by Ken McClure
‘Difficult,’ said MacLeod. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Sleep,’ replied Bannerman, touching the bridge of his nose as if it were a butterfly’s wing. ‘I need some sleep.’
Bannerman woke early. The wind had disturbed him by attempting to rattle his bedroom window out of its frame as the latest gale swept in from the Atlantic to funnel through the streets of Stobmor. ‘Bloody country,’ he murmured as he lay listening to the sound which alternated between a moan and a howl according to wind velocity. After a few minutes he decided it would be better to get up. There was an electric kettle in the room in deference to the fashion for ‘tea making facilities’ in hotel bedrooms. He got up and switched it on. He checked the range of sachets beside the kettle while it boiled. Tea, coffee and hot chocolate. They all had one thing in common; they had obviously been lying in the room for a very long time. The packs were all brittle. Bannerman guessed that they had seen summer come and go in Stobmor. He tore open a sachet of instant coffee and braced himself for the taste. He was wise to do so. The ‘coffee’ tasted like salt water laced with floor sweepings and cigarette ash.
A couple of sips proved enough. He poured the contents of the cup down the wash-hand basin and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He drew his finger lightly round the dark purple circles under both eyes. ‘Good Lord,’ he murmured. ‘If London Zoo are looking for a new panda, you’re in with a chance.’
With a sigh of resignation, he crossed to the window where he drew open the curtains to look out on deserted, wind-swept streets. The sky was ominously dark and threatening. Rain wasn’t far away. ‘Bonnie Scotland,’ he whispered, ‘you’re an absolute joy …’
Bannerman pondered on what he should do next. He felt frustrated and angry at having been beaten yet again by the factions determined to prevent investigation of the outbreak but he knew that he mustn’t allow these feelings to dictate his actions. He must be practical. He felt sure that Turnbull’s body would be kept hidden until a cremation took place. Alerting the police might force the handing over of the body but access would still be nigh impossible. He would still not be able to get the specimens he needed for lab investigation.
He still had the option of forcing the issue with court involvement and Angus MacLeod’s collusion but he’d ruled this out because of what it would do to relationships within the community. He decided on a conservative course of action. Despite the terms of the deal with Allison, which allowed him to call for a full-scale investigation if another case arose within the four week period, there was no point in doing so if there was nothing there to investigate! There were, however, a couple of other things he could do until he had decided what to tell the MRC. One was to talk to Gordon Buchan’s widow.
The last time he had been in the area May Buchan had been recuperating on holiday. Presumably she was back now and perhaps she could throw some light on how her father had contracted the disease. First he would have to find out where she was staying.
He remembered that Sproat, the farmer at Inverladdie, had said she would be moving back in with her parents when she returned, but of course, they were now both dead and the family house in Stobmor had been burned to the ground. Would she still be staying in the tied cottage on the farm? he wondered. The girl who served him breakfast confirmed, between sidelong glances at the state of his face, that she was. When it seemed that she might have plucked up enough courage to ask what had happened, Bannerman said quickly, ‘Don’t ask.’
Wearing a pair of dark glasses which he purchased from MacPhail’s in the High Street, as recommended by Angus MacLeod, Bannerman got into the car to drive up to Inverladdie Farm. There hadn’t been a mirror in the dark, dusty general store so he looked at himself as best he could in the rear view mirror of the car. ‘Very Jack Nicholson,’ he murmured at the sight. He hoped he wouldn’t alarm May Buchan.
The rain that had been threatening for the last two hours finally arrived as Bannerman nursed the car up the track to Inverladdie Farm. One moment he was driving up a clearly defined farm road, the next he was moving slowly up the bed of a fast flowing river.
When he eventually reached the cottage he was pleased to see that someone was at home. There was a light on in the kitchen. He made a run for the shelter of the porch and knocked on the door. It was answered by a very tanned woman in her thirties; her hair had been bleached almost blonde by recent exposure to the sun. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a white sweater with a small gold crucifix dangling over it. Her feet were bare.
‘Mrs Buchan? I’m Ian Bannerman. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?’
May Buchan looked as if she might have argued the point had the weather been kinder but rain and wind were funnelling in through the open door. She said, ‘You’d better come in.’
Bannerman explained who he was and expressed his sympathy at the death of her husband and parents.
May thanked him automatically and stared at his glasses. ‘It’s not exactly sunny,’ she said.
Bannerman touched the glasses self-consciously and said, ‘I have a slight eye problem.’ He thought it rather rude of May Buchan to have made the comment, but at least it told him what kind of person she was. On the other hand, maybe the loss of three close relations in quick succession had simply stripped the veneer of social nicety from her?
‘I see,’ she said, still staring.
Bannerman tried to establish some kind of rapport with her. ‘You have a wonderful tan,’ he said. ‘You didn’t get that in Bonnie Scotland.’
‘Nassau.’
‘The Bahamas?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
‘The Sproats have been very kind. They paid for the trip. They thought it would help me get over Gordon’s death.’
‘That was very nice of them,’ said Bannerman, thinking that he had misjudged John Sproat.
