Crisis

TWELVE

Stobmor

February 4th.

‘You’ll be late again if you don’t get a move on!’ cried Kirstie Bell.

‘So you’ve said!’ retorted her husband. ‘At least a hundred bloody times, woman.’

‘Don’t you swear at me Andrew Bell, I’m not one of these fish factory tarts. Just you mind your tongue around here.’ Kirstie Bell moved away from the table but continued her diatribe while washing dishes. ‘When I think of the men I could have married, I should have listened to my poor father. He always said you’d amount to nothing. He wanted me to marry Jock Croan, he did, and you know what? He was right. I saw Jock the other day and do you know what he was driving?’

Andrew Bell continued to eat his breakfast without heeding the question.

‘A Volvo, that’s what,’ announced Kirstie in triumph. ‘A brand new Volvo.’

‘And what have we got? Answer me that,’ demanded Kirstie.

Bell continued to eat, deliberately making a slurping sound with his spoon.

‘A 1979 Vauxhall Viva, that’s what, with more rust than paint!’

‘You know what Kirstie?’ said Andrew looking up from his plate. ‘What?’

‘I bet Jock Groan’s wife has got an en suite bathroom as well as double glazing … and cavity wall insulation. Oh and patio doors, mustn’t forget patio doors must we? What would life be without patio doors? The neighbours can’t see what you’ve got if you don’t have patio doors.’

‘Don’t you sneer at me Andrew Bell,’ raged Kirstie. ‘You’re just jealous. You just can’t bear to see other people getting on in life, that’s your trouble! I don’t know why I bother. I work my fingers to the bone to make the place look nice and what thanks do I get? None, that’s what.’ Andrew slurped his milk again. ‘You are disgusting!’ snarled Kirstie. Andrew slurped all the louder. Kirstie was suffused with anger. She took it out on the pot she was cleaning.

Andrew looked at her out of the corner of his eye and suddenly felt a mist of regret wash over him. Who was the snarling virago with the angry red face? She was so old. Whatever happened to the girl with the smiling face? The girl whose sexuality had captivated him thirty years ago, the girl whose pouting breasts and proud buttocks had fired his fantasies and kept him awake at night until she had finally brought them to fruition in his mother’s back bedroom, one Saturday night, after a dance in the town hall. May had been born nine months to the day, six months after the wedding. Could this shapeless mass in the faded towelling robe be the same Kirstie? he wondered. Even her voice was different. This creature made a harsh, low pitched noise from a throat ravaged by cigarette smoke. She continually whined and sounded resentful. The real Kirstie had a sweet, soft voice, one that could tease and excite, one that could promise so much by saying so little. And her eyes! That was another thing. Kirstie had lovely clear eyes. This woman had nasty little pebbles set in crows’ feet and underhung with folds of scrawny skin. This woman wasn’t Kirstie! This woman was some kind of usurper who had taken Kirstie’s place!

She was a witch. That’s what she must be! An evil witch who had taken Kirstie’s place and who was going to drive him mad unless he did something about it. She was the cause of all the headaches he’d been having! It was becoming clear now! They weren’t headaches at all! She had been putting spells on him, making his head hurt, driving him to distraction with her sorcery!

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked Kirstie. An air of uncertainty had crept into her voice. Ts it your head again? Are you ill or something?’ she demanded, trying to regain the upper hand.

‘Ill? Me? No I’m not ill…’ said Andrew quietly, ‘I’ve just realized …’ He got up slowly from the table.

‘Realized what?’ snapped Kirstie. ‘You’re not making any sense, and if you don’t get a move on …’

‘You’re not Kirstie.’

‘What are you blabbering about. If I wasn’t Kirstie I wouldn’t be married to you and living in this pigsty would I? Stop looking at me like that. Did you hear what I said? I said stop it!’

Bell, who still had his porridge spoon in his hand suddenly jabbed it hard into Kirstie’s face and she fell to the floor, her hand pressed to her cheek over a cut that had opened up under her left eye. Her eyes were wide with shock. ‘You … hit me,’ she stammered lamely. ‘Have you gone raving mad?’

‘You’re not Kirstie,’ breathed Andrew as he looked down at the figure on the floor with expressionless eyes. He picked up the milk bottle from the table and raised it above his head.

