anxiety. 'I'll call them myself,' he lied. 'Thank you so much for all your
help, you're a gem.'

'We try to help, Dr Clancy. That's what we're here for.'

The line between Dublin and Chicago went dead leaving Frank Clancy staring yet again at the earpiece. He was stunned.

Tap, tap, tap. The information from Chicago was entered into
granny.
Clancy inserted a disc and backed up the file through the A-drive. He printed what he was reading from the screen and folded the two A4 pages into a side pocket. Then he went into File Manager and deleted
granny.
He was taking no chances.

He glanced at his watch, it was now after six. Time to see a few patients before going home. He lifted a batch of charts and went onto the wards. As he was examining a young man in the middle of a row of beds he heard the distinct sound of John Regan's voice. He turned sharply and sighed with relief when he realised the noise was coming from a television. He walked closer to listen. It was a news coverage of the earlier press conference. Seeing Regan again unsettled Clancy and he returned to his patient quickly to escape the image.

By contrast Jim Clarke was impressed. He sat on an armchair at home nursing a glass of wine and scooping great lumps of lasagne into his mouth with a fork. He flicked channels with the remote control and there was Regan again, on the BBC and Sky bulletins. The stations reported the international interest on events in Dublin. Maeve came into the room from the kitchen and topped up his glass.

'Very determined is our Dr Regan tonight.' Maeve was no great lover of the government.

'I think he looks gorgeous,' jeered Katy. She was sitting on the floor at her father's feet. 'All the girls in our class think he's a real hunk.'

Clarke looked closely at Regan, seeing him now through different eyes. 'Waddyou think, Maeve? Do you think he's a hunk?'

Maeve paused on her way back to the kitchen and wiped her hands on a tea towel. She inspected the screen, seeing only a few seconds of the end of the press conference. 'I'd say he'd chew you up and spit you out if you crossed him. He'd have young girls for breakfast.'

Clarke winked at Katy, noticing her scowl. 'I think you're right. I don't see a hunk, I see a right pratt.'

Katy stood up. 'You're just jealous. He's still got hair and you've hardly any. Nah-ne-nah-ne-nah-nah.' She barely escaped the swipe from the tip of the crutch.