Crisis

TEN

They stopped at Aviemore to eat and chose a restaurant which appeared inviting by virtue of its orange lighting which suggested warmth. Inside, people in ski-wear were bemoaning the fact that there had been no snow. They were complaining about how much money it was costing them to find alternative things to do.

‘Last bloody time,’ said one man with a pronounced north of England accent. ‘I could have gone to bloody Zermatt for half of what it cost me to visit bonnie bloody Scotland.’

‘Maybe it’ll snow tomorrow, love,’ suggested his wife.

‘Piss wi’ bloody rain more like,’ said her husband.

The general consensus agreed with the husband.

‘I’ve not had a single chance to try out my new skis,’ complained another woman clad in what appeared to be a purple-coloured second skin. It clashed violently with her pink lipstick. Sunglasses, perched high up in her hair, seemed as incongruous as sandals in Siberia.

The northern man leaned towards her and said, ‘I tell you what, love, if that silly bloody tour guide comes round once more with his silly bloody talk about going for a nice walk in the hills, I’ll try out your new skis for you on him … sideways.’

The skiers laughed and Bannerman noted that the Dunkirk spirit, so beloved by politicians, was still alive and well.

‘Do you ski?’ Shona asked.

Bannerman said not. ‘You?’

Shona shook her head.

Despite the fact that it had rained for most of the way and the wind was forcing high-sided vehicles to double-up on the Forth Road Bridge, Bannerman was sorry that the journey was coming to an end. He and Shona had spoken practically non-stop and he had enjoyed every minute of it. There was something about Shona’s philosophy of life which he found intriguing and appealing. On the surface it appeared to be straightforward and uncomplicated — people should do what they want to do. It was only when you considered the difficulties of putting this into practice that the degree of achievement in actually doing it became apparent. As Angus MacLeod had pointed out, people liked to pretend that they were doing things their way, but it was seldom true.

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Shona.

‘Life,’ smiled Bannerman.

‘Life is what happens to you while you’re thinking about it,’ said Shona.

Bannerman turned his head to look at her. She was concentrating on the road ahead but there was no sign of stress or strain on her face, despite the appalling driving conditions. She seemed vibrantly alive and enjoying every minute of it. What was more, she looked beautiful.

‘What are you thinking now?’

1 was thinking I would have to phone the Medical Research Council in the morning,’ lied Bannerman.

As they cleared the brow of a hill the darkness ahead was suddenly speckled by a carpet of amber lights in the distance, denoting the outskirts of the city. Shona asked, ‘Where are you staying?’

‘In the Royal Mile but drive to where you want to go and I can drive from there, really. How long are you staying?’

‘I’ll have a wander round tomorrow and look up some old friends. I’ll probably head back the day after tomorrow,’ said Shona.

‘You’re not staying with friends then?’ asked Bannerman.

‘No.’

Bannerman felt awkward. He said, ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but the apartment they’ve given me has two bedrooms and if you would care to stay there while you’re here, you’d be most welcome.’

Shona smiled at Bannerman’s awkwardness, thinking it belonged to another generation. Remembering what Bannerman had said to her on North Uist about the neighbours, she said, ‘Wouldn’t the good people of the university be outraged?’

‘Probably,’ said Bannerman.

‘Then I accept,’ said Shona.

‘Welcome back Doctor,’ said George Stoddart, when had informed Stoddart about the real fate of ‘poor Lawrence’. He was relieved to find, as the conversation progressed, that Stoddart was under the impression that Gill’s death had been an accident. This was good. Stoddart could contribute nothing useful to the investigation. The less he knew the better.

‘Such a promising career,’ crooned Stoddart, ‘and all sacrificed on the altar of Venus.’

Bannerman looked at Stoddart sideways, wondering if he’d heard right. ‘Professor,’ he said, ‘Lawrence Gill’s running off had nothing to do with “Venus”. He did not run off to be with another woman as you all thought.’

Then why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Most peculiar,’ mumbled Stoddart.

‘I don’t see Doctor Napier,’ said Bannerman looking about him.

‘No,’ said Stoddart. ‘She took the news of Lawrence’s death very hard I’m afraid. I suggested she have a couple of days off.’

Damn, thought Bannerman. He had hoped to hear news of the animal experiments from Morag Napier. Now he would have to glean what he could for himself.

