Crisis

by Ken McClure

  Thank you,’ replied Julie, recovering her composure. She turned to MacLeod and said, Tm sorry Doctor … but I meant what I said.’

  MacLeod nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. Julie made a point of ignoring Bannerman completely and left the hospital, supported by van Gelder. The two power station workers followed behind. Both of them gave Bannerman looks that suggested he might be wise to steer clear of them on dark nights. One said, ‘No one touches Colin’s body. Understand?’ Bannerman did not dignify the threat with a reply. He just stared at the man balefully until the man broke eye contact and left.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said MacLeod. ‘I made a complete mess of it.’

  ‘It was my fault for rushing you into it,’ said Bannerman. ‘It would have been better to wait until the morning. The question now is, what the hell do we do?’

  ‘You can enforce it legally,’ said MacLeod.

  ‘I know,’ said Bannerman, ‘but I’m not insensitive to what that would mean for you.’ He knew that if MacLeod did not sign the death certificate Turnbull’s death would be classed as ‘sudden’ and would therefore merit a post-mortem examination as required by Scottish law, whether his wife gave permission or not. The locals would construe this as treachery by their GP since he knew of Julie Turnbull’s wishes.

  ‘Thanks,’ said MacLeod.

  ‘What would you say to a compromise?’ asked Bannerman.

  MacLeod raised his eyebrows. ‘A compromise?’

  Despite the fact that he trusted MacLeod, Bannerman still felt a little wary of making his suggestion. He said cautiously, ‘I could make do with a needle biopsy.’

  MacLeod looked at him as if he hadn’t heard properly.

  ‘I could insert a wide gauge needle into Turnbull’s brain and get the samples I need without doing the full PM head job. I could do it so that it wouldn’t be noticeable to laymen. That way no post-mortem will have been carried out and Mrs Turnbull’s wishes will have been respected. You can sign the death certificate and your standing in the community will remain undiminished.’

  ‘But surely the authorities and the MRC will insist on a full autopsy being performed?’

  The “authorities” will be only too happy to see this affair kept as low key as possible. They won’t make waves if we don’t.’

  ‘I see,’ said MacLeod thoughtfully. ‘Well, if you’re sure that you can get enough material I think you should go ahead. What do you need?’

  Bannerman gave him a short list of his requirements.

  ‘When will you do it?’

  Bannerman walked over to the window. He could see the two power workers standing across the street watching the building. He said, ‘Not now. I think I had better be seen to leave soon. If it’s all right with you I’ll come back later and do the biopsy, when the “guard” has been lifted.’

  MacLeod joined him at the window and took his meaning. He said, ‘I’ll give you a key and show you where everything is. Could I be of any assistance later?’

  Bannerman said not. ‘It really shouldn’t take long. I’m assuming these two aren’t going to squat over there all night.’

  MacLeod said, ‘Why don’t you go back to your hotel; I’ll stay on for a bit and telephone you when they leave.’

  Bannerman agreed. He went to his hotel and had a bath before getting something to eat. He had just finished his meal when MacLeod phoned. ‘Sorry,’ said MacLeod. They’re still across the street and I’ll have to leave now myself.’

  Bannerman thanked him and said that he would wait for a couple of hours. He couldn’t believe that the men would mount an all night vigil over the body. As he said it, the words, ‘unless someone put them up to it,’ came into his head.

  Bannerman dismissed the thought for the moment and phoned Shona who, as he thought, was stuck on the island because of the ferry cancellations.

  The wind has dropped a good deal,’ said Shona. There’s a good chance I’ll get to the mainland tomorrow.’

  That is the nicest thing I’ve heard all day,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘How’s the patient?’

  ‘He died shortly before I got here.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That must alter your plans.’

  Bannerman was wary about mentioning anything about a post-mortem examination of the body over the phone. He couldn’t be sure that the hotel switchboard was ‘safe’. ‘I’ll be going to Edinburgh next, to see the people at the Neurobiology Unit,’ he said. He didn’t say what he would be taking there. ‘Come with me?’

