Goldengirl

When Dr. Fassendean in New York had mentioned diabetes, it had registered nothing. It had made no sense. An alien suggestion. Only when Fassendean had described the types of stress associated with its onset had Dryden begun to see a possible pattern of cause and effect. His call to Professor Walsh had hardened possibility into suspicion. For three hours he had contained his anger as, detail by detail, the certainty had grown that Serafin had cynically destroyed his daughter’s health.

Now the man stood in the doorway in the posture of an outraged parent.

The essential thing was to take control, keep it rational, prize out the truth.

Serafin addressed him again: ‘I think you and I should have a talk.’

‘I agree.’

‘In private,’ said Serafin.

Here was the first issue. An important one. As soon as Dryden had heard the phone call going through to Serafin, he had realised this would come up. Serafin would come to the sanitarium and find them with Goldine. He would not want to talk in her presence.

Dryden shook his head. ‘This affects Goldine. She has a right to hear it.’

Serafin tersely said, ‘She knows nothing.’

‘Exactly,’ said Dryden. ‘You’re about to rectify that, Dr. Serafin.’

Goldine frowned in bewilderment, looking from one to the other.

‘I have to consider her health,’ said Serafin. ‘This is no time to subject her to shocks. As her physician—’

‘Save it,’ warned Dryden. ‘It carries no conviction. She’s nineteen years old and she is entitled to know what’s wrong. And why.’

The force of that last word showed in Serafin’s face. Creases rutted the pallid cheeks as if he had taken a punch. It stung him into a fresh offensive. ‘I don’t propose discussing anything in front of Miss Fryer. She has left my employment.’

‘I know. She joined mine,’ said Dryden. ‘Melody stays. I want corroboration. Would you shut the door and come in — unless you want Nurse Piper in as well.’

Serafin listened to this with his hands working convulsively at his jacket buttons. His knuckles were white.

‘You wonder how much I know?’ said Dryden. ‘Is that your problem? You think perhaps I’m bluffing? No, Doctor, I’ve dredged deep. Shall we start by talking about the growth hormone? What do you call it — HGH or somatotrophin?’

Serafin’s face twitched. ‘For God’s sake, man, not in front of Goldine!’

It was Goldine who answered him. ‘Doc, if this has to do with me, I intend to hear it.’ She went to him and gripped his arm, more in duress than endearment. ‘Don’t you think you owe me that?’

She was strong. Serafin took an involuntary step forward. The door closed behind him. He rested his hands defensively on the back of the only chair in the small room. Goldine stepped away and sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. Dryden stayed leaning against the wall opposite. Melody had propped herself on the windowsill overlooking the garden.

Dryden was in control. ‘Okay. Let’s take you back. Vienna, 1963. The focal point of your career. Your research showed that a group of German women grew significantly taller than their mothers at maturity. It created interest among scientists, brought you recognition. Some had reservations about your theories, but nobody could dispute the results. And if one generation was taller than its predecessor, why shouldn’t future generations grow indefinitely taller? Your critics said the human skeleton was structurally incapable of further increase. Do I have it right?’

Serafin’s mouth was set in a tight line. He gave a shrug that could have meant anything.

Dryden took it as an affirmation. ‘For years after that you immersed yourself in the controversy, writing letters to the scientific press, lecturing up and down the country, producing papers on every aspect of the subject your research had touched on. But the problem was that you had no new evidence to support you. You had milked the Vienna project dry.’

Serafin didn’t like that. His mouth shaped to protest.

Dryden gave him no chance. ‘Toward the end of 1964, you traced Goldine to the Tamarisk Lodge children’s home. You had been trying to locate her mother, but she was dead. As it turned out, the child was a more exciting discovery, a member of the generation after the one you had studied. You visited the home, examined the little girl. Goldine won’t remember this—’

‘But I do!’ Goldine said emphatically. ‘The matron held me while he handled my arms and legs. I cried.’

Serafin admitted this with a nod, averting his eyes from Goldine’s.