Bannerman was surprised to find the door to the animal lab unlocked. He opened it and knocked gently on the glass portion of the half open door; there was no reply, so he went inside. He followed the sound of music coming from one of the back rooms until he found signs of life. The animal technician on duty was not the same girl that he had seen on his last visit with Morag Napier. This was an older woman and she was carrying out a post-mortem examination on a rabbit. The animal was spread-eagled on a wooden board, its limbs secured to nails at the four corners by strong elastic bands. The first incision had been made, opening the animal from neck to crotch and the technician was presently taking samples of lung tissue. Music was coming from a small portable radio propped up on a corner of the table.

Bannerman coughed quietly to attract attention.

The woman dropped the scalpel she had been holding and caught her breath. The instrument bounced off the edge of the table and clattered to the floor. ‘God, you gave me a fright,’ she exclaimed. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Bannerman. We haven’t met.’

‘Bannerman?’ repeated the woman, the tone of her voice indicating that the name meant nothing to her. Her whole demeanour suggested fear and uncertainty.

Bannerman smiled in an effort to put her at ease. ‘From the MRC,’ he said. ‘I’m working on Dr Gill’s project. I’m sorry I startled you.’

The woman relaxed. ‘My fault,’ she said. The door should have been locked but I forgot again. The Prof will have my hide if he finds out; you won’t tell him will you?’

Bannerman shook his head. ‘No. Why the preoccupation with locked doors?’

The animal rights people,’ replied the woman. They’ve been active around Edinburgh recently.’

Bannerman watched as the woman used Lysol to swab the areas of the table and floor that the dropped scalpel had come into contact with. She discarded the used swabs in a sterilizer bin.

‘Something nasty?’ asked Bannerman, noticing the meticulous care she was taking.

TB,’ replied the woman. ‘It’s making a come-back in AIDS patients.’

‘Why the rabbit?’

There was some question about this particular patient’s strain being bovine or human in origin so we did a guinea pig and rabbit inoculation. If it’s bovine it’ll infect both, if it’s human it’ll only go for the guinea pig, but I suppose you knew that?’

‘If I ever did, I’ve long since forgotten,’ smiled Bannerman. ‘I haven’t come across a case of TB in years.’

‘Lots of things are making a come-back in AIDS patients,’ said the woman. ‘People with no immune system are just what a whole lot of bugs have been waiting for.’

‘Not a happy thought Miss…?’ said Bannerman.

‘Cullen, Lorna Cullen. Have a look at the lungs on this animal. They’re riddled.’

Bannerman took a closer look and saw the rash of buff coloured nodules over the rabbit’s lungs. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘How can I help you, Doctor?’

‘Lawrence Gill inoculated some mice before he disappeared. I just wondered how they were getting on. They were up here if I remember rightly,’ said Bannerman, moving to where the relevant mice boxes were on his last visit. He brought down the first one and looked inside. In contrast to the last time when he had seen nothing but healthy animals the two mice inside had lost condition and had little sense of balance or coordination. It was the same story in the other two boxes.

‘How are they?’ asked Lorna Cullen, continuing with her post-mortem. The words were muffled by her protective mask.

‘Sick.’

‘What do you want done with them?’

‘Nothing. I’m going to check with the Neuro-biology Unit first to make sure they are prepared to receive samples, then either myself or Morag Napier will kill the animals and remove their brains.’

‘Something nasty?’ asked Lorna Cullen, using Bannerman’s own expression.

‘Very,’ replied Bannerman.

Bannerman phoned Morag Napier from upstairs. She sounded very subdued when she answered, saying, ‘I didn’t realize you were back.’

‘Last night,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’m sorry about Gill.’

‘He was a nice man,’ said Morag.

‘I’ve just been down to the animal lab,’ said Bannerman. The mice that Gill inoculated are looking very sick. I think they should be killed soon and brain samples sent to Hector Munro’s lab.’

‘Did you find out anything about the deaths while you were up north?’ asked Morag.

‘Very little, but I think the mice results will tell us for sure. I’m going to kill them tomorrow.’

‘Would you like me to do it?’ asked Morag.

‘Are you coming back soon?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I’ll be in tomorrow,’ said Morag.

