Soiled Knickers

I suspect that some strings had been pulled in the medical fraternity, since Sally was offered a position as House Officer at Leeds General Infirmary for her pre-registration time. We knew the next two years were going to be difficult, she would be working strange, long hours and often have to be at the hospital on call for up to forty-eight hours at a time. They were, but we got through it and within three years, Sally had an appointment as a surgical registrar in the cardiac department. We bought a house in Horsforth and began talking about a family. Things were great, we celebrated ten years together and all was well in the Parker world.

I gave up my post at the University after my first Historical novel was published, a story of Aethelflaed of Mercia and immediately optioned for a film. Hollywood offered me a lot of money to write the script and develop an outline for a sequel. Enough to give up academia and concentrate on writing, my second novel, based on that outline told the story of her daughter, Aelfwynn topped the Times best seller list and made me more money from Hollywood. So I got to stay at home all day and write, Sally continued to progress in our career and by the time of our tenth wedding anniversary, we'd moved to a better house and were, frankly rather well off.

It was Wednesday morning, as always, I kissed Sally goodbye on her way to work, sat down to a cup of coffee, then settled down to an hour's work on revisions to the screenplay for the Aelfwynn film.

I made some notes on where I thought the weaknesses were, typed them up and emailed them to the production team, then decided on a spot of housework.

We didn't create a huge amount of washing, there just being the two of us, but the laundry basket was reasonably full and I started to sort through it to see if there was enough of anything to make up a full load. I sorted it into four piles, delicates, whites, coloureds and underwear. It was one of Sally's things to wash underwear separately.

There were only three items in the 'delicates' pile, so they went back into the basket. There were enough whites to make up a load, so I pushed them into the washer, loaded it with soap powder and conditioner and set it going, then turned to the rest of the piles. Coloured were not enough for another load, so I put those back into the basket. There were about ten sets of my boxers, fourteen or so pairs of socks between the two of us, four bras, two vests and a pile of Sally's knickers. Including a pair I hadn't seen before.

They were pink, had yellow bows and looked to be a bit large for Sally. When I looked closer at them, they also had a C&A label in them and I knew that C&A no longer traded in Britain. I was intrigued. Then I noticed the gusset. In the gusset there was a slightly off white. Bordering on pale yellow encrustation. I knew that Sally had had a vaginal discharge a few months earlier, but that had been cleared up and besides, if it had come back why had she not told me about it?

I put the garment to one side and put them all back in the laundry basket. I was both intrigued and worried. Who could I ask about this? Who could I trust?

I took the knickers back to my study and locked them in the desk drawer, then I sat down to think. It took half an hour, but then I had a thought.

Peter Baker. Professor of Forensic Science at the University. He could at least point me in the right direction.

"Dave, what can I do for you?" he asked in his sing-song Welsh accent when I identified myself, "How's it going? I haven't seen you since you left."

"Pete, I've got a bit of a problem and it's rather delicate," I replied, "is there any chance I could come in and see you, or maybe meet up for a quick pint?"

"A pint sounds good," he agreed, "where and when?"

"How soon are you free?" I asked.

"Well now," he said, "we're on break at the moment, so we're all here thinking about our next research grant."

"Then how about I come down now, "I said, "we can talk about my problem and then I can take you out and buy you a pint?"

"Now, that, my boy, sounds like a fine plan, how long?"

"About an hour?" I suggested.

"Then I'll see you when you arrive."

We said goodbye and I stood, re-opened the desk drawer and put the knickers on the desk top then went to the kitchen to find a plastic bag, which I took back to the study and put the knickers into, then placed the bag in my jacket pocket, put the jacket on and then retrieved my keys from the hall table, unlocked the front door, stepped outside, locked the door behind me and flashed my car unlocked.

I arrived at the University early, paid the parking fee and went in search of Peter's office I the sciences building. He was waiting for me. We shook hands and, at his invitation I sat down.

"So," he said, after he'd poured coffee for both of us, "you have a delicate situation you wish to discuss."

