‘Which house is that, sir?’ asked the duty officer.
‘The Palmer house in Menai View, number seven.’
There was a pause before the policeman said slowly, ‘Oh yes, I know it. Actually, we’re a bit stretched at the moment.’
Doing what? Gordon wondered. North Wales wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. Maybe there had been an outbreak of lost dogs or cats up trees or a determined raid by a five-year-old on the sweetie counter at the local newsagent’s. He did however, recognise that getting into a slanging match with the police wasn’t going to help matters. ‘Do what you can,’ he said and stuck the phone back in his pocket.
He drove back to his flat to look at the IVF clinic handout he’d picked up yesterday. The core staff of the unit, excepting Carwyn Thomas as its clinical director, comprised four medical staff, two clinical scientists, four lab technicians and a nursing staff of eight. Various other consultant staff at the hospital were affiliated to the unit through either part-time or honorary consultancy posts. These positions were exclusively the province of either surgeons or obstetricians.
He brought out the file that Trool had supplied to members of the investigating committee and looked down the list of names extracted from the Pathology Department’s records as those who had visited the department on the day that Megan’s body had disappeared. Two people appeared on both: one was Michael Deans, a senior technician in the IVF unit and the other was Professor Carwyn Thomas himself. Gordon tapped the thumbnail of his right hand slowly against his teeth as he digested this piece of information: Only Thomas and one of his technicians... what price his theory now?
He quickly decided that no idea, even the most ridiculous at first sight, should be dismissed out of hand. Everything had to be considered and appraised coldly on the facts. The idea of a man like Carwyn Thomas stealing bodies from the pathology department in his own hospital might seem patently ludicrous, but then the idea of anyone stealing babies’ bodies was going to appear ludicrous until a reason for it could be established, he reminded himself.
Thinking about the type of research that Thomas was engaged in, reminded Gordon that he had been meaning to find out if the Griffiths baby had been a product of the IVF unit. He was wondering just how he might go about doing this when he remembered that Julie had mentioned at one point that the cot death baby had been on ‘Jenkins’s list’ up in Caernarfon. He didn’t know the Caernarfon GP that well, but they had met on occasion at seminars and area meetings. He looked up the telephone number and dialled it.
‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’ asked Jenkins when Gordon had said who he was.
Gordon was pleased to hear that he sounded a friendly sort of man. ‘I’m part of the investigation team looking into what happened to Megan Griffiths’ body at Caernarfon General,’ he explained. ‘I understand Megan was your patient?’
‘She was indeed, poor mite.’
‘This is going to sound an odd question, Doctor, but was Megan conceived with the help of IVF by any chance?’
‘No she certainly was not,’ replied Jenkins, with a chuckle. ‘I distinctly remember Gwen Griffiths telling me at the time that Megan had been conceived on a package tour to Majorca. Sangria may have been involved but definitely not IVF. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just trying to gather together as many facts as I can,’ replied Gordon vaguely. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Are you any nearer finding out what happened to the child’s body?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
Gordon put down the phone; he was disappointed but none too surprised that his notion that Megan and Anne-Marie might both be IVF babies was wrong. He still had nothing to connect them and no indicator as to what kind of research might be involved either — if any. He had to concede that his idea was beginning to look decidedly frail but he would however, ask both Carwyn Thomas and the technician, Michael Deans, about their logged visits to the pathology department on the day Megan disappeared.
On his way up to Caernarfon, Gordon circled round by the Palmer house again to have a look at his morning’s handiwork with the eyes of someone just driving into the street. He congratulated himself on the job he’d done and hoped the house would stay that way until Lucy got back.
One of the neighbours looked out to see who was sitting there. Gordon recognised him as a retired accountant — he couldn’t recall the name, but he did remember that the man had come to see him at the surgery a few months ago about an allergy. Their eyes met but no sign of recognition appeared on the man’s part, just stony indifference. ‘Have a nice day,’ murmured Gordon.
Several top microscope manufacturers had laid on a trade exhibition in the foyer outside the main lecture hall. It was here that Gordon found Ran Dawes and Carwyn Thomas discussing the finer points of micromanipulation with the man from Leitz. Gordon listened in at a discreet distance and was impressed with Thomas’s contribution to the discussion. He seemed to know a great deal about the advantages and disadvantages of the various systems on the market. He remarked on this to Ran Dawes when Thomas had moved on.
Dawes smiled and said, ‘Carwyn likes to keep his hand in; he still has his own lab attached to his office. Technically he’s still one of the best there is.’
‘Really,’ said Gordon politely. He was wondering why Thomas hadn’t mentioned this when he’d shown him around his unit.
‘Come on, have a try,’ said Dawes, leading Gordon by the arm to where a microscope was set up with micromanipulators in place. This was part of the Zeiss company’s interactive equipment display.
‘Try threading the needle,’ said Dawes.
Gordon looked down the eyepieces and saw what had to be done. A tiny needle with a bore smaller than the diameter of a human hair had to be moved with the right hand controls through a small loop whose movement was controlled by those on the left. A video screen above the microscope relayed progress of the attempt to those standing watching. Gordon’s first touch sent the needle whizzing across the screen and he had to hunt around to find it again but he quickly became accustomed to the sensitivity of the controls and managed at his fourth attempt to put the needle cleanly through the loop. Dawes applauded, as did three other bystanders who were keen to have a go themselves.
The good-humoured commotion and sporadic applause attracted more people until there were about twenty people in all watching the proceedings. Someone said loudly, ‘Come on Ran, let’s see what a real professional can do.’
Dawes was cheered as he sat down on the stool and played to the crowd by flexing his fingers like a concert pianist before lightly gripping the delicate stage controls. The needle went smoothly across the screen and through the loop without faltering. Gordon joined in the applause but his smile faded when he caught sight of Carwyn Thomas standing there in the second row of the crowd. Thomas was not applauding; in fact he looked a long way from being impressed by what he was seeing. His eyes were hard above a stone-like expression.
Gordon wondered if Thomas could be jealous of the younger man? Envious of his prowess and his being the current centre of attention? Surely he couldn’t be that petty, but when all was said and done, Thomas was a showman himself — a man who like many top researchers, enjoyed the limelight. The approval and applause of their peers became like a drug to them, often causing them to pressurise their research groups into ever-greater efforts so that their leader might continually have something new to announce to the world as ‘his’ research.