Crisis

by Ken McClure

  Bannerman crawled up further to the very western edge of the cliff top and looked down. He saw what he had almost expected to see, a man’s broken body lying draped over the rocks below at an unnatural angle because of broken bones. Plumes of spray were breaking over it. Bannerman, who was lying on his stomach, brought his arms round in front of his face and rested his head on them for a moment. There was a hollow feeling in his stomach that he didn’t like at all. He wondered just what he had got himself into.

  Bannerman broke the news to Shona in the cottage. She stood before him with moistness in her eyes and an air of beguiling vulnerability. She said, ‘I suppose I knew. As soon as Kirstie told me about the man using Lawrence’s ID and the business of the parcel …’ Her voice trailed off in sadness.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bannerman, seeing that she was hurting.

  Shona took a deep breath and recovered her composure. ‘What now?’ she asked, dabbing her eyes dry.

  ‘We’ll have to tell the authorities when we get back. They can recover the body and do what they have to do in such cases.’

  Neither of them spoke much on the trip back to North Uist but just before they entered the harbour at Ralsay, Shona said, ‘You will make sure his wife knows that he did not run away to be with me won’t you?’

  Bannerman agreed that he would.

  Shona tied up the boat and they both climbed up onto the harbour wall. She looked at her watch and said, ‘You’re too late to get back to the mainland.’

  ‘One more night at Mrs Ferguson’s,’ said Bannerman, inwardly cringing at the thought of more bacon and egg.

  ‘Stay at my place,’ said Shona.

  ‘Won’t that give the neighbours cause to talk?’ asked Bannerman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Shona.

  ‘I think we could both do with a drink,’ said Shona as she closed the door of the white house and shut out the sound of the sea. ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘And then we’ll call the police?’

  Bannerman hesitated with his response.

  ‘We won’t call the police?’ asked Shona.

  ‘I’d prefer it if you were to call the police … tomorrow, after I’ve left,’ said Bannerman. ‘My being here isn’t going to help and I have a job to do.’

  ‘What exactly is this job?’ asked Shona. ‘Do you know why Lawrence was killed?’

  ‘I genuinely don’t,’ said Bannerman. ‘But it has something to do with the deaths of three men up in Achnagelloch. Gill was looking into the cause of death and I think he must have found out something that certain people didn’t want him talking about.’

  ‘And it was worth killing him for?’

  ‘Apparently,’ shrugged Bannerman.

  ‘What was special about the deaths? How did these men die?’ asked Shona.

  ‘They died of brain disease.’

  There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ said Shona.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  There’s something you’re not telling me,’ said Shona.

  Bannerman looked down at his feet, then confessed, There is a bit more, not that it helps in understanding why Lawrence Gill was killed.’

  ‘Will you tell me anyway?’ asked Shona.

  Bannerman nodded. He said, ‘Have you ever heard of a disease called Scrapie?’

  Shona shook her head.

  ‘It’s a disease of sheep, a brain disease. It’s been around for a long time but we thought it only affected sheep, so nobody paid it that much attention, until fairly recently.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The disease crossed what we thought was a species barrier. It caused a condition in cattle called Bovine Spongioform Encephalopathy.’

  ‘Mad Cow Disease?’ said Shona.

  ‘Yes. It turned out that there was no species barrier between sheep and cows after all.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Shona.

  ‘We think that the three men up in Achnagelloch died of Scrapie.’

  ‘It crossed to humans?’ exclaimed Shona.

  ‘Yes, and we have to find out how and why.’

  ‘I see,’ said Shona. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell all your friends,’ said Bannerman.

  Shona gave a slight smile and nodded. ‘Will you be going back to Edinburgh now?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Achnagelloch.’

  ‘But won’t you be in danger too?’ asked Shona.

  ‘I genuinely don’t know anything,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘But you’ll be doing the same thing Lawrence was doing, asking questions, poking your nose in.’

  ‘I suppose …’ said Bannerman thoughtfully.

  ‘Please be careful.’

  Bannerman saw the look of concern in Shona’s eyes and nodded.

  ‘I won’t call the police until you’ve left,’ said Shona.

  Thanks. One more thing,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d just report the finding of the body. Don’t tell them about the parcel or the man at the post office.’

  ‘If you say so, but won’t they think it was an accident in that case?’

  ‘I’ll make sure the authorities get to know what really happened. They’ll deal with it without the newspapers getting hold of it.’

  Shona prepared a meal for them that Bannerman thought a good London restaurant would have had trouble matching. He purred appreciatively as he sipped his coffee afterwards.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ said Shona. ‘I like cooking, so I quite look forward to visits from authors and publishers when they come to see me about illustrations.’

  The ‘visitors’ thought Bannerman, remembering what Mrs Ferguson had said. Malicious old cow. ‘Can I help with the washing up?’

  ‘Yes if you like,’ said Shona.

  When they’d finished, Shona manoeuvred another log on to the fire and they sat down to enjoy the warmth and the afterglow of well-being that the meal had bestowed on them. Shona asked Bannerman what he did when he wasn’t investigating things. He confessed that this was the first time he had ever been asked to ‘investigate’ anything. He was a consultant pathologist at a London hospital.