"Yes," I said, "I need to know whether there is a forensic test which would show whether a deposit on a garment was semen and if that is so, is there attest that would show whether the semen came from a particular individual, if you had a sample of that individual's DNA?"

"Yes there are, the first test gives a result in under five minutes, the second takes a couple of days but is conclusive. At least conclusive enough to put rapists in jail. Now, are you asking this as part of research for one of your stories?"

"Well, no," I replied, "that's why it's so delicate. How much would those tests cost?"

"Well that depends," he explained, "if they were done at a commercial lab the cost is quite steep. In the order of high hundreds to a thousand pounds. The simplest test is to hold the garment under black light, semen stains will show up pale yellow. If that appears positive, we can do an Acid Phosphatase test. The stain will turn purple if the result is positive. That's acceptable as evidence in a rape trial. That takes about five, ten minutes. The DNA test takes longer, but yes, testable DNA is recoverable from dried on samples, even rather old ones and of course a comparison sample is easily obtained just by having the test subject spit into a sterile tube. I take it from the nature of your questions that you have something you'd like testing?"

"Yes, how much would you charge for all that?"

"Well, normally it would come to around five hundred pounds, but, if you're willing for it to be done by one of my research students and seeing as you're a formal colleague, I'd settle for a pint in the Eldon."

"That sounds like an offer I can't refuse," I said.

"So do you have the offending garment with you?"

I pulled the bag out of my pocket and placed it on his desk.

"One more question," he said, "sorry, but I have to ask this, you are certain that the sample isn't yours?"

"Yes," I said, "for a number of reasons, one, I haven't seen those pants before, two, they're C&A and a size bigger than Sally's normal size and three, because of her work schedule we haven't had any sexual activity for over a week, since before the last lot of washing was done."

"Ok," he agreed then picked up the phone on his desk, "Mark, he said into it, can you come through and bring a DNA tube with you, would you?"

Mark, who I presumed was his research student, appeared a couple of minutes later and placed what looked like an odd shaped test tube on the desk. Peter picked up the plastic bag containing the knickers and held it out to him.

"Acid phosphatase on the gusset, please Mark, then recover whatever is on there for a DMA run. I'll drop a comparison sample on my way out. Once you've done the Acid test and set the DNA run going, join us over the road with the test result would you?"

"Sur Peter," he replied.

"Great," he said, "the usual for you? Dave here's paying."

"Please," he replied, looking at me for the first time, "Oh, Hi Doctor Parker, I thought you'd left the University."

"He has," Peter said, "we're doing this as a favour, hence the Eldon."

Mark nodded and left.

"Once I'd performed the distasteful duty of filling my mouth with saliva and then dripping it into the tube, Peter took a plastic envelope on it, wrote my name and the date on it and sealed it up.

"There," he said, "now we can go to the pub."

Which is exactly what we did.

I'd spent a lot of time in the Eldon during my student days and there was a small coterie of them in now. We picked a table in a quiet corner and I asked Peter what he was drinking. He told me and asked me to get a pint of Dortmunder Lager for mark.

"Lager?" I said querulously.

"Can't get the bugger to drink proper ale," he said, "so I insist on him at least having the genuine German stuff."

I walked to the bar, ordered the drinks paid and carried them back to the table.

We had a general chat for fifteen minutes or so until the main door opened, Mark walked in and joined us.

He picked up his glass, took a long pull at the yellow liquid inside, let out a sigh, smacked his lips and sat back.

"Well," Peter prompted.

"The stain we tested," he began, then stopped.

"Oh get on with it, man," Peter demanded.

"It turned purple," he said, "the erm, substance, in the gusset is without doubt human semen."

"You started the DNA tests?" Peter asked.

"Yes, should get the results by tomorrow," he said.

"Do you have a report of the semen test results?" I asked.

He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out an envelope and a different plastic bag containing the pink knickers.

"Here," he said, handing the two to me.

"Thanks Mark, Peter, I owe you both one," I said, "I hope to be able to repay you one day."

I doubt you'll ever be able to," Mark said, "but the sentiment is good."

