by Ken McClure
Vera Gill took a number of deep breaths in the ensuing silence, which was only broached by a ticking clock on the mantelshelf and the muted sound of the children playing in the garden. ‘Her name is Shona MacLean,’ she said quietly.
Bannerman wrote it down.
‘Some years ago she and Lawrence had an affair, when we lived in the north. He said it was all over but there were occasional letters that arrived with a give-away postmark.’
‘Did your husband tell you he was going off with this woman?’ asked Bannerman.
‘No, but that was Lawerence,’ said Vera Gill, with a snort.
Bannerman felt confused. He asked. ‘What exactly did he say before he left?’
‘Almost nothing. I could see he was in a blue funk over the whole thing but, as I say, that was Lawrence. He hated making unpleasant decisions. He got more and more agitated and angst-ridden and then suddenly he announced that he had to go away for a bit, and that was the last I saw of him.’
‘Where does this Shona MacLean live?’ asked Banner man.
The village of Ralsay on the Island of North Uist.’
On the way back to his apartment Bannerman stopped at a large newsagents and bought some road maps of north-west Scotland and the Western Isles. Without access to the brain tissue of the dead men there was very little in the way of pathological investigation to be done at the medical school. The brains of the infected laboratory mice would provide more diseased material for him to work on, but even if his worst fears surrounding incubation times were realized, that would not be for another couple of weeks. He was beginning to think in terms of a visit to the north to see the Achnagelloch area for himself. If this could be combined with a trip to North Uist to find Lawrence Gill, then so much the better.
FIVE
Bannerman’s original plan had been to eat out at one of the restaurants in the Royal Mile that evening, but the visit to Vera Gill had left him with little heart for playing the tourist. Instead he decided to make do with what was in the apartment. There were a couple of packet meals. One of them had a nice picture on the front. If he felt better later he might go out for a drink. Instead, he phoned Stella just after eight.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Not well,’ confessed Bannerman. The pathologist who raised the alarm has disappeared and so have the brains of the victims.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Stella.
‘I know it sounds crazy, but their brains were completely removed at autopsy and nobody knows where they are except the missing pathologist, and he’s run off somewhere.’
‘Sounds like a Whitehall farce,’ said Stella.
‘If it wasn’t so serious,’ added Bannerman.
‘What’s the head of department doing about it?’ asked Stella.
‘Collating the figures,’ said Bannerman dryly.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. He’s about as much use as a keep left sign in a one way street.’
‘Distinguished, eh?’
‘Distinguished,’ agreed Bannerman, sharing an old joke between the pair of them that ageing incompetents in the world of academia were never called so; they were invariably termed ‘distinguished’.
‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Stella.
‘I’ve read Gill’s lab notes and looked at the microscope slides, as you know; it looks serious, but I have to talk to Gill. I’m thinking of trying to find him myself.’
‘Surely that’s a job for the police,’ protested Stella. ‘Besides, where would you start?’
‘I’ve been pointed in the right direction,’ said Bannerman. ‘Gill ran off for domestic reasons.’
‘And with immaculate timing,’ added Stella.
‘Quite so,’ agreed Bannerman. ‘I think I might find it hard to be civil to him when I find him.’
‘Where’s the “right direction”?’
‘His wife thinks he’s on the Island of North Uist.’
This could turn out to be a holiday after all,’ said Stella.
‘I have to go north to see the location of the sheep farm and talk to the local GP and vet. I also want to take a look at the power station, find out where it fits into the scheme of things. My plan at the moment is to take in the island on the way up.’
‘A proper little Doctor Johnson,’ said Stella.
‘I’m beginning to wish I’d never got into this,’ said Bannerman.
There was no point in delaying his departure for the north, thought Bannerman, but on the other hand, trying to reach the Western Isles on a Sunday was probably not such a good idea. He probably wouldn’t be stoned to death as a heathen intruder, but transport might be a problem. He toyed with the notion of travelling to Inverness by train on Sunday night and getting a connection to the Kyle of Lochalsh on Monday morning, but then he had a better idea. If he were to rent a car he could start his journey on Sunday morning and stop off somewhere on the way to do a bit of hill walking. He could do with some fresh air to rid himself of the claustrophobic feel of the medical school and its brooding walls. He could stay overnight at a small hotel and then head for North Uist on Monday morning.
The idea filled him with enthusiasm; he consulted the local telephone directory for details of weather forecasting services for the areas he would pass through on his way north. Ten minutes later he had decided on tackling the Tarmachan Ridge, north of Loch Tay. He had been assured by the weather people that the region north of Loch Tay was to be cold and clear with blue skies and sunshine. Fine settled weather.
Bannerman called Hertz and, using his credit card, arranged for a Ford Sierra to be made available to him until further notice. He tried calling Morag Napier to let her know his plans but there was no answer. He would call her in the morning before he left.
