Crisis

THREE

It was raining heavily when Bannerman’s taxi pulled up outside the headquarters of the Medical Research Council in Park Crescent. It turned to hail and battered deafeningly on the roof of the cab as he paid the driver before getting out and making a run for the entrance.

‘What a day,’ smiled the woman behind the desk. ‘Rain, sleet, hail, whatever next?’

Bannerman brushed at his shoulders and said who he was, adding, ‘Dr Milne is expecting me.’

‘Take a seat Doctor,’ replied the woman, indicating with one hand while picking up the telephone with her other. A few minutes later a young man appeared in the hall and said, ‘Dr Milne asks if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the library until everyone is here?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Bannerman automatically, but wondering about the word, ‘everyone’. He was under the impression that this was to be a meeting between himself and Milne. He followed the young man up to the library where he was invited to sit beside a small table that was bedecked with magazines. He picked up one with two smiling Africans on the front and flicked through the pages without taking in too much. The magazine was comprised of a series of reports on successful projects undertaken to improve health care in the Third World.

There was a young clerk in the room. She was replacing books on the shelves but was aware of Bannerman’s presence. She saw the magazine he was looking at and said, ‘It’s wonderful what they’re doing in Africa isn’t it?’

Bannerman looked at the innocent smile on her face and smiled back. ‘Yes it is,’ he replied but inside his head he was thinking what a load of twaddle the magazine was. It was exactly the kind of rubbish the West wanted to read about Africa. Comfortable, optimistic nonsense about success in the field without any reference to the enormous scale of the problems of pestilence and famine. Yet, would it really help if they did understand? he wondered. Would it encourage people to give more if they understood the true scale of the problem? or would it put them off altogether?

‘If you would follow me Dr Bannerman?’ said the young man who had re-appeared in the doorway putting an end to his philosophizing.

Bannerman put down the magazine, smiled goodbye to the female clerk and followed the young man downstairs, where he was shown into a large room with a long table as its main feature. Four men were sitting at one end; one of them got up and came towards him as the young man left.

‘Dr Bannerman? I’m Hugh Milne. We spoke on the telephone. We are all obliged to you for coming here at such short notice. May I introduce, Sir John Flowers, Secretary of the MRC, Dr Hector Munro, Director of the Neurobiology Unit in Edinburgh and Mr Cecil Allison from the Prime Minister’s office.’

Bannerman nodded to each of the men in turn and took his seat.

Flowers said, ‘I understand from Dr Milne that you were kind enough to examine some brain sections we sent you.’

‘It didn’t take long,’ said Bannerman. They were very clear. Typical Creutzfeld Jakob Disease.’

‘So I understand,’ said Flowers. ‘Hugh also explained their origin?’

‘I understand the sections came from the brains of three young men who died after a short illness and that all three worked with sheep.’

‘Quite so,’ said Flowers. ‘What was your reaction when you heard this?’

‘I thought there had to be some kind of mistake, a mix-up with the slides perhaps.’

‘We are assured that there was no mix-up,’ said Flowers.

‘So I was told,’ said Bannerman.

This puts us in a very difficult position,’ said Flowers. He turned to the man from the Prime Minister’s Office and said, ‘Perhaps Mr Allison would like to explain?’

Allison nodded, cleared his throat and said, ‘Her Majesty’s Government is very anxious to assure our European colleagues that there is absolutely no problem with British meat products. Ideally we would like to be able to say categorically that slow virus diseases of animals cannot be transmitted to man through the food chain.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman.

‘We have reason to believe that Her Majesty’s Opposition is about to press us very soon to make a statement to this effect. If we cannot do this with the backing of the Medical Research Council then the effects on the farming community might well be

catastrophic.’

‘All the evidence has been pointing to an effective species barrier between animals and man and then suddenly, we have this report from Scotland,’ said

Flowers.

‘I can well understand the problem,’ said Bannerman.

‘Naturally, we are hoping that the report is mistaken in some way,’ said Allison.

‘But even if it is, and please God it is, I understand that there has been an overall increase in the incidence of degenerative brain disease in the population. Is that not so?’ asked Bannerman.

Allison appeared to move uncomfortably in his seat. He said, ‘Our statisticians have concluded that that is not necessarily the case. Data in the past has been scant and very difficult to obtain so what represents a true increase percentage-wise is quite hard to define …’

Bannerman looked at Flowers but the Secretary diverted his eyes and looked down at the table. ‘I see,’ he said.

‘If this report is accurate however,’ said Flowers, ‘and an animal brain disease has been transmitted to man, then that would be quite another matter.’ ‘Quite,’ said Allison.