We finished our pints and I bought the two of them another before we said our goodbyes and after a promise to email me the DNA results the following day we shook hands and I left, walked across the road to the University, got my car out of the car park and drove home to Horsforth.

I let myself in, checked the washing machine, which had finished and transferred the clothes to the dryer. I put the underwear and socks into the washer, minus the ones in the plastic bag, loaded it up with powder and conditioner, then set it going. After that I did myself a coffee and sat at the table, where I took the envelope and plastic bad from my pocket. When I opened the envelope it contained a single piece of paper with the University heading, a photo of the pink knickers in the top right corner, the gusset in the left showing a purple patch and an inscription that confirmed that the purple stain indicated the presence of human semen on the sample. It was signed by Mark Devers.

I tried to go back and do some more work, but I just couldn't concentrate on it. Instead I turned on the TV and tried to watch daytime television.

ACT 2.

The call came at three thirty. Half an hour before Sally was due to finish. Once again there was a backlog in the day's surgery and she was going to be late. I told her that was OK, asked how late she was likely to be and did she want me to leave her some dinner.

She didn't, saying that she'd get something quick from the staff restaurant, told me she loved me and not to wait up then hung up.

I sat and debated with myself. At this point I could see two immediate courses of action. Accept what my wife, whom I was pretty sure I loved and who I had always thought loved me said at face value, get myself some dinner later and go to bed, or I could go out, park my car in the hospital doctors' car park, possible because she sometimes took my car into work and it therefore had a staff pass in the windscreen and see when she comes out and with whom. Or I could just go to the pub and get drunk out of my mind, but that, I decided wouldn't work, whichever way, I needed a clear head to deal with this situation.

I decided instead that I would go out, since I didn't need to cook for Sally getting home and have dinner, but later, for now I had to think of what I was going to do in any scenario that I could imagine.

I sat in what was referred to as 'my chair' so-called because when we'd bought out first house together, Sally had declared that every man should have his own chair. One that, eventually would become 'Dad's chair' and then later, 'Granddad's chair'. This one was a very comfortable reclining chair that I'd spent many an evening in waiting for Sally to get home from work, marking papers, or jotting down story notes.

My first thought was of the simplest, or, possibly the happiest solution. I was mistaken, there was some simple, rational and innocent explanation, not that I could think of any possibilities. In that case I would owe my wife an apology. I was sure that was very unlikely but accepted that it was possible.

Options two and three were much more likely, based on what evidence I had seen so far. Option two, this was a one-off slip. She'd fallen for some lothario's line of flattery and slipped; it had happened once and would never happen again. The evidence for that one was slim. The late nights at work over the last few weeks, the complete cutting off of our sex life for over a week now, all pointed at something more than that. So option three looked the most likely, my wife was having an affair, presumably with a work colleague. In which case what was I going to do. The short answer to that was that I had no idea. I needed to know exactly what situation we were in before I could make any decision. And that's when the brilliant idea hit me. Well perhaps it wasn't brilliant, but it was am idea. I was a writer, of fiction. I often tried out my story ideas on Sally. I'd try one out on her tomorrow, when I knew she wasn't working. Well, unless she had to go in because they were rushed and short-staffed. But I'd cross that bridge if I came to it.

I reached out to the table beside my chair, found the hardback A4 notebook that I used for all my 'inspiration' as Sally called them and the Cross fountain pen that she'd bought me for my last birthday and started to write.

It was nearly one am when I finished and I was still alone in the house. I wondered where she was and surprisingly found I wasn't particularly interested. My second surprise of the night, or morning, was that when I went upstairs to bed, I fell into a deep untroubled sleep.

I awoke at seven-thirty, my sleeping wife beside me, got out of bed without her stirring and went into the bathroom to empty my bladder. While I was there, I took a look in the linen basket. On the top was a pair of pale blue boy shorts, the kind of underwear Sally preferred. When I picked them up, they were unsoiled, apart from the normal secretions that the gusset of any young woman's underwear would have. I sniffed at them to make sure, perfectly normal female small. A little stronger than normal perhaps, but nothing reminiscent of a man's emissions.