Bannerman approached Loch Tay from the east and stopped in Lawers village to book himself into the Ben Lawers Hotel for the night. The weather was as good as had been promised, and he enjoyed coaxing the Ford along the narrow road that faithfully traced the north shore of Loch Tay until he swung north to park at the entrance to the old quarry road that crosses the estates of Tarmachan and Morenish. He reflected that it had been fifteen years since he had last come here. As far as he could see, nothing had changed.
The sun was warm on his face as he sat on the edge of the car boot to change his socks and pull on his boots. It was the kind of day that made you want to just put on a sweater and sprint off up into the mountains, but he knew better. In the Scottish hills you had to prepare for the worst. The weather here was among the most fickle in the world, a fact that had been the downfall of so many who had succumbed to the beauty of the mountains from the car park and ventured too far without thinking what would happen if the temperature fell like a stone and the wind screamed down from the north like a demented demon.
Bannerman checked his rucksack for everything he might need and some things he hoped he wouldn’t. Bandages, pain killers, torch, survival bag, spare clothing. He set off along the quarry track until the approach to the south ridge of Meall nan Tarmachan became less steep, then he climbed up strongly through the bracken to join it. He then headed north up the ridge, pausing occasionally to catch his breath and look back along the length of Loch Tay sparkling below in the sunshine. Ten years ago he might have climbed directly up on to the ridge at the north-east corner but now he was content to take a more leisurely line.
As he neared the end of the ridge where the ground fell away sharply, before the final steep ascent to the summit of Tarmachan, he paused again and took off his rucksack to sit down and chew a chocolate bar. Far below he could see that another car had parked behind his own, but there was no sign of its driver on the hill. The sun slid behind some clouds that had crept down from the north and Bannerman realized that he was getting cold. He had only been sitting still for a few minutes but the height he had gained in the last hour, and the fact that there was now a north-easterly wind to contend with, told him that the temperature was now below freezing.
He got to his feet and put on a Berghaus Goretex shell jacket and a pair of woollen mitts before removing his ice axe from its holster and swinging his pack on to his back and tightening the straps. He would soon be above the snow line and the axe would give him a feeling of security on the slippery slopes. It may not have been a technique for the purists, but sinking the axe into the ground and holding on to it at awkward moments was a psychological comfort and provided at least one hand-hold he could rely on.
The clouds above him were now thickening and their speed was increasing. This gave him a clue as to what to expect when he came out of the lee of the south face and crested the main ridge. As he did so, he had to drop to his knees to maintain balance when the full force of the wind hit him. Pride would not let him move on without first touching the summit cairn, but caution and common sense made him approach the final rise on his hands and knees. He touched the stones and looked briefly over the edge down to Loch Tay, now three thousand feet below. He had a brief impression of movement in the bracken below the crags to his left but concluded that it must have been a trick of the light which kept changing as successive banks of cloud crossed the sun with varying degrees of thickness.
Bannerman had a decision to make. The wind was much stronger than either he or the weather forecasters had anticipated, and he knew that the section of the ridge to the west of Meall Garbh, the next mountain on the ridge, was very narrow and exposed. Should he go on, or turn back and descend in the lee of Tarmachan. After some consideration he put off making the final decision until he had reached the second summit.
As he descended into the small hollow between the summits of Tarmachan and Garbh, to where the ground was interrupted by a series of small lochans and where he could be out of the wind for a few minutes, he made a plan. He would linger for a while in the shelter of the hollow and have something to eat and drink. This would give him time to get his breath back and also give the wind a chance to subside. It was always possible that it would fade away as suddenly as it had arisen.
Bannerman checked his watch and saw that forty minutes had passed. He decided that he should not delay any longer. In January the days were uncomfortably short. He looked at the sky to the north for signs of encouragement but found none. If anything the sky was darkening over Glen Lyon and there was a threatening purple tinge to it. Feeling instead that he had to expect the worst, he got out his waterproof over-trousers from the side pocket of his rucksack and undid the zips so that he could put them on over his boots. With legs and body well protected from the elements he pulled up his hood and secured the draw strings. He put his mitts on and started out on the short climb to the summit of Meall Garbh.
The wind, although still strong, was relatively constant in velocity and not gusting, which would have made it much more dangerous. This was a factor which decided him to go on across the ridge. He looked out from behind the cairn at the narrow stretch ahead. Although it was only fifty metres long at most there were steep drops on both sides and he could see the small town of Killin far below at the west end of the loch. The fact that the wind was coming from the north, making a fall on that side of the ridge unlikely, was reassuring. The north side was steeper than the south; a fall from there would almost certainly be fatal.
Bannerman turned away from the wind to make a final adjustment to his rucksack straps and hood fastenings before venturing out from the shelter of the cairn. He was surprised to see a figure coming up behind him. The tall figure of a man clad in dark waterproof clothing was about seventy metres below him and approaching the summit on the same path he had used himself. The fact that he was not alone on the hill gave Bannerman’s confidence a boost. Although he liked solitude in the mountains, it was sometimes nice to know that there were other people around.