  ‘All right,’ said Shona, without taking time to consider. That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all day.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Bannerman came downstairs to the hotel bar. He felt a chill come over him when he opened the door and saw Mitchell, the head of security at the power station, sitting there with another man. Mitchell looked up and smiled in a way that put Bannerman on edge. ‘Well Doctor, still looking for nuclear skeletons in the cupboard?’ he asked.

  The smug look on Mitchell’s face brought Bannerman’s dislike for the man almost to boiling point, but he remained outwardly calm. The cupboard smells of detergent,’ he replied.

  Again the smug grin on Mitchell’s face. ‘Just a routine precaution Doctor. We do it every so often.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bannerman, leaving Mitchell and going up to the bar where he ordered a tonic water. He stood with his back to Mitchell, indicating no further desire to continue their conversation. Mitchell returned to the conversation he had interrupted when Bannerman had come in. Bannerman watched them in the mirror behind the bar and deduced from the head movements in his direction that he was the current subject of their talk.

  Was Mitchell’s presence here a coincidence? he wondered, or was there something more sinister behind it? Could it be that he, as well as the hospital, was being watched to make sure that no one interfered with Turnbull’s body?

  Bannerman slid on to a bar stool and passed the time of day with the barman to create the impression of being a normal guest in the hotel. He was simply having a couple of drinks before going upstairs to his room for the night. There was no reason for Mitchell to know that he was only drinking tonic water, to keep his head clear. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that he was going to sneak out later, go to the cottage hospital under cover of darkness and perform an illegal autopsy on Colin Turnbull. But every time he glanced at Mitchell in the mirror he found that Mitchell was watching him.

  Could the feeling possibly be prompted by paranoia? Bannerman wondered. It was true that Mitchell did seem to look a lot in his direction but that could be a legacy of their previous meeting. Having come to blows with someone in the past did tend to make one hyper-aware of their presence on subsequent occasions. He decided on an experiment. He would go to the lavatory down the hall to see if he would be followed. As he prepared to move he suddenly saw the door to the bar open and the two power workers who had been watching the hospital came inside. Mitchell nodded to them and one stopped to speak while the other came up to the bar to order drinks. He stood at Bannerman’s elbow.

  ‘Thought you’d be on your way by now,’ said the man.

  ‘Really?’ said Bannerman dryly.

  There’s nothing here for you to do,’ said the man.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘Julie will be the judge of that,’ said the man. ‘Don’t you forget it or it’ll be more than your car that gets hurt this time.’ The man paid for his drinks and left the bar to join his companion and Mitchell.

  So that’s who they are, thought Bannerman. They were the two yobs who had vandalized his car on his last visit and Mitchell was pulling their strings.

  Bannerman went to the lavatory. No one followed. As he washed his hands he began to think about how long he would have to wait before it was safe to return to the hospital. Pub closing time in the north was notoriously, or wonderfully, lax, depending on your point of view. He was beg
inning to think of the small hours of the morning. He dried his hands and opened the washroom door. His way was barred by one of the power workers.

  This was the man who had stopped to speak to Mitchell while his companion had come to the bar counter. He was shorter than the other man but broad shouldered and stocky. His red hair was dry and frizzy and receded in the front although he could not have been older than mid-twenties.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Bannerman, making to move past the man.

  The man moved to bar his way and stood there staring at him.

  ‘I said excuse me,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘Did you now,’ said the man, his voice low with menace.

  ‘Move!’ said Bannerman firmly.

  The man stood still. ‘You are not wanted in this town,’ he hissed.

  ‘Believe me. I’ve got the message,’ said Bannerman ruefully. ‘But this isn’t Tombstone Arizona and you’re not Wyatt Earp. I have a job to do and I’m doing it, so unless you really intend following a course of action which will end up with you inside Peterhead Prison, I suggest you move aside and let me past.’