"Morning," she said, as she walked into the kitchen just after nine o'clock.

"Morning," I replied, my hand reaching out to pour two mugs of coffee.

Once they were filled, I put them down on the worktop and poured a little milk into one of them before putting it on the kitchen table.

"What time did you finally get off last night?" I added as I sat down with my own coffee.

"We got finished just before midnight," she replied, "then I got a quick shower and arrived home just after twelve-thirty. You'd already gone up and were fast asleep when I got in."

I'd caught her in a lie. It looked like option three was the one.

"Well," I said, "you got home safely, you know how I worry about you driving home at night after the pubs have shut, all those boy racers."

"You shouldn't, I always drive safely," she said,

"I know you do," I replied, "but I still worry about you. It's what husbands do when their wives are out late at night."

"Silly boy," she said, "I love you. So, what did you do while I was at work yesterday?"

"Wrote a little," I answered, mainly editing and cleared some housework. I did a couple of loads of washing."

Did I notice a little flicker in her eyes?

"Then," I continued, "last night I sketched out an idea for a short story, but I'm stuck on how to end it. Could you look through the outline and see if you can think of a way?"

"Of course, love," she said, "I'll make us some breakfast and then I'll look through it. I may have to go out this afternoon."

"Oh, OK," I replied, "though I thought maybe we could have had a drive out in the country since it's your day off."

I walked up to the bedroom to get showered and dressed while she cooked scrambled eggs and toast.

After breakfast I retired to my study to catch up on my emails, of which, fortunately there were only one or two, including one from my agent informing me that the quarter's royalty cheque for the film of Aethelflaed had been deposited in my bank and could I please hurry up with the approved changes to the script for Aelfwynn?

I answered that and then set off back downstairs. As I passed our bedroom, I heard noises of someone, who I assumed to be Sally moving in the bathroom. I looked in through the open door and saw her rooting around in the linen basket.

"Lost something?" I asked.

She jumped, then recovered herself and stammered, "Yes, I erm, lost an earring a couple of days ago and I was looking through the basket to see if it had fallen in there."

That was the second lie.

"I had it empty yesterday when I did the washing," I said, "there was no earring in there then."

"Oh, right," she said, "I'll not waste time looking then."

She followed me downstairs and, in the living room, I picked up the blue book as we called it and handed it to her.

"The story idea is in the story ideas section, the last three pages," I told her, "look through it and tell me how you'd finish it."

I walked out onto the patio with a book in my hand and took a seat on one of the garden chairs on the decking.

One of the things about becoming well known as an author, is that publishers approach you to review their books. They pay a small fee and the comments are passed back to the author before final editing takes place. This is the source of the quotes from other authors that you often see on book covers. I was doing that for a publisher right then, a book about Katherine de Roet, or Katherine Swynford, third wife of John of Gaunt. It was proving to be a good read and the main character almost jumped out of the pages at me, but then I had a soft spot for her. She was one of my favourite people from late mediaeval England.

I'd read through the section where John of Gaunt had appointed her governess of his children and he'd got her pregnant for the first time when Sally came out onto the patio, handed me the blue book and walked back inside, without saying a word.

I put the two books down on the garden table, stood up and retrieved what I'd hidden there earlier from under the cushion on my chair, stuffed it in my trouser pocket and followed her inside.

She was in the living room staring off into space. It took her a few seconds to register my presence.

"How long have you known?" she asked in a very small voice.

"Known?" I replied, "since just after nine this morning when you lied to me about the time you arrived home last night. I was up until one writing that outline. I've suspected since yesterday morning when I sorted the washing in the linen basket."

I took out the bag from my pocked and tossed it onto her lap.

"Is that the earring you were looking for?" I asked sharply.

She looked at the object on her lap like it was about to explode then after a few seconds of silence, she leapt to her feet, dropping the bag to the rug and ran out of the room and up the stairs. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of chasing after her.

Less than a minute after she exited the living room, my phone rang. It was Peter baker confirming what I already knew. As he put it in his professional language, the two samples A and B had come from two different individuals. The semen stains in the knickers didn't come from me.