“Tell me your size, I’ll call the place my husband uses. They’ll deliver it.”
“Great,” said Neef. He told Ann what he wanted.
Tim Heaton telephoned to ask if Neef had seen Mark Louradis’ piece in the Mail. Neef replied that he hadn’t.
“It’s excellent,” said Heaton. “They gave it a good half page with diagrams to explain what the Menogen vectors were designed to achieve. This is exactly the kind of coverage St George’s needs. It let’s people know we’re right at the cutting edge of medicine.”
“Good,” said Neef without emotion.
Neef arrived at the university at seven forty-five. The Connaught Rooms were on the third floor of the oldest building in the quadrangle and were used for all formal functions where an aura of academic dignity was seen as a desirable ingredient. The retiral dinner of an academic staff member was just such an occasion. The entrance hall itself was imposing, even intimidating, thought Neef as he looked across to the uniformed man at the desk, the only living being beneath all the portraits of past chancellors and royal patrons. The man looked up from his paper, noted Neef’s black tie and waved him on up with a, “Good Evening, sir.”
“Evening,” replied Neef. He crossed the marble floor to the huge staircase leading up to the first floor. The steps were in white Italian marble and diverged in two directions after the first dozen so that they spiralled left and right up to the open first landing. High above the central well, a glass cupola allowed light to flood down during the day. At night, wrought iron chandeliers did the job.
There were about thirty to forty people in the Connaught Rooms when Neef finally got there. They were standing drinking sherry in a small area outside the main dining room. Waitresses, wearing black and looking as if they’d be more at home in a 1930’s tea room, circulated among the throng with sharp eyes and blank expressions, at all times on their guard against carelessly flung-out arms and sudden backward steps.
“Drink sir?” asked one.
Neef accepted with a smile and looked round for a friendly face. MacSween had been right; there weren’t many people here from St George’s. As if sensing his solitude, David Farro-Jones came across with his wife Jane on his arm. Jane was as pretty as Farro-Jones was handsome. She was also charming.
“I didn’t know you were coming, Michael,” said Farro-Jones.
“Hello Michael, haven’t seen you for ages,” said Jane. “I keep telling David we must have you to dinner.”
“That would be nice,” smiled Neef. “Actually I’m here under false pretences. Frank MacSween asked if I would come in his place. He’s taking some leave. He took the death of his grandson hard.”
“Poor Frank,” said Jane.
“An absolute tragedy,” said Farro-Jones.
“Actually,” confided Jane, “I think a lot of people are here under false pretences. I gather the Pathology Department will be glad to see the back of old Eddie. We’re all here just to put a brave front on things.”
For Neef, the evening took on a surreal quality as they struggled through a dinner that was largely inedible. The meat was tough, the vegetables mushy and the whole lot was cold due to the kitchens being a very long way from the dining room. People pretended that nothing was amiss, not wishing to spoil things for Eddie on his last night. Complaints did not rise beyond exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. There was a lot of silent chewing.
The same series of glances and knowing looks carried on through the speeches as the Dean praised Eddie’s distinguished service to the university and the pathology department in particular. His selfless devotion to duty was held up as an example to all, especially the young, of whom there were none present, Neef noted. The eulogy culminated in the presentation of a clock to Eddie by the Vice Principal and a bouquet of flowers to Eddie’s wife, Trudy. Eddie who had sat throughout the proceedings with downcast eyes and a beaming smile on his lips got up to reply and almost toppled over backwards. He was drunk already. It was the waitresses’ turn to exchange knowing looks. The diners waited with fixed smiles and buttocks clenched in embarrassment for Eddie to say something.
“Friends,” began Eddie, with a slur that confirmed the waitresses’ suspicions. “I dunno what to say.”
Tears of emotion ran down Eddie’s cheeks as he launched into a thank you speech which would have put an Oscar winner to shame in terms of rambling length and boredom. Everyone was profoundly grateful when the Vice Principal seized upon a pause in Eddie’s delivery and started a chorus of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. People joined in with gusto, determined to make sure Eddie would not get another word in.
“Is it really over?” whispered Jane to Neef.
“Please God,” replied Neef.
People started to circulate and Farro-Jones took the opportunity of having a word with Neef about the virus hunt.
“Nothing yet,” he confided. “But we’ve got all three electron microscopes working on it.”
“What have you told the staff?” asked Neef.
“I made the preps myself so no one knows that the samples came from Charlie. I just asked for a visual report on all viruses.”
“Good.”
“What are you two whispering about?” said a loud voice behind Neef, startling him. A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was Eddie.
“I’m not sure if you two know each other,” said Farro-Jones awkwardly.
“Don’t tell me,” said Eddie, waving an unsteady finger at Neef, “It’s Oncology One, St George’s... Neef.”
“That’s right,” smiled Neef. “We have met a couple of times before. Frank MacSween asked me to come along tonight and deliver his sincere apologies, Eddie. He and Betty have gone off to the Lake District for a bit of a break.”
“Poor Frank, losing his grandson like that,” slurred Eddie.
“Very sad,” agreed Neef.
“When are these buggers at Public Health going to trace the bloody source?” asked Eddie.
“They’re not doing too well,” agreed Neef.
“Not doing well?” repeated Eddie with a theatrical raise of the eyebrows. “A blind man on a foggy night could do better.”
“Can I tear you away for a minute, Darling,” asked Jane Farro-Jones, seemingly appearing from nowhere, taking her husband’s arm and pulling him gently to the side in a rescue mission. Neef, the only casualty of the manoeuvre, was left alone with Eddie.
“They’ve been totally unable to find out how the first patient contaminated herself,” said Neef.
“First patient?” slurred Eddie.
“Melanie Simpson,” said Neef, wondering why in God’s name he was having this conversation.
Eddie tapped the side of his nose three times and shook his head. “Not the first,” he said.
Neef felt goose bumps break out on the back of his neck but Eddie’s speech was so slurred there was a chance he might have misheard. “I’m sorry?”
“It was me,” announced Eddie with a look of quiet triumph. “I had the first patient.”
“What are you saying, Eddie?” asked Neef. “You saw a case before Melanie Simpson?”
Eddie gave an exaggerated nod of the head. “Certainly did.”
“Who?” asked Neef.
Eddie started looking round for another drink. He was becoming bored.
“Who was this patient? When was this, Eddie?” insisted Neef.
“Few weeks ago.” Eddie was becoming more agitated at not being able to spot the source of his next drink.
Neef fought off the desire to pin him to the wall and choke the answers out of him. “Why don’t I fetch you a drink, Eddie?” he said pleasantly. His mind was racing. This was not going to be easy. Nobody wanted to talk to Eddie but the moment he left him alone someone was bound to feel duty-bound to join the guest of honour and the moment would have passed. He had to get the information out of Eddie now. He couldn’t risk going to the bar; it would take too long. He glanced to the side and saw that the three people standing there had a small table beside them with drinks on it. The table sat in front of one of the marble support pillars. Neef took three steps round behind the pillar, dropped to his knees, reached round and lifted one of the drinks off the table. As he did so, he ran out of luck; the woman nearest him looked down and saw what he was doing. “Well, really!” she exclaimed.