Flowers looked up at Bannerman and said, ‘Might I ask what your feelings are at this stage Doctor?’

‘I think that if this report is real, then some extra factor must have come into play,’ said Bannerman.

‘What sort of extra factor were you thinking of?’ asked Allison.

‘If the Scrapie agent caused the deaths of these men then I believe it must have changed in some way; something caused it to mutate, enabling it to cross the species barrier.’

“This is largely the conclusion I and my colleagues have come to. It would be very worrying of course, if the change were due to a spontaneous mutation occurring in the animals because that would mean that this sort of thing could happen at any time and in any place. If however, the mutation was induced by some outside factor then it may be possible to identify such a factor. With luck we should be able to take steps to prevent it happening again.’

‘Something tells me that you have identified a factor,’ said Bannerman.

‘I think we may have,’ said Flowers. ‘The area where the three dead men farmed the sheep is adjacent to the Invermaddoch power station.’

‘The Invermaddoch nuclear power station,’ added Allison.

‘Oh,’ said Bannerman, taking a moment to consider the possible implications. Radiation was one of the most common inducers of mutation in living things. ‘I suppose you couldn’t hope for a better candidate,’ he said, ‘assuming there has been a leak. Has there?’

‘Officially no,’ said Allison.

‘What does that mean?’ said Bannerman.

Allison took off his glasses to clean them, unnecessarily.

There was a slight problem at the station some six months ago,’ he admitted hesitantly. ‘Which was covered up,’ said Bannerman.

‘We were assured that it was very slight and we didn’t want to cause unnecessary alarm,’ said Allison.

‘But it happened,’ said Bannerman.

Flowers moved in to defuse the situation. ‘I think it’s about time we came to the point,’ he said to Bannerman. ‘We were rather hoping to enlist your professional help with this affair.’

‘I would be happy to help you with the lab work if that’s what you mean,’ said Bannerman.

‘Actually, it isn’t,’ said Flowers. ‘What we would like, would be for you to investigate this whole matter.’

Bannerman was taken aback and left speechless for a few moments.

Flowers said, ‘We need a first-rate pathologist to go up to Scotland and report back. We have to know; one, if the men’s deaths were really due to Scrapie; two, what caused the disease to cross the species barrier; and three, whether or not we can regard this as an isolated incident.’

‘And it has to be done discreetly,’ added Allison.

‘Presumably no mention of Scrapie was made on the men’s death certificates?’ asked Bannerman.

‘No. The official cause of death was given as meningitis.’

‘What about the sheep in the area?’

‘The Scrapie-infected sheep were, of course, destroyed but there has been no general alert,’ said Allison. ‘That would have attracted immediate and unwanted attention.’

‘And you wouldn’t want to cause unnecessary alarm,’ added Bannerman, acidly.

‘You must see how delicate the situation is, Doctor,’ said Allison.

Reluctantly, Bannerman had to admit that he could. ‘But you must have a pathologist working on it already,’ he said. The man who reported the problem in the first place.’

That’s another thing, I’m afraid,’ said Flowers. ‘Dr Gill has disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ exclaimed Bannerman.

‘He left home nine days ago and hasn’t been seen since.’

‘Some domestic upheaval, we’re told,’ said Munro.

Bannerman shook his head in bemusement but didn’t know what to say. ‘Where is the pathology lab work being done?’ he asked.

‘Edinburgh, in George Stoddart’s department at the medical school,’ said Flowers.

‘Edinburgh is full of experts on Scrapie and slow viruses,’ said Bannerman, looking to Munro.

‘My people are scientists Doctor,’ said Munro. ‘We would give you all the back-up you required but the investigation calls for a medic.’

‘Insistent but discreet,’ added Allison. ‘I’m sure there’s no need to tell you what the press would make of this.’

Bannerman sighed and looked down at the well-polished surface of the table.

‘We appreciate that you will need a little time to think this over,’ said Flowers, ‘but you must know that time is of the essence and we would have to ask for your decision by say, ten o’clock tomorrow?’

‘You’ll have it,’ said Bannerman. ‘Perhaps I should add that we would provide the hospital with a locum in your absence,’ said Flowers.

Bannerman was about to say that he had intended to take some time off anyway but he thought better of it. His morale had been given an unexpected boost by what had been said about his professional reputation. He did not want to diminish the effects with talk of stress and strain.

‘Would you like me to call you a taxi, Doctor?’ asked the woman at the front desk as Bannerman prepared to leave. He looked out and saw that it had stopped raining. ‘I think I’ll walk for a bit,’ he replied.