‘It was a surprise,’ said May. ‘Unfortunately while I was away my father … well, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’m trying to establish a connection between your husband’s death and your father’s and I’d like you to help me find it.’
May looked uncertain. ‘But Gordon died of meningitis. Dad wasn’t ill. Something just snapped inside him and he went on the rampage. What sort of connection could there be?’ she asked.
‘I think they were both suffering from the same illness,’ said Bannerman. ‘Your husband was working with the infected sheep on the farm before he fell ill wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he and the others were burying them in the lime pit.’
‘Was your father involved in this at all?’ asked Bannerman.
‘My father?’ exclaimed May Buchan as if it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. ‘No, of course not. He never came near the farm at the best of times. Apart from that he and Gordon didn’t exactly see eye to eye.’
‘So they didn’t see each other socially?’
May shook her head. ‘Once a year at most.’
‘But you saw your mother and father?’
‘I visited them in the town, usually once a week.’
‘Can you think of any way your father could have come into contact with the infected sheep on Inverladdie Farm?’
‘No,’ said May shaking her head in annoyance. ‘What’s all this about sheep? Why do you keep going on about sheep? Gordon died of meningitis.’
‘The truth is that we’re not quite sure what your husband and the others died of. It is just possible that infected sheep were involved,’ said Bannerman.
May looked as if she had been struck. Despite her tan, Bannerman saw her pale visibly. ‘What the hell do you mean, “involved”?’ she rasped. ‘The sheep died of Scrapie; the vet said so.’
Bannerman proceeded carefully. He said, ‘It is possible that it wasn’t an ordinary strain of Scrapie but something that could be transmitted to man.’
‘Oh my God,’ said May.
The air was electric. Bannerman knew he was on the ve
rge of finding out something important. He mustn’t push May Buchan too hard. He let the silence put pressure on her.
‘Oh Christ!’ said May, burying her head in her hands.
Bannerman remained silent.
‘I can give you your connection,’ said May between sobs. ‘Gordon and the two others … and my father … ate meat from one of the sheep.’
‘They ate it?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
May nodded. ‘In the past when there’s been a Scrapie outbreak old man Sproat has got the beasts off to market as quickly as possible.’
‘But surely that’s illegal?’ said Bannerman.
‘Everyone knows that Scrapie doesn’t affect human beings so where’s the harm? If the farmers declare the disease, government compensation isn’t anything like market value so what can you expect?’
‘But Sproat didn’t send them to market this time,’ said Bannerman.
‘It all happened too quickly for him,’ said May. ‘The sheep were dropping like flies. He called in the vet and after a lot of discussion old man Sproat and the vet told Gordon and the others it was Scrapie. They were to bury the carcasses in a lime pit.’ May had to pause for a moment to compose herself before going on. ‘Gordon thought this was a bit of a waste so he and the others kept one of the sheep and brought it here. They butchered it and I put it in the freezer.’
‘And they all ate it?’
‘Gordon asked the two other sheep workers to Sunday dinner to thank them for their help.’
‘But you?’
‘I’m vegetarian and so is my mother.’
‘But the connection with your father?’ asked Bannerman.
May dabbed at her eyes with a paper tissue. ‘Just before I went off on holiday I went to see my mother. I took some mutton chops from the freezer. I thought they would do for Dad’s dinner.’
‘I see,’ said Bannerman. His mind was reeling from the information. Here surely was the proof that sheep Scrapie had been implicated in the men’s deaths. ‘Mrs Buchan did you know a man called Colin Turnbull?’ he asked.
May looked at him blankly. ‘Never heard of him,’ she replied.
‘Are you sure?’ Bannerman pressed. This was the one remaining link he had to forge. ‘I’m certain,’ said May. ‘Who is he?’
‘He was a quarry worker. His wife is the primary school teacher in Stobmor.’
‘Sorry. Don’t know them.’
‘Is there any chance that your husband might have known Colin Turnbull?’
‘I suppose so,’ said May, ‘but I think not. If Gordon had known him, so would I; it’s as simple as that in a place like this.’
Bannerman nodded, disappointed that he had failed at the final hurdle. Then suddenly he had a thought which wiped out all thoughts of disappointment. ‘Mrs Buchan,’ he said, trying to disguise the excitement he felt welling up inside him, ‘do you have any of the sheep left in the freezer?’
‘Well… yes,’ replied May.
Bannerman closed his eyes momentarily and gave silent thanks. ‘I need some for testing,’ he said.
May got up and went through to the kitchen. Bannerman followed her and watched as she raised the lid of a chest freezer. She lifted out a couple of white plastic bags and handed them to Bannerman. ‘Will this be enough?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ said Bannerman. ‘What happened to the remains of the carcass?’
‘Gordon buried it out the back.’
‘In lime?’
‘No.’
‘Can you show me where?’
May opened the kitchen door and pointed to the dry-stone dyke at the foot of the garden. She said, ‘Just there,’ pointing to a far corner.
‘I’ll need a shovel.’
‘In the shed round the corner.’
Bannerman fastened up his collar against the weather and asked if May had any plastic bags. She opened a drawer and handed him a couple of bin liners. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.
‘Kitchen knives, sharp ones.’