  The man considered for a moment before pursing his lips and reluctantly moving to one side to let Bannerman out through the door.

  Bannerman went upstairs and locked his room door. He stood with his back against it for a moment, letting his breathing return to normal. His heart was thumping against his chest. He reflected for a moment that things might have been so much easier had he not got off on the wrong foot with Mitchell. After that first meeting there was just no point of contact between them. He steeled himself to keep vigil by his room window with the lights out.

  Mitchell left an hour later and got into his car alone. It was another forty minutes before the two power workers came out into the street. The one Bannerman had left in the toilet was very drunk and was being supported by his companion. As they made their way down the street, the drunk struggled to turn round. He shouted back at the window of the hotel, ‘I’ll get you, you bastard … you see if I don’t.’

  ‘Not in that state you won’t,’ whispered Bannerman in the dark.

  The hotel was too small to have a night porter or indeed any night staff that would warrant the front door being left open. Bannerman saw that it was locked when he came downstairs.

  ‘Was there something?’ asked the manager, who had just locked up and was preparing to turn in for the night.

  ‘I thought I might go out for some fresh air,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘At this time?’ exclaimed the man, looking at his watch but more by gesture than any real desire to see the time.

  ‘Insomnia,’ replied Bannerman. ‘I’m a slave to it.’

  The man gave Bannerman a key and requested that he lock up when he returned.

  Bannerman said that he would.

  The air was cold but mercifully still as he hurried along the deserted streets of Stobmor to the cottage hospital. Although it was after one-thirty in the morning and there were no lights on at all in the surrounding streets, Bannerman still felt as if a thousand eyes were watching him. He kept close to the shadows all the way and checked behind him before turning into the doorway of the hospital. He felt a surge of relief to be in the dark of the entrance porch. He got out the key MacLeod had given him and inserted it in the lock. It wouldn’t turn.

  Bannerman withdrew the key and re-inserted it, three times in all but it refused to turn. He cursed and tried one last time but to no avail. He was on the point of leaving when it suddenly occurred to him what the trouble was. He was trying to unlock a door that was already unlocked! He turned the handle and the door opened. MacLeod must have forgotten to lock it earlier!

  Bannerman felt embarrassed that he had not thought of trying the door first. It confirmed his suspicion that he had no talent for cloak and dagger activities. What was required was a cool calculating mind. He was a bundle of nerves and his pulse rate was topping a hundred and twenty. He tiptoed into the room where MacLeod said that he would leave the equipment he would need for the brain biopsy on Turnbull. There was enough light coming in from the street lamps for him to find it without trouble. Surgical gloves, 50 ml capacity disposable syringes, wide-gauge needles, alcohol impregnated swabs and a range of specimen containers. Everything he needed to extract a sample of the dead man’s brain.

  Bannerman’s pulse was still thumping as he collected the equipment together on a stainless steel tray and prepared to take it down into the cellar. As he lifted it he heard a sudden thumping sound from somewhere in the building. He nearly dropped the tray. Had MacLeod come back after all? The noise happened again and Bannerman was prompted to call out, ‘Dr MacLeod? Is that you?’

  There was no reply.

  Bannerman felt unease grow inside him until it tightened his stomach muscles. For God’s sake get a grip! he told himself. There are sounds in all buildings at night. Central heating noises, fridges switching on and off. You can hardly be afraid of the dead, you’re a pathologist for God’s sake! Get down into that cellar, get the needle biopsy over and done with and you can be on your way to Edinburgh in the morning.

  Bannerman opened the door to the cellar and moved forward cautiously. He couldn’t risk putting on a light until the door was safely closed behind him for fear that it would be seen from the street. Once more, he noticed the sudden change in temperature as he descended the stone steps. Another sound! A small shuffling sound. Surely it couldn’t be rats at the body? He listened for the tell-tale scurry of paws. Silence. stood on the second last step and looked around the cellar. Nothing moved in the floor area lit by the single lamp but there were several dark corners. The sheet covered corpse lay undisturbed on its bench in the middle of the room. There was however, one loose fold of sheet on the right side of the head. Bannerman could have sworn that he had tucked the sheet round the head securely. He stared at it, his mind racked with unease.

