“I thought they were very unfair to the Public Health people,” said John Marshall. “They haven’t got the easiest of jobs at the moment.”
“But the unpleasant fact of the matter is that they’re no nearer establishing the cause of the outbreak today than they were immediately after the first report,” said Neef.
“That’s not necessarily their fault.”
“I’m not saying it is,” countered Neef. “In fact, I agree with you but it doesn’t alter the fact. They are not making progress.”
Neef looked at his watch. It was nine thirty-five. He was due at University College at ten.
“Busy day, Michael?” asked Heaton who had seen the gesture.
“Aren’t they all,” Neef replied.
“Well, if no one has anything else to report?”
There was a general shaking of heads.
“Let’s start the week.”
Heaton came over to Neef and told him that he had put the emergency permission request in motion.
“I’m grateful,” said Neef.
“You genuinely believe this one could work?”
“I’m optimistic. I have to be.”
Heaton grinned. “I suppose in your position you can’t afford to be anything else or you’d go mad. It can’t be easy but I think you said you’d had one success on the trial when I spoke to you last.”
“Thomas Downy,” said Neef. “A cerebellar tumour that’s been regressing quite remarkably. He’s having another scan done this morning. I’ll let you know how he’s progressing.”
“Please do,” said Heaton enthusiastically. “This sort of story would be the perfect follow-up to Mr Louradis’ article. The successful application of Gene Therapy to cancer would put us at the forefront of medical science. St George’s would be regarded as a centre of medical excellence all over the world. We’d be up there with the best of them. Money would flow in. Patients would be clammering at our gates.”
“Perfect,” said Neef in neutral tones.
“Seriously, Michael. If this Gene Therapy business brings off a complete cure in this child’s case, I think we must consider show-boating it to the Press. The hospital needs good publicity. What do you say?”
Neef was amused that Heaton was collecting on his Sunday evening favour so soon. “I agree, Tim,” he said. “If it’s a complete cure and not just a remission I think we and Menogen deserve some attention.”
Heaton seemed taken aback that Neef had agreed so easily and without argument. “Excellent,” he enthused. “I’ll have John Marshall make out a preliminary draft and send it over.”
“Fine. Call you later,” said Neef. “And thanks again for doing the application so quickly.”
It was five minutes past ten when Neef entered David Farro-Jones’ lab.
“Just in time for coffee, Michael.
“Miller’s not in yet?” asked Neef.
“I’ve phoned down a couple of times. No answer. Mind you, considering the state of him last night, it’ll be a wonder if he wakes up at all!”
Neef smiled and said, “I think the long and happy retirement the Dean spoke of must be wishful thinking. He must be on a bottle a day.”
“More,” said Farro-Jones. “He’ll be lucky if he sees the year out.”
“How does his wife cope?”
“Trudy? I think she’s waiting for Eddie to die so she can get on with her life, or what’s left of it. They’ve got a son in New Zealand. She’ll probably go out there.”
Farro-Jones’ secretary came in with the coffee. “Black, no sugar isn’t it, Doctor.”
“What a memory,” said Neef. “Thank you.”
“Marge puts elephants to shame,” said Farro-Jones.
“I’m not at all sure how to take that, Doctor,” said Marge. “And me on a diet.”
Both men laughed and Marge left.
“Maybe we should go down to Pathology and wait for him?” suggested Farro-Jones when they’d finished their coffee and had said everything that could be said about the nightmarish dinner.
“Good idea,” said Neef.
The Pathology Department at University College Hospital was much larger than that at St George’s by virtue of the fact that it was used for teaching purposes. First year medical students came there to complete their anatomy and physiology courses so it had to have extensive lab space. Farro-Jones took a short cut to Eddie’s office through the main dissection lab, a long, low-ceilinged room with frosted glass windows which could accommodate forty students working in pairs. Neef wrinkled up his nose at the smell of formaldehyde.
“Anyone home?” asked Farro-Jones after knocking on Eddie’s door. He pushed open the door and entered. Neef followed him inside.
“Not here yet,” said Farro-Jones.
“His jacket’s here,” said Neef, finding it hanging on the back of the door.
“Maybe it’s one he leaves here,” said Farro-Jones.
“His brief case too,” said Neef, pointing towards a black document case lying in the corner of the room next to the filing cabinet.
“Strange. Maybe he’s saying his good-byes.”
“Let’s ask around, shall we?”
Neef knocked on a door along from Eddie’s.
“Come,” said a voice with an Indian accent.
“I’m looking for Eddie Miller. Have you seen him this morning?”
“I saw him half an hour ago. Who are you please?”
Farro-Jones popped his head round the door and said, “It’s all right, Vijay, he’s with me. We came to say good-bye to Eddie.”
“Ah, David. Eddie’s around somewhere.”
“Is he OK?” asked Farro-Jones.
“A bit of a sore head, I think.”
“Thanks, Vijay. We’ll keep looking.”
Neef and Farro-Jones worked their way round the entire department. Several people had seen Eddie but not in the last half hour. They returned to Eddie’s office and saw that his jacket and brief case were still there. They decided to wait until he came back. Ten minutes passed with still no sign of Eddie.
“Come on, Eddie,” said Farro-Jones, looking at his watch. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Let’s have another look for him,” suggested Neef. Maybe he’s wandering around having a last nostalgic look at the old place. We could split up and I’ll meet you back here.”
“Beats sitting around,” agreed Farro-Jones.
Neef followed a clockwise route that took him first through the Pathology teaching museum, a silent room full of polished mahogany and glass cases displaying the organs of man, ravaged by disease and malformation. He paused in front of a particularly damaged foetus and read the legend, Radiation Damage.
A small, bent man wearing the uniform of a university servant sat at a desk at the head of the room. Neef said, “I’m looking for Doctor Miller. Have you seen him?”
“I saw him earlier,” replied the man in a high pitched asthmatic wheeze. “About an hour ago.”
Neef continued on through the museum and out along the corridor leading to the PM suite used by the hospital pathologists and the area forensic service. This was off limits to students, being financed by the hospital trust rather than the educational budget. He looked in. One pathologist was at work. She looked up from the cadaver she was dissecting and asked, “Who are you?”
Neef looked apologetically at the large red-headed woman with the florid face and scalpel in her hand. The fact that she didn’t smile made him feel uncomfortable. “I’m sorry for intruding,” he said. “I’m Michael Neef from St George’s. I’m looking for Eddie Miller.”
“He’s not here,” said the woman, resuming work.
“No, indeed,” said Neef, quietly backing out the door. He let out his breath in a sigh. Once again he was reminded that he didn’t like Pathology or what it did to the people practising it. The stress the woman was under had been almost palpable. No wonder Eddie had finished up the way he had.