The air was damp and fiercely cold after the heat of the offices; for a moment it made his eyes water. He grimaced and pulled up his collar as he made his way down Park Crescent to cross Marylebone Road and continue down into Regent’s Park. The grass stretched before him like a wet, green desert below a leaden sky. What the hell was he to do? He wondered.

An investigation of this importance was hardly a job for someone undergoing any kind of personal crisis but on the other hand the whole thing intrigued him deeply. It would be no picnic but at least, if he took up the investigation, he would be away from the pressures of the hospital and there would be no emergency diagnostic work for a while. He might even be able to do some winter climbing in Scotland after all.

Bannerman was suddenly aware of a woman standing in front of him. She was swathed in loose-fitting clothes which disguised her shape and consequently her age; she carried two bundles wrapped in what appeared to be bed covers. A head scarf was supplemented by a further scarf wrapped round the lower portion of her face. She hooked two fingers over the scarf round her mouth and pulled it down slightly. ‘Have you anything for a cup of tea?’ she mumbled.

Bannerman took out his wallet and gave her a five pound note.

‘Bless you, mister,’ said the woman clutching it tightly with gloved fingers which left the tips free.

‘You too,’ said Bannerman quietly. He turned to watch her shuffle off and began to see executive stress and strain in a new light. Until that moment he had planned to discuss the morning’s events with Stella before reaching a decision. Now he decided to accede to the MRC’s request.

Olive Meldrum handed Bannerman an envelope on Thursday evening. It contained, she said, his first-class ticket on the night sleeper to Scotland. Bannerman thanked her, saying that he would see her soon.

‘Good luck,’ said Olive. ‘Bring me back a haggis or whatever they call it.’

‘I promise,’ smiled Bannerman. He checked his watch and saw that he should be leaving. He wanted to get back to the flat and finish his packing before Stella arrived. They had arranged to have dinner together at a restaurant they both liked and then she would run him to the station in time for the train. He added a few last-minute notes to the file that he had prepared for Nigel Leeman who would take over in his absence. They had already had a meeting that morning but several things had occurred to him during the course of the afternoon that he thought Leeman should know about. He closed the file with a paper-clip, wrote Leeman’s name on it and left it on Olive’s desk. With a last look round, he switched off the light and closed the door.

‘Why don’t you have another brandy,’ said Stella. ‘You’re not driving.’

‘You’ve talked me into it,’ smiled Bannerman, summoning the waiter.

This has all happened so fast I’m not sure what to say,’ said Stella. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’re doing the right thing in taking this MRC thing on?’

‘No,’ admitted Bannerman, ‘but it’s important to find out the truth.’

‘Send me a postcard?’

‘Of course,’ smiled Bannerman.

‘And if you have time to pursue this crazy notion of heading off into the Scottish mountains in winter these may help.’ Stella reached into her bag. ‘I know you don’t need lectures about the right equipment and all that, but I got you a little present.’ She brought out a small package which she handed to Bannerman.

Bannerman opened it and pulled out a pair of gloves. ‘Goretex gloves!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll be the best dressed climber on the mountain.’

‘In January, you’ll be the only climber on the mountain,’ retorted Stella.

Thank you, that was a kind thought,’ said Bannerman.

‘I think we’d better go if we’ve to get you on that train,’ said Stella.

They arrived at the station with ten minutes to spare. Bannerman insisted that they say their goodbyes there and then, knowing that neither of them liked hanging around draughty platforms in order to wave at a moving train. He watched Stella’s back until she turned round at the exit, then he waved and walked through the barrier to board the train.

Bannerman woke at six. The train was crossing a particularly intricate piece of track, and the change from regular sound patterns to a series of irregular clacks and jolts had disturbed him. He opened the blind and looked out at a misty, grey morning with dampness clinging to the trees and fences bordering the track. Maybe a holiday in the sun wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all, he thought, but then he stamped on the heresy and got back into his bunk. He propped himself up so that he could catch occasional glimpses of the countryside. If the train was on time they must be soon approaching Berwick and the Scottish border.

As he got out on to the platform at Waverley Station in Edinburgh, Bannerman considered his options. The medical school were expecting him any time after nine so he still had some time to kill. He was hungry, but not hungry enough to eat in the station buffet. He walked up the hill, out of the station and up to Princes Street, where he admired the sight of Edinburgh Castle looming out of the morning mist before opting for breakfast at a large hotel. His third cup of coffee took him up to a time when he could hail a taxi and ask to be taken to the university.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said the white-haired man who stood up and introduced himself as George Stoddart, when Bannerman was shown into his office.