With a final tug at his straps to ensure tightness he came out from behind the cairn and moved out on to the narrow ridge. He moved gingerly at first, in order to gauge the strength of the wind, and then he moved steadily along the ridge until he reached the one obstacle in his way — a rocky little step which he would have to negotiate before being able to proceed. As he reached it, the heavens above him opened up and icy rain was driven into the right side of his face. He put his hands down on the rock to steady himself, and wedged his right boot into a small crevice to seek stability as he prepared to swing his left leg over the obstruction.
The crevice was not as secure as he had imagined. The rain had made it slippery, and as he put all his weight on to his right foot his boot slipped out of the crack and he fell heavily, his body straddling the ridge and the sharp edge of the rock catching him in the stomach. Fear and pain mounted a synchronous assault on him as he frantically sought to secure hand holds on the rock, which was streaming with water. He quelled the sudden rush of panic in his head and steeled himself to do nothing until he could get his breath back and think more clearly.
He was quite safe, he reasoned. He had fallen across the ridge, not off it. He had simply been winded hadn’t he? He inhaled slowly and cautiously to see if there was any associated pain that might indicate damaged ribs, but there was none; he was all right. He turned his head to the left to avoid a sharp piece of rock that had been cutting into his cheek and saw that the climber who had been coming up behind him was now at the start of the narrow section and was edging his way out towards him. Bannerman signalled with his hand that he was all right, in case the man thought he was in trouble, but the man kept coming anyway.
Bannerman pulled himself up into a kneeling position but kept his hands on the ground for stability until he felt well enough to continue. The other climber stopped a few metres from him and Bannerman yelled against the wind that he was OK. The other climber looked at him over his ski mask but as Bannerman got up into a crouching position he suddenly realized that the man was intent on passing him. There was clearly not enough room to allow this to happen.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ yelled Bannerman, but the other man just kept coming. Bannerman, still a bit unsteady, braced himself and prepared as best he could. There’s no room!’ he almost screamed, but the other man kept coming along the ridge as if there was nothing in his way. He barged into Bannerman, pushed him aside. Bannerman felt himself lose balance.
There was an awful moment when Bannerman felt himself topple over backwards in slow motion, losing all contact with the mountain. His hands reached up as if to grasp the clouds and a scream started to leave his lips, but it was short-lived as his head came down into contact with a rocky outcrop and he was knocked unconscious.
When he eventually opened his eyes, he was groggily surprised to find that he was still alive. He knew he was alive because he was in pain. His head felt as though it had played host to a nuclear explosion and his right arm was being pulled out of its socket. He was soaking wet and bitterly cold and his face was being grazed against sharp rock. His legs felt free, however. He looked down slowly and saw in one nightmarish moment that there was nothing below him! He was hanging over an abyss.
Bannerman closed his eyes, trying to shut out the nightmare, but he knew it was real. He turned his face slowly upwards to confirm what he now suspected and saw that his ice axe, attached by a loop round his wrist had caught in a crevice between two small rocks and prevented him from falling completely off the ridge. He was suspended over a fall of three thousand feet by a quirk of fate and a thin strap round his right wrist.
Bannerman could not see how secure the axe was but he had no choice; he had to move. He tried to turn his right hand to grip the handle of the axe but there was no feeling in it. He would have to try turning on his rocky fulcrum to attain some kind of hold with his other hand. Summoning up every precious ounce of energy he had left, he took a deep breath and turned over. He heard the metal axe move against rock above him and he froze, but it held firm. He was now able to grip it with his other hand. He pulled himself painfully up on to the outcrop and knelt there to take the strain off his arms. A sudden rush of fear made him vomit as h
e thought how close he had come to death.
He was still not out of danger. His life-saving outcrop was some thirty metres below the ridge and to get off the mountain he had to get back up on to it. He was faced with a climb he would not have relished on a sunny afternoon, let alone in a state of exhaustion in a rain storm. He rubbed at his right arm until the circulation was restored and flexed his fingers until he felt they could be trusted. He had to fight off an inner surge of panic that made him want to rush at the climb and get it over and done with. That was not the way, he reasoned. If he was to make it he would have to consider every single move and do everything slowly.
It took twenty minutes to get back up on to the ridge, but he did so without further incident. He made his way back to Meall Tarmachan and came down off the mountain with pained slowness. He felt ill but he knew that the light was fading fast. There was no question of resting.
Fear was replaced by anger when he thought about the man who had jostled him off the ridge. He thought it beyond belief that anyone could have been so stupid and thoughtless. Perhaps in time he might become charitable enough to believe that the man had been overcome by panic at being caught on the ridge in such atrocious weather and had barged through without considering the consequences. But for the moment Bannerman was furious. The clown should have realized that there hadn’t been enough room to get past.
When he reached the car, he tumbled his gear into the back in an ungainly heap. He got into the driving seat and closed the door, rejoicing that at last he was safe from the great outdoors. Right now the great indoors was all he ever wanted. He started the engine and made his way slowly along the shore road to the Ben Lawers Hotel. He hadn’t had the energy to change out of his boots and had to concentrate hard on the pedals. He made it to the car-park at the hotel and almost fell out of the car with exhaustion.
‘What on earth?’ exclaimed the owner, when she saw the state he was in.