‘Why don’t we both do it. We’ll be able to get the samples to Munro’s lab, by lunch-time and I thought we could make a few microscope preps for ourselves? If we see evidence of degenerative disease we’ll virtually have the answer. Munro’s people can fill in the technical details about incubation times and infectivity titres later.’

‘Very good,’ said Morag. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Bannerman called Milne at the Medical Research Council to say that he was back in Edinburgh and to give a progress report.

After initial pleasantries Milne asked Bannerman how the investigation was going.

‘Before he died Lawrence Gill inoculated some experimental mice with brain material taken from the three men who died. I’m going to kill them tomorrow, if they’re not already dead, and give the brains to Hector Munro for full Scrapie testing. That should prove beyond all doubt whether or not the men died of Scrapie and we can get started on characterizing the agent fully. The circumstantial evidence that Scrapie was involved is already overwhelming.’

‘Is there anything we can do at our end?’

‘You can arrange for radioactivity monitoring along the foreshore of Inverladdie Farm. I tried to do it myself but I ran into some opposition.’

‘Opposition?’

‘I was seen as a threat to jobs in the area.’

‘No violence I hope?’

‘A little,’ said Bannerman. ‘My car was vandalized and somebody took pot shots at me on the beach.’

‘Good God, Bannerman. You’ve had an exciting time.’

‘I managed to monitor the boundary ground between Inverladdie and the nuclear station and it was clear, but there is a chance that contamination came in from the sea further along the shore. If so, that might have caused the sheep virus to mutate.’

There has been no further incidence of brain disease in the area I take it?’

‘None,’ agreed Bannerman.

‘So there’s a chance that this may have been a single isolated incident which may never happen again,’ said Milne.

‘It’s possible,’ agreed Bannerman, thinking that it was also possible that the new virus had already been spread to every corner of the country and was waiting to infect new flocks before slipping through the food chain to the Sunday lunch tables of the land. He had a mental picture of a crow on the wing, its beak dripping with blood from the sheep carcass it had just gorged itself on.

‘I’ll ask Allison to brief the Health and Safety Executive. They’ll carry out a full inspection,’ said Milne.

‘What about Gill’s death?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Not much to report I’m afraid. I understand from Allison that the only lead they have is a description of the man who called at the post office in Cairnish pretending he was Gill, and it wasn’t particularly helpful.’

‘Not a one-legged Chinaman with a scar?’ said Bannerman.

‘Afraid not. Quite tall, medium build, fairish, good-looking, and the post mistress thought he had some kind of an accent but she couldn’t place it.’

‘As you say, not much to go on,’ agreed Bannerman.

‘What are your plans after tomorrow?’ asked Milne.

‘Once I’ve got the brain samples off to Munro and done the microscopy I’ll return to London and get back to work at the hospital while we wait for the results.’

‘We’re very grateful to you Doctor,’ said Milne.

‘What is Mr Allison saying to all this?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I think the official line is to treat this whole affair as an isolated incident.’

‘It’s a bit early to conclude that,’ said Bannerman. ‘And if it should turn out that the men died of Scrapie, we will have to face up to the fact that the disease can pass to man.’

‘Mr Allison and his colleagues are taking the view that if a mutated Scrapie virus is to blame then it is no longer a Scrapie virus.’

That is outrageous!’ said Bannerman.

‘I think we must be positive Doctor, not alarmist. You said yourself that Scrapie has been around for a long time. If it had caused trouble before we would have been aware of it.’

‘Not necessarily,’ argued Bannerman. The reason you were carrying out the brain disease survey in the first place was because we have no real idea of its incidence in the population. A few deaths here and there don’t get noticed. It’s only when you know what you are looking for that things become clear.’

‘I don’t think we can realistically destroy our farming industry on the basis of a few unclassified deaths here and there which may or may not have been due to infected animals. Do you?’ asked Milne.

‘I don’t think we should cover it up either,’ said Bannerman.

Milne said, ‘Mr Allison has assured me that generous government funds will be made immediately available to investigate brain disease in the population.’

‘Right after you tell them what they want to hear,’ mumbled Bannerman under his breath.

‘Pardon? I didn’t quite catch that,’ said Milne.

‘It wasn’t important,’ said Bannerman with resignation.