  ‘Then why ask you?’ said Shona.

  ‘I suppose because I’m a bit of an expert on brain disease.’

  ‘I see. And do you like being “a bit of an expert on brain disease”?’

  Once again Bannerman felt uncomfortable about the question. It was the same feeling he had experienced earlier on the boat. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied without conviction.

  ‘It must be very interesting,’ said Shona, getting up to put some music on. She sat down again and reaching behind her brought a cushion round to place it on the floor at her feet. ‘Sit down there,’ she said.

  Bannerman opened his mouth to say something but closed it again and sat down between Shona’s feet with his back to the chair.

  ‘I noticed earlier that you have an injured right shoulder,’ she said. ‘You’ve been favouring it all day.’ She kneaded her fingers into the muscles at the right side of Bannerman’s neck and he let out a moan that was part pain, part pleasure. ‘I hurt it yesterday,’ he confessed.

  ‘It’s not often I get to practise as a physiotherapist,’ said Shona.

  ‘Why did you give it up?’

  ‘It wasn’t what I wanted to do.’

  That simple?’

  That simple. We only get once chance in this life.’

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Feel free.’

  Shona stopped her massage until Bannerman had lit a cigarette with a burning wooden splinter from the fire.

  ‘I thought doctors didn’t smoke,’ said Shona.

  This one does.’

  ‘You find it as difficult as the rest of us to give up eh?’

  ‘I haven’t tried,’ said Bannerman.

  Shona sensed there was something behind the comment. ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘If it’s as dangerous as you chaps are always telli
ng us?’

  There’s a belief around that death is a curable condition. My profession is responsible for creating it. They seem to suggest that if you eat the right things, take the right amount of exercise, avoid alcohol, tobacco, stay out of the sun and God knows what else, you’ll increase your chances of living for ever. Not so.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It will only seem like it. No heed is given to the quality of life on offer. It could be argued that by doing all these things you’ll increase your chances of surviving long enough to lose all your faculties and end up as a blind, deaf, incontinent, doolally geriatric. I decided some time ago that that wasn’t for me.’

  ‘I bet you eat butter too,’ smiled Shona.

  ‘And I like caffeine in my coffee.’

  ‘I hope you don’t go around saying things like that to the patients,’ said Shona.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone that before,’ said Bannerman, wondering why he was doing so now.

  Bannerman became silent as Shona’s fingers brought relief from the nagging pain, but Gill’s death was uppermost in his mind.

  Shona made up a futon bed for Bannerman in the room upstairs she used as a studio. The room had a large angled window set in the roof, which meant that he could lie on his back and look up at the stars set in a crisp, dear sky. The frost in the air made a halo round the brightest ones. There was a smell of oil paint in the room but it was not strong enough to be unpleasant and it reminded Bannerman of school days and the chaos of the art classroom. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore outside prolonged thoughts of childhood and conjured up images of family holidays and the elusive happiness that went with them.

  At any other time such a pleasant ambience would have ensured that he drift off into a comfortable sleep, but not tonight. The thought of Gill’s body lying broken on the rocks, with the waves breaking over it, kept returning to haunt him. Gill must have found out something about the deaths that no one else knew. Something so important that he was murdered to keep him quiet. It didn’t seem to make any sense. He had already made known his suspicions about the involvement of the Scrapie agent in the affair and had forwarded sections of the brains to the MRC for examination. What more was there to know? What was the point of sending the brains to London, if that really was what was in the parcel.

  After some further thought, Bannerman decided that there was one major difference between the sections of brain that Gill had sent to London and the actual missing brains themselves. The sections could be considered ‘dead’ material; the fixing procedure during the preparation would have killed off any live virus. The brains themselves however, would comprise a source of live virus. Was that the reason Gill had tried to send the parcel to the MRC? Because it contained live virus material? Bannerman felt a chill run up his spine as he thought about the interception of the parcel. He wondered why anyone would want to get their hands on such a deadly thing.

  A whole range of nightmares queued up for consideration, ranging from criminal blackmail to the use of the virus as the ultimate biological weapon. Deranging large numbers of one’s enemies could be a good deal more effective than killing them. A SCUD missile full of brain destroying virus falling in the streets of Tel Aviv was not a pretty thought and, unlike nuclear weaponry, it would be cheap. Bannerman decided that he was letting his imagination run away with him. Apart from anything else the ‘new virus’ was still a matter of conjecture. Who knew about the possibility outside the Medical Research Council … and Her Majesty’s Government? This thought made Bannerman change tack. Maybe whoever had intercepted the parcel had not been interested in obtaining the live infecting agent at all? … Maybe they had simply wanted to destroy all evidence of it … to stop any further investigation?

  When he woke, Bannerman took a leisurely shower in Shona MacLean’s bright, modern bathroom and looked out at the early morning sunshine as he towelled himself down. It was so pleasant to be in a bathroom that had no need of frosted glass. He could watch the waves break on the shore. The smell of coffee brewing gave his appetite an edge as he dressed and went downstairs to find Shona in the kitchen.

  ‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Eventually,’ said Bannerman. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Eventually,’ agreed Shona. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Lawrence. He was such a gentle man. I just can’t believe that anyone would have wanted to murder him.’

  Bannerman nodded sympathetically but couldn’t think of anything to add.

  ‘You’ve had no new ideas?’ asked Shona.

  Bannerman shrugged and shook his head. ‘Not really, but somehow I’m more than ever convinced that the answer lies in Achnagelloch.’

  ‘Don’t you think that maybe it would be a good idea to tell the police everything after all?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Shona.

  Shona phoned for a taxi for Bannerman while he packed his things. He hoped it wouldn’t be the same driver who had brought him to the village and his heart sank when he recognized the car as it pulled up outside. The same unsmiling man knocked at the door.

  Take care,’ smiled Shona.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ said Bannerman. ‘Not least for saving me from another night at Mrs Ferguson’s place!’

  ‘Keep in touch,’ said Shona.

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Bannerman, opening the door.

  ‘Oh it’s you,’ said the driver.

  ‘Correct,’ replied Bannerman.

  ‘I thought you were staying with Mrs Ferguson?’

  ‘Did you?’ replied Bannerman, getting into the car.

  The first mile passed in silence and Bannerman would have preferred that the pattern continue, but the driver’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘Would your visit have been business or pleasure then?’ he asked, with an attempt at what he considered a friendly smile.

  ‘Business,’ said Bannerman curtly, turning to look out the window again.

  ‘And what exactly would your line of business be?’

  They had almost reached the end of the journey. Bannerman waited until the car had stopped before replying. He brought out his wallet and said, ‘I’m an inspector of taxes. I work for the Inland Revenue.’ He handed over the fare and a pound extra and said as a parting shot, ‘Don’t forget to declare the tip, will you?’

  The journey back to the mainland was uneventful and the Sierra started first time when he turned the key. With a last wistful look over the water Bannerman said a silent farewell to Shona MacLean and set out for Achnagelloch.

  For the first three hours the weather was kind and Bannerman felt quite relaxed when he stopped for lunch at a small village pub. The owner turned out to be an Englishman from Surrey who, after a lifetime in Insurance, had sold up everything down south and moved to the north of Scotland to run the hotel.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Bannerman asked.

  ‘This is our third winter,’ replied the man.

  ‘Does the reality match the dream?’

  ‘I wish to Christ I’d never moved,’ replied the man as he cleared away the dishes and bumped open the kitchen door with his backside.

  Bannerman did not inquire further.

  The rain started just south of Loch Shin and got progressively heavier until the wipers found it hard to cope. Bannerman had to slow to a crawl when he found the road along the west side of Loch Mor badly flooded. At times it was hard to tell where the loch ended and where the highway began. He prayed that the Sierra’s electrics would survive the deluge of water from both above and below the car and purposely kept it in low gear to keep the revs high. After more than one heart stopping moment he was relieved to find the road climbing to higher ground. He lit a cigarette and began to relax a little but the feeling was short lived: it stopped when the signposts directed him to leave the main A 838 road and start out on the tortuous trail along minor B roads to Achnagelloch.

  He had t
ravelled barely a mile before he was brought to a halt by rocks on the road. They had been swept down from the barren hillside by the torrents of rain water. There was no alternative but to get out and clear a passage through them. Luckily none of the rocks were too big or too heavy to move, he managed most of them with his feet but he still got very wet in the process. ‘Bloody country,’ he mumbled as he got back in the car and slammed the door. It was seven o’clock when he reached Achnagelloch and found it as welcoming as a writ.

  On his first traverse along the main street he did not see a single living soul. He turned and came back to where he had seen a hotel sign and this time he caught a brief glimpse of a figure flitting out of one doorway and into another. There was no one in the small hotel reception area when he entered, clutching his bag and brushing the rain off his shoulders. He read some of the notices that were pinned up on a wall by the door while he waited, hoping to get a feel for the place.

  They were typical small town notices; one concerning the progress of the darts team, some adverts for properties owned by the National Trust in the area — all depicting gloriously sunny days, and a couple of receipts from local charities for collections made at Christmas in the bar. One notice in particular caught Bannerman’s eye. It said that the sum of one hundred and eighty-three pounds had been raised for the fund for Mrs May Buchan. Bannerman recognized the name; one of the dead farm labourers had been called Buchan. The woman must be his widow.

  ‘Can I be helping you?’ inquired a soft highland voice behind him. He turned to find a man in his fifties wearing a heavy-knit cardigan over corduroy trousers, looking at him through thick-rimmed spectacles that sat beneath an unruly mop of grey hair.

  Td like a room,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘Would you, now,’ replied the man, almost absent-mindedly as he appraised Bannerman virtually to the point of embarrassing him with his stare. ‘And what kind would you be wanting?’

  ‘Ideally a warm, dry comfortable one with its own bathroom,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘Well two out of three isn’t bad, as the Americans say,’ replied the man. ‘We don’t have rooms with bathrooms but as you’re the only guest you’ll not be having much bother with queuing.’