Stoddart was a small man in his sixties with silver hair and a neatly clipped moustache. He was wearing a dark suit with a Bengal striped shirt and a university tie. The shirt seemed a bit too tight around his middle, thought Bannerman, as he took the outstretched hand and said, ‘How do you do Professor.’ He wondered if the slight coldness he detected in the man’s manner was real or imagined. If it was real it was not entirely unexpected, after all, he was an outsider being foisted on the department by the MRC. There had been no opposition from Munro because his people were scientists not medics, but Stoddart’s department was different. It was medical and it was not inconceivable that he might be seen as an interfering interloper from the south.

‘We’ve arranged an apartment for you in the old town,’ said Stoddart. ‘Would you like to be taken there right away or would you rather settle in here first?’

‘Here I think,’ said Bannerman.

‘Very well,’ said Stoddart. ‘I’ll have someone show you to your lab and then we can talk.’ He picked up the phone and requested that ‘Dr Napier’ come up.

Bannerman was introduced to a woman in her mid-thirties. She was pleasant looking but her appearance was tempered by what he regarded as middle-class notions of respectability. Her clothes, hairstyle, shoes, all deserved the adjective, ‘sensible’, and when she spoke she did so with just the genteel accent he expected her to have. The soul of discretion and reliability, he thought; there’s a woman like her in every university department. He noticed that she was wearing an engagement ring. That didn’t quite fit with his appraisal of her as a ‘bride of the university’.

‘Morag Napier,’ said the woman, holding out her hand with a smile.

‘Ian Bannerman.’

Bannerman followed Morag Napier along a corridor and down some stairs to where she opened a half-glazed door and ushered him inside. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need here,’ she said. ‘If not, I’m only next door. You only have to ask.’

Thanks,’ said Bannerman, looking about him with a heavy heart. The building was old. It was part of the original medical school at the university and consequently high ceilings and tiling were much in evidence. The cold, grey light coming in from a north facing window did nothing to lighten the atmosphere.

A modern microscope stood on a turn-of-the-century lab bench, and a calendar from a laboratory supply company decorated the wall above it. There was a blackboard on one of the other walls with a duster and a cardboard box containing an assortment of coloured, mainly broken, chalk sticks.

There were some dusty pathological specimen jars arranged along a wooden shelf with labels that were peeling and practically indecipherable with age. Bannerman looked closely and saw that one patient’s liver had achieved immortality, courtesy of formaldehyde fixative. Diamonds ain’t the only things that are forever my son, he thought.

‘I hope everything’s all right,’ said Morag.

‘Everything’s fine,’ replied Bannerman, with his back to her.

‘I’ll leave you for a bit, then, when you’re ready, I’ll take you back to Professor Stoddart,’ said Morag.

‘No need,’ said Bannerman, turning to face her. ‘I can remember the way.’

‘If you’re sure?’

Tm sure.’

There was an old oak desk beside the blackboard. Bannerman sat down at it and opened the drawers to see if they had been emptied. In the main they had, although half an eraser, two pencils and a broken plastic ruler lingered on. He opened his briefcase and transferred some of his own things to them. He saw this as an act of self-psychology — a conscious effort to persuade himself that this was where he was going to be working for the time being. He was considering how oppressive the room was, when a slight knock came at the door. It was Morag Napier.

‘I forgot to give you these,’ she said. In her hand she held a series of brown cardboard files. These are the notes Lawrence and I made on the brain disease patients.’

‘Lawrence?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Sorry. Dr Gill, the man I work with.’

‘I hear he’s not around at the moment,’ said Bannerman, taking the files and resting them on his knee.

‘No, we’re very worried about him.’

‘No word at all?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Have the police been informed?’

Morag Napier looked uneasy at the question. ‘No,’ she replied, looking down at her feet. The feeling is that Lawrence’s disappearance was for domestic reasons.’

‘You mean he’s run off with someone?’ said Bannerman.

‘Something like that,’ agreed Morag, coldly.

‘Can I ask what makes you think that?’ asked Bannerman.

‘His wife,’ said Morag.

‘Oh,’ said Bannerman, ‘well, I hope he kept good notes,’ he said, tapping the files.

‘I think you’ll find everything you need to know there,’ said Morag.

‘Did you work with him on the MRC survey?’

‘Yes, I did.’

Then you know all about the three men who died?’

‘I went up to Achnagelloch with Lawrence when the report came in. I carried out the preliminary lab work.’

‘Are the bodies here in Edinburgh, or still up north?’

They are in the mortuary downstairs,’ said Morag. ‘Do you want to examine them?’

‘Yes,’ said Bannerman.

Today?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Bannerman found his way back to the office of George Stoddart, where Stoddart gave him some general information about the brain disease survey in the area that Lawrence Gill had been responsible for. He added the file to the others that Morag Napier had given him.