May pointed to a wooden block next to the draining board. It held half a dozen knives. He selected two.
Bannerman was wet through in no time but it didn’t matter. His excitement at having found a source of pathological evidence took precedence over all other considerations. He even took comfort from the fact that the rain had made the ground soft and easy to turn over with the spade. The remains of the sheep were not deep. At the first sign of them he stopped using the spade and knelt down to remove earth with his hands, like an archaeologist uncovering precious artefacts of a long-departed civilization. He found the head and lifted it clear of the mud. A worm crawled out of an eye socket but apart from that it seemed to be in reasonably good condition. He carried it over to the tool shed to gain some protection from the elements while he got to work with the knives.
As he worked, he reassured himself with thoughts that the Scrapie agent was one of the toughest infective agents known to man. It could survive treatment which would sterilize any other known virus or bacterium in the world. A relatively short time lying in the soil would have no adverse effect at all. He managed to recover at least fifty grams of brain material and knew that that would be quite sufficient for analysis. With all his samples safely into plastic bags, Bannerman secured the necks and left them in the shed while he re-buried the remains of the sheep.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ asked May when he returned to the house.
Bannerman nodded.
‘When will you know for sure?’
‘Probably within three to six weeks,’ replied Bannerman. He saw the look of self-recrimination in the woman’s eyes and said, ‘You really mustn’t blame yourself you know.’
‘I served it up to them. I killed them.’
‘There was no way you could have possibly known. As you say, Scrapie has always been considered harmless to human beings.’ ‘Why should it be any different this time?’ Bannerman shook his head and said, ‘I don’t know, but with a bit of luck, and these,’ he held up the bags, ‘I’m going to find out.’
Bannerman turned as he got to the door and said, ‘Mrs Buchan I would be very grateful if you would say nothing about this to anyone. Nothing has been proved as yet.’
‘I promise,’ said May.
‘One more thing. You must destroy the entire contents of your freezer. Burn everything.’
‘There’s not much in it anyway,’ said May Buchan. I’m going to have to move out of here very soon. The Sproats will be wanting the cottage. They’ve been very good about letting me stay on here so long. Oh my God …’
‘What is it?’
May stood for a moment with her hands up to her mouth. She said, ‘I’ve just realized …’
‘Realized what?’
‘I would probably have given the meat away to friends before I left here.’
‘Thank God I came,’ said Bannerman.
Bannerman’s euphoria at having made progress at last was tempered on the way back to Stobmor by the fact that he still had to make one of the pieces fit, and that piece was Colin Turnbull. Could Turnbull have eaten infected meat too? And if so, where had it come from? What was probably more important, was there any more still around? He had been assuming that the original infected sheep presented no problem because they had been buried in lime but maybe more than one had found its way into the freezers of Achnagelloch? He would have a word with MacLeod about it. The people respected their GP. A word about the possible dangers of eating sheep meat which had ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’ would be heeded. As for Turnbull, it seemed unlikely that he would have dined alone on illicit meat and it would be stretching coincidence a bit far if Turnbull’s wife should turn out to be vegetarian too.
Thinking of Turnbull’s wife made Bannerman realize that he would have to speak to her and judging by her behaviour yesterday, he wasn’t exactly her favourite person.
As he entered the main square at Stobmor he was still thinking about how best to approach her. He got out of the car and saw a
bus pull up across the street. Shona got down from it.
Bannerman suddenly felt good, as if the sun had come out. He smiled broadly and called out ‘Hello there!’
Shona crossed the street, smiling and Bannerman wrapped his arms around her. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said.
Shona laughed at his obvious pleasure and asked, ‘Have you suddenly become a film star or haven’t you noticed that it’s raining?’
Bannerman lifted the dark glasses and Shona gasped. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’
‘It’s quite a story. Come on inside.’
‘They went into the hotel and Shona registered.
‘Will the adjoining room be all right?’ asked the clerk.
Tine,’ said Bannerman, choosing to ignore the smirk on the man’s face.
‘Will there be anything else?’
‘I’d like some ice,’ said Bannerman.
‘Ice?’
‘Yes, lots of ice. Have it sent up to my room will you?’
‘Yes sir, if you say so.’
Bannerman turned to Shona and said, That’s given him something to think about.’
‘Me too,’ replied Shona, with a quizzical look, as they headed for the stairs.
Bannerman filled Shona in on everything that had happened.
‘But will the specimens be all right packed in ice?’ she asked.
‘I can’t ask the hotel to put them in their freezer,’ replied Bannerman.
‘But if it was well wrapped?’
‘I can’t risk it,’ replied Bannerman. ‘We can’t put infected material like this anywhere near foodstuffs. I’ll just have to keep changing the ice until we leave for Edinburgh in the morning. A polystyrene box would help with insulation. Any ideas?’
‘Lots of things are packed in polystyrene these days. Why not ask the desk clerk? He might be able to come up with something.’
Bannerman phoned down to the desk.
‘A polystyrene box?’
‘Yes, and more ice.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
A few minutes later the clerk appeared at the door with an armful of polystyrene and a full ice bucket. This was the packing from a new microwave oven,’ said the man. ‘Will this do.’