  He laid the instrument tray down by the side of the body and took off his coat. He rolled up his sleeves and put on a pair of surgical gloves, stretching his fingers and snapping the material back on his wrists to make sure the fit was perfect. He donned a second pair. There was no point in taking any risks with a disease as deadly as this. He fitted one of the wide-gauge needles aseptically on to a syringe and put the sterile plastic needle guard back on while he unwrapped the head of the corpse.

  As he touched the sheet Bannerman experienced a moment of sheer terror; the corpse suddenly sat up straight. He could do nothing but stare wide eyed and open mouthed at the unfolding nightmare before him. The corpse’s head, still covered with the sheet, turned slowly towards him and suddenly hit him full in the face with a vicious head-butt. Pain exploded inside Bannerman’s head and consciousness was lost in a galaxy of stars.

  FOURTEEN

  Bannerman came to with a blinding headache and the taste of grit in his mouth. He sat up slowly, spat the dirt out and gingerly touched his face to discover that his nose had been broken. He let out a grunt of pain as the bone moved under the skin. There was a good deal of congealed blood on his face but, as far as he could determine, there was no further serious damage. His ribs felt fine and his teeth were intact so it seemed that the assault had been confined to the single head-butt that had laid him out. He looked about him and saw that he was now alone in the room. The ‘corpse’ had gone.

  Painfully, he got to his feet and deduced from the stiffness in his limbs that he must have been lying in the same position for some considerable time. He had to pause half-way up the stairs and knelt for a moment when he felt consciousness start to slip away from him again. He tried putting his head between his knees to improve blood circulation but a protest from his aching head overruled the move. He compromised by resting for a moment before continuing upstairs to telephone Angus MacLeod.

  ‘Who did you say did it?’ said MacLeod, thinking that he hadn’t heard right.

  ‘The corpse, well, of course, it wasn’t the corpse, it was someone pretending to be the corpse. Oh Christ
, just get over here will you,’ he snapped. He immediately regretted it but, for the moment, the pain in his head was dictating his behaviour. He found a bathroom and examined the damage to his face in the mirror. The blood made it look much worse than it actually was and he recoiled from the sight that met him. He looked as if he had just been a spectacularly unsuccessful contender for the heavyweight championship of the world. ‘Lucky punch Harry,’ he murmured in true British heavyweight style. ‘Lucky punch.’

  MacLeod arrived and called out his name.

  ‘In here,’ croaked Bannerman.

  MacLeod came into the bathroom and immediately took over. ‘Let me do that,’ he insisted. ‘Come through here. It’ll be more comfortable.’ He led Bannerman to one of the treatment rooms where he set about cleaning up his face and resetting his broken nose. ‘You’re going to have two lovely black eyes in the morning,’ he said. ‘You can get dark glasses at MacPhail’s in the High Street.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bannerman sourly. ‘I found the front door unlocked when I arrived. Did you forget to lock it?’

  ‘On the contrary, I distinctly remember locking it,’ said Macleod.

  Bannerman nodded. ‘I should have thought of that,’ he said. ‘Whoever broke in tonight was inside when I arrived. It never even occurred to me to think that someone had picked the lock. ‘I assumed you had left it open.’

  ‘Should I call the police?’ asked MacLeod.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Bannerman, thinking the local constabulary would make of it all.

  ‘But Turnbull’s body. It’s gone.’

  ‘And I don’t think we’ll see it again,’ said Bannerman. ‘Whoever removed it obviously suspected that I’d try to get to the body for path specimens, permission or no permission, and they were right. They even saw me arrive to carry out what amounts to an illegal procedure. It could be argued that I am a bigger criminal than they are. They will maintain that they were only seeing that the grieving widow’s wishes were respected.’