Stoddart opened up a map and spread it over his desk. He traced a pencil line round an area in the north-west of the country and said, ‘This is the area Lawrence was concerned with. The main communities are at Achnagelloch and Stobmor.’

Bannerman saw that the line Stoddart had drawn marked out an area to the west of the Invermaddoch power station. He asked, ‘What about east of here?’ pointing to it with his finger.

‘There are no people living to the east of the station within fifty miles,’ replied Stoddart. ‘It’s barren moorland, not even good enough for sheep.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman.

‘Do you have access to the public health records for the area?’ asked Bannerman.

‘If you mean, do I know if the region has a higher than normal incidence of child leukaemia and the like, then yes I do. The figures are higher than for non-nuclear areas, but not high enough to cause alarm or be in any way conclusive in a statistical sense.’

‘How about the figures for carcinoma?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Again, the figures for tumours are statistically higher than the norm but the population for the region is so low that it’s very difficult to reach firm conclusions. Here they are.’ Stoddart handed Bannerman a clear plastic file.

‘Was it ever different?’ murmured Bannerman.

‘Pardon?’

Trying to make sense out of statistics,’ answered Bannerman. ‘It’s often a case of the singer not the song, don’t you think?’

Stoddart’s blank look said that he didn’t know what Bannerman was talking about. Bannerman said, ‘I think I’ve managed to collect enough in the way of paper to keep me busy for a bit. I wonder if someone could tell me how to get to my accommodation? I’ll settle in there and start going through these files.’

‘Of course,’ said Stoddart. ‘I’ll have someone drive you.’

That’s not necessary,’ protested Bannerman, but Stoddart insisted, saying that they had a pool of drivers ‘sitting on their hands’. ‘You won’t mind if it’s a van will you?’

The driver sent up from the pool to drive Bannerman was a short, round-faced man with ruddy cheeks and a lop-sided grin. His peaked cap was pushed to the back of his head, emphasizing a probable easy-going approach to life. ‘Let me take that for you,’ he said, stretching out to take Bannerman’s bag from him and opening the passenger door of a black, 15 cwt van with darkened glass windows at the back. It was no great challenge to guess what the van was usually employed in transporting. The driver confirmed this by saying, ‘It’s nice to have a live passenger for a change.’

‘Do you know Edinburgh at all?’ asked the driver, as they drove towards the castle.

Bannerman said not, adding, ‘I was a medical student in Glasgow many years ago.’

‘I’d keep quiet about that if I was you,’ said the man, with a grin.

As they turned into the High Street, the driver, who by now had introduced himself as Willie MacDonald, said, ‘You’ll be staying in the Royal Mile. That’s the main street in the old town of Edinburgh; it connects the Castle at the top with Holyrood Palace at the foot.’

They turned off into a courtyard on the left and Willie said, ‘Here we are, Darnley Court.’

Bannerman got out and looked up at a recently restored tenement building, judging by the cleanness of the stonework. There was a paved courtyard at the front with large flower tubs posted around it. In January they were empty, save for wet earth.

‘You are on the top floor,’ said Willie. He led the way into the building and went up with Bannerman to open the door and then hand him the keys.

‘This is wonderful,’ said Bannerman, walking over to the window to look at the view and marvel at how high up they were.

‘It’s a beautiful city Doctor.’

‘Breathtaking.’

‘You’re looking out over Princes Street Gardens, to the new town down there,’ said Willie, ‘and beyond that, the Firth of Forth with its islands.’

‘What’s the big one?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Inchkeith,’ replied Willie. He pointed out several other prominent landmarks far below them and joked that he hoped Bannerman had a head for heights.

Bannerman felt that at least one good thing had happened to him today. He thanked MacDonald and tried to tip him, but the driver declined, assuring him that Professor Stoddart would have his guts ‘for one of his practical classes’ if he accepted.

After a quick look round the apartment, Bannerman unpacked and took advantage of the coffee that someone had thoughtfully supplied along with a few other basic necessities in the kitchen. He pulled a chair over to the window, and settled down in it with his mug to peruse the files he had been given. He had barely begun when the telephone rang and startled him. It was George Stoddart.

‘I forgot to say,’ said Stoddart, ‘that my wife and I would be delighted if you would join us for dinner this evening?’

‘That would be very nice,’ replied Bannerman, thinking it would be nothing of the kind. He took down details of the address and agreed to be there for eight. There were few things Bannerman liked less than ‘academic’ dinners but he accepted it as part and parcel of life, a necessary evil. It did however, put paid to his plans to explore the neighbouring hostelries that evening. He got back to reading through the files.