‘Perhaps you would like to apply for an MRC project grant for your own department to carry out some of the work?’ said Milne.

Bannerman closed his eyes and kept rein on his tongue. ‘Perhaps,’ he said and put down the phone.

Bannerman was still in a bad mood when Shona arrived back at the apartment early evening.

‘Bad day?’ she asked, noticing Bannerman’s preoccupation.

‘You could say that,’ he smiled. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh, so-so,’ said Shona. ‘I seem to have spent most of my day listening to former friends speak of nothing but babies and mortgages and what Roger or Harry likes for his tea. They used to be interesting people!’ complained Shona. ‘Whatever happened to them?’,

The Age Fairy,’ said Bannerman.

The what?’

‘I have a theory. One night we go to bed and the Age Fairy comes and taps us on the shoulder. When we wake up we’re old and boring.’

Shona smiled and asked, ‘At what age does this Age Fairy come to call?’

‘No set age,’ replied Bannerman. ‘It can happen to some people when they’re in their twenties or in some cases not even by their sixties.’

‘Dare I ask …?’

‘I woke up one night and saw it there,’ said Bannerman. ‘It scared me.’

‘But it didn’t touch you. I can tell,’ said Shona.

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Bannerman.

‘What made your day so bad?’ asked Shona.

‘Dealing with the establishment.’

‘What do you mean, “the establishment”?’ asked Shona.

‘People with power. The people who run things in this country. Sometimes their behaviour is little short of downright dishonest.’

‘Never,’ said Shona sarcastically.

Bannerman looked at her and said, ‘Oh I know it’s popular to suggest that everyone in power is corrupt and self-seeking but I never really believed it. A few maybe, but I thought that basically, truth, honesty and integrity prevailed and operated in our best interests.’

‘And now you don’t?’

‘It’s what they perceive to be in our best interests that worries me,’ said Bannerman.

‘Such disillusionment calls for large quantities of medicinal alcohol,’ said Shona. ‘It’s my last night. Let me buy you a drink?’

‘No, no,’ protested Bannerman. ‘I’m indebted to you for driving me down here. I don’t think I could have made it otherwise. I insist on taking you out to dinner, unless you’ve made other arrangements?’

Shona smiled and said, ‘No, no other arrangements.’

Shona and Bannerman were on the verge of leaving the apartment; Bannerman was checking his pocket for the keys, when the doorbell rang. ‘Who on earth …’he muttered, pulling open the door. Lawrence Gill’s wife was standing there.

The department gave me your address; I hope you don’t mind, I understand you were the one who found Lawrence’s body?’

‘Er, yes, that’s so Mrs Gill and I’m very sorry, you have my deepest sympathy. I was actually going to come and see you before I left …’

Vera Gill was obviously waiting to be asked inside and Bannerman was acutely aware that Shona was standing just to the left of the door in the hallway. He felt embarrassed. ‘I was just on the point of going out,’ he said, uncomfortably aware of how callous he must appear.

‘I just wanted to know something about the place where he died,’ said Vera Gill. ‘I know it must sound silly but I’d like you to describe it to me, so I could picture it in my mind.’

‘Hello Vera,’ said Shona quietly coming out from behind Bannerman.

‘You!’ exclaimed Vera Gill, her eyes filling with suspicion. ‘What the … Oh I see, you’ve lost Lawrence, you’re after him now!’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Shona, with what Bannerman thought was admirable calmness. ‘It’s true I was once in love with your husband and I did have an affair with him, but that was many years ago. Lawrence did not run away to be with me. He didn’t leave you Vera; he loved you; that’s why he broke it off with me.’

Vera Gill stared wild-eyed at Shona and said, ‘Lying bitch! He was overheard on the phone making arrangements to come to you just before he disappeared!’

Bannerman tensed himself, preparing to intervene between the two women should it become necessary.

‘He did phone,’ said Shona, ‘and he did come to the island, but it was because he wanted a place to hide! Lawrence didn’t leave you Vera. He ran away because he was frightened. He was in great danger.’

‘Frightened? Danger?’ scoffed Vera Gill. ‘What rubbish!’

‘It’s true,’ said Bannerman. ‘Your husband thought someone was trying to kill him.’

Vera Gill’s initial anger subsided and was replaced by confusion. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Lawrence was a doctor, why would anyone want to kill him?’

