Free Pestilence by Ken McClure

Timothy Archer told me that he had been sent to the County when he first tried to locate his wife but the staff there had no knowledge of her and sent him back to Skelmore General. That’s when Garten acknowledged that she had been admitted to A&E and told him that she had died of a heart attack.”
    “But we know that the ambulance did leave for the County. It must have been recalled en route.”
    “Or maybe Myra Archer died on the way?” said Saracen, thinking out loud.
    “If that’s the case I can’t see what all the fuss is about. Can you?” asked Jill, “Presumably the decision to send the patient to the County was taken in good faith. If she was so ill that she died on the way it seems likely that she would have died anyway.”
    Saracen tapped his forehead and said, “Then why the big cover-up over an extra five minutes or so in the ambulance?”
    “It does seem a bit much,” agreed Jill.
    Saracen stopped racking his brains for answers and smiled at Jill. “I’m grateful to you for asking around,” he said.
    “Don’t mention it.”
    “There is one more thing.”
    “Yes?”
    “Alan Tremaine has asked me to have dinner with him and his sister tomorrow evening; apparently she’s coming to stay for a bit. He suggested I bring a friend. Would you come?”
    “I’d be delighted,” said Jill.
     
    Social occasions were rare for A&E staff. When one member was off duty another would usually be on, however, it was sometimes possible, with a bit of duty swapping, for two to be off at the same time. Alan Tremaine had engineered his off duty to coincide with Saracen’s so he could give a small dinner party for his sister Claire who would be arriving on the following day.
    In actual fact the limitations imposed on social life by work in A&E suited Saracen very well. He disliked parties, a legacy of his time with Marion when their life had grown to revolve around a seemingly endless circuit of social gatherings, outstanding only for their superficiality. Why so many people who so patently disliked each other should have continued to seek each others’ company had been beyond his comprehension. But Marion had seen it all as an exciting game, a competition for which she would plan like a military strategist, deciding in advance who to speak to, whom to avoid, what to wear, what to say. The end result had always been a flawless performance. Marion would arrive like a film star, shine brightly, stay long enough to capture the hearts of all the men, them leave before the proceedings had begun to flag.
    “Time we were getting back,” said Jill.
    Saracen snapped out of his preoccupation and gathered their used crockery to return to the kitchen hatch as was the regulation. “Pick you up at seven thirty tomorrow evening?”
    “Fine.”
     
    It was raining when Saracen turned into the narrow lane that led down to the Nurses’ Home at the General and the rain drops on the back window made it awkward for him to reverse the car in the small space available at the foot, a space made even smaller by illegally parked cars. When he finally did complete the manoeuvre he saw Jill sheltering under the long canopy that fronted the building. He leaned over and opened the passenger door.
    “I saw you arrive from the window,” said Jill as she swung her stockinged legs into the car.
    Saracen made an appreciative sound.
    Jill smiled and said, ‘I thought I’d better make the effort; don’t know what the opposition is going to be like.’
    ‘I’ve never met her before,’ confessed Saracen. ‘She might be a twenty stone dumpling.’
    ‘With my luck she’ll be a Dior model,’ said Jill. “And there’s me with St Michael stuck all over me.’
    ‘You look great,’ said Saracen and meant it.
     
    Jill’s prediction proved to be a good deal more accurate than Saracen’s, for Claire Tremaine was no dumpling. She turned out to be a slim, confident, elegant woman in her mid twenties who proved to be as witty and