‘You had better come in Mrs Gill,’ said Bannerman, putting an arm round Vera Gill’s shoulders and guiding her gently inside. Shona went to the kitchen to make tea.

‘When your husband disappeared, Mrs Gill, he was looking into the deaths of three farm workers. We think that he found out something about their deaths that someone else was prepared to kill to keep secret. Somehow Lawrence knew that his life was in danger, so he contacted Shona and asked for her help in providing him with a place to hide out for a while.’

Vera Gill took a moment or two to digest what she’d heard and to consider the implications. Making an obvious effort to control her emotions, she said, ‘Are you saying that my husband’s death was not an accident?’

‘Lawrence fell to his death from the cliffs on Barasay Mrs GUI. That’s what we know for sure, but we have reason to think that he may have been pushed. We have no proof of this but the authorities are aware of our suspicions and will investigate.’

Shona came back into the room carrying tea on a tray. Vera Gill accepted a cup with a look that signalled peace between the two women. She sipped it slowly and deliberately, her eyes betraying that her mind was still reeling. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,’ she said, half apologetically. ‘Lawrence didn’t leave me after all.’

‘No he didn’t,’ said Shona.

‘Who told you about your husband’s call to Shona?’ asked Bannerman. ‘Morag Napier.’ Bannerman nodded.

By the time she had finished her tea Vera Gill had regained her composure and was ready to leave. She thanked Bannerman and Shona and even shook hands with them both, although she diverted her eyes when taking Shona’s hand.

Shona let out a long sigh when Bannerman returned from seeing Vera Gill to the door. ‘I didn’t reckon on that,’ she said.

‘Me neither,’ agreed Bannerman. ‘I thought you said that it was you who broke up the affair with Gill?’

‘It was,’ said Shona.

‘You’re a nice person.’

‘Can we eat?’

The confrontation with Vera Gill put a bit of a damper on the evening for Bannerman and Shona. Up until Vera’s arrival it had seemed that the pair of them might be able to forget the deaths for a while to relax and enjoy each other’s company, but now the subject of Gill’s death and those of the men of Inverladdie was again uppermost in their minds.

‘Have you still no idea at all why Lawrence was murdered?’ asked Shona.

‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ said Bannerman. ‘But I end up going round in the same circles. Gill was desperate to send off the package which we presume contained the missing, infected brains. From what he told you, he thought he would be safe as soon as that happened. That must mean that whoever received the package would know all there was to know about the deaths. It was addressed to the MRC, so presumably he meant the MRC to analyse them. But he’d already sent samples of the brains to the MRC! And they had already been analysed! We knew about the Scrapie involvement!’

‘And he knew that you knew,’ added Shona.

‘Exactly,’ said Bannerman.

‘So there must have been something else in the brains that wouldn’t have appeared on the slides,’ suggested Shona. ‘Something else that he wanted you to know about.’

‘Like what?’ said Bannerman slowly. He was addressing the question to himself.

‘If radiation had caused the virus to change, would that show up in the brain samples?’ asked Shona.

‘No,’ replied Bannerman, shaking his head. ‘No it wouldn’t.’ Did that mean that any connection between the nuclear industry and Gill’s death could be discounted? he wondered.

‘So the people at the power station would have nothing to gain by stopping any further analysis on the brains?’ said Shona as if she had read Bannerman’s mind.

‘Agreed,’ said Bannerman.

‘I think you’re up against something much bigger than a few bully-boy workers afraid for their jobs,’ said Shona.

Bannerman who suddenly felt afraid said, ‘I think you’re right.’

Shona put her hand on top of Bannerman’s and said, ‘It’ll be out of your hands after tomorrow. You can go back to your hospital and this will all be just a bad dream.’

Bannerman looked at her and gave a little nod. ‘It’s not all been such a bad dream,’ he said. ‘Some of it has been very nice.’ He took Shona’s hand and held it to his lips.

‘Come on,’ said Shona softly, ‘drink up, andlet’s go home.’

In the morning Bannerman drove Shona to the station where she would catch the train to Inverness, on the first leg of her journey home. He found himself very reluctant to say goodbye and insisted on seeing her on to the platform where they stopped by an open carriage door.

‘I can’t thank you enough for driving me down,’ said Bannerman.

‘It was nothing,’ said Shona. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve been in Edinburgh and it was nice to see how my friends were getting on.’

‘I’ve enjoyed being with you,’ said Bannerman, his eyes saying more than the awkward words.

‘I’ve enjoyed it too,’ said Shona. ‘I wish you luck.’

‘You too,’ said Bannerman. ‘Safe journey.’ Shona climbed on board as the guard blew his whistle and doors began to slam along the line. ‘Keep in touch. Let me know what happens.’

I will,’ said Bannerman. He waved as the train slid away from the platform and waited until it was out of sight. Feeling strangely vulnerable, he turned and walked to his car. The last time he had felt like this was, he recalled, when he had been fourteen years old and a holiday romance in the Lake District had come to an end.

As he walked up the hill out of the station he felt full of impotent anger; it was directed at himself. Why hadn’t he said what he felt to Shona instead of coming out with guarded little phrases that were designed not to leave him exposed. Fear of rejection? Reluctance to make a fool of himself? He had wanted to tell Shona that for whatever reason — and he didn’t understand it himself- he felt hopelessly attracted to her and wanted to see her again. But he couldn’t do that could he? That would be totally out of keeping with his job, his circumstances and his age.

Bannerman got into the car and drove away without looking behind him. A red saloon announced its presence with a long blast on its horn. ‘Shit!’ said Bannerman, thumping down on both feet on brake and clutch and getting an agonizing reminder from his left knee that it would rather he didn’t do that too often. He raised his hand in apology to the driver of the red car and shrugged off the tirade of abuse he saw being mouthed.

As he neared the medical school, the traffic came to a halt in a long queue. The road up ahead for some reason had been reduced to a single carriageway and police were controlling the traffic flow. After a wait of three or four minutes the line started to move and Bannerman could see that several fire engines and police cars were parked outside the medical school quadrangle. Hoses snaked across the ground and firemen in yellow waterproof trousers were reeling them in. He signalled his intention to turn into the car-park but a policeman waved him past. He had to park nearly a quarter of a mile away and walk back.

Bannerman showed his ID to the policeman at the entrance who requested it. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Nasty fire, sir,’ replied the officer. ‘Bloody lunatics.’ The policeman moved away to stop a car that looked as if it might be turning into the quadrangle.

Bannerman made his way through the clutter and found Stoddart talking to two men in plain clothes. They were taking notes and Bannerman could not make up his mind whether they were police or press. He saw Morag Napier nearby and went over to ask her about the drama.

The Animal Rights People had a go at us last night,’ said Morag.

‘Good God, is there much damage?’

The animal lab was completely gutted and the whole bottom floor is awash with water.’

The animal lab?’ repeated Bannerman. ‘You mean the animals were …’

‘Wiped out,’ said Morag.

‘Gill’s mice?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Incinerated.’

Bannerman was devastated. ‘I thought these damned people cared about animals!’ he exclaimed.

‘Care?’ exclaimed Stoddart, who had come across to join them. They’re just a bunch of terrorists. They don’t care about anything!’

‘Apparently they gained access to the building through the animal house because the door had been left unlocked,’ said Morag. They couldn’t get any further however, because the connecting door to the main building had been locked, so they tried to burn the place down by setting fire to the animal lab.’

The last of the firemen left the building and the quadrangle began to clear, leaving Bannerman feeling utterly dejected. His last chance of proving the relationship between Scrapie and the men’s deaths in Achnagelloch had gone. He walked slowly round to the entrance to the animal lab and saw the blackened wall outside. There was broken glass underfoot and several slogans proclaiming the innocence of animals, and the evils of science had been daubed along the wall adjoining.

Although everything inside was dripping wet and there was at least two inches of water on the floor, the air smelled strongly of burning flesh. It grew stronger as Bannerman picked his way among the blackened cages with unrecognizable messes inside. The inner portion of the lab had been roped off because the ceiling above it had collapsed and there was a danger of further falls. Bannerman could see up into the room above where books and papers had fallen through the hole into puddles on the floor. Shafts of sunlight came in through the windows highlighting dust particles from the debris. There was an eerie silence about the place; it was how he imagined a battlefield might be when the fighting had stopped and the living had gone home. The land had been left to the dead.