Kirstie covered her eyes and started to scream but it was cut short by the base of the bottle smashing down into her mouth. The force of the blow was enough to break most of her front teeth and impale her lips on the jagged stumps that were left. Andrew brought the bottle down hard again and it broke on Kirstie’s skull.

Still holding the broken neck of the bottle. Bell swept the jagged edge of the glass back and forward across his wife’s face until she was completely unrecognizable. ‘You are not Kirstie,’ he repeated in an urgent whisper. ‘You are not … Kirstie.’

Finally exhausted by his efforts. Bell stood up and looked down at the featureless body on the floor that had been his wife. ‘A witch!’ he whispered. ‘A witch! … must burn the witch!’

With a sense of purpose that never wavered, Bell set about building a funeral pyre for his wife. He removed the reservoir from a paraffin heater in the hall and poured the contents over her body. He soaked cushions taken from the settee in similar fashion and propped them up around her. A tablecloth and towels were added and then Bell broke up two dining chairs to provide wood for the bonfire. When he was satisfied with the size of the pyramid, he collected his jacket from the peg in the hall and put it on. ‘Late for work,’ he murmured. His last act before throwing a lighted match on to the bonfire was to turn on the gas in the kitchen.

The suddenness of the conflagration took Bell by surprise. One moment the little yellow flame was arcing through the air like a comet through space, the next the whole room seemed to erupt in yellow flame accompanied by thick, black, sooty smoke. He put up his arm to protect his face and backed out of the door, closing it behind him. ‘Burn witch, burn!’ he muttered as he set off down the stairs. He was going to be late. MacKinnon was going to go on at him again. Why didn’t they understand about the headaches? Why didn’t they?

‘So you finally consented to turn up!’ exclaimed a thick set man with sparse red hair as he saw Bell come through the front door of Stobmor Engineering. ‘This is a garage not a holiday camp! This is the third time this week you’ve been late and George Duthie has just phoned to say that the new starter motor you put in his Escort yesterday won’t start it this morning. He’s screaming blue murder. What the hell’s the matter with you?’

Bell brushed past the angry man as if he wasn’t there. This only served to increase MacKinnon’s anger. The harangue continued. ‘I said you’d be out to the farm to fix it properly today. I also told Hamish Lochan that the welding job on his van would be done by noon so you’d better get a move on!’

Still without acknowledging the other man’s presence, Bell continued about his business as if on automatic pilot. He walked to the back of the garage and released the chains that held a trolley, containing two gas cylinders, upright against the wall. MacKinnon watched him manoeuvre the trolley round and start wheeling it across the garage. He knew that something was wrong, but didn’t know what. His anger began to be replaced by curiosity. ‘Look if you have some kind of problem, tell me. Maybe we can sort something out …’

Bell ignored him and set up the welding set beside an old Bedford van. He unwound the hoses from the heads of the cylinders and opened the valve on the acetylene cylinder; he ignited the torch flame and it started to burn with a slow licking yellow flame. Bell stared at it and smiled as if remembering something. MacKinnon came to stand by his side. He said, ‘I don’t like having to bawl you out every morning. Why can’t we talk this thing out?’

Bell ignored him and reached up to turn on the oxygen supply. The yellow flame turned to intense blue as oxygen entered the flow. It made MacKinnon angry because neither man was wearing protective goggles. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he stormed, covering his eyes.

Bell turned round as if in a trance. He smiled, distantly, and without further hesitation pushed the torch flame right into MacKinnon’s face. MacKinnon’s features were transformed into a blackened crater within seconds and he fell to the floor, his head wreathed in smoke which drifted slowly upwards. Bell stepped over the body and started to work on the van as if nothing had happened. He hoisted it up on the hydraulic lift and positioned himself underneath. He was welding the chassis when the postman came into the garage and saw MacKinnon’s body. The man let out a cry of horror.

Bell looked out from under the van and smiled at him. ‘Hello Neil,’ he said with a smile. ‘How are things?’

The postman backed away; he thought the smile on Bell’s face the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. There was something disturbingly unnatural about it. Bell stood there as if waiting for an answer, the welding torch still burning in his hand, its flame now cutting through the petrol tank of the van. The postman turned on his heel and ran screaming to the door. An ear-splitting blast behind him helped him on his way and sent him sprawling out into the street.

Neil Campbell struggled to his knees and looked back in through the maw of the doorway. He saw the flaming figure of Andrew Bell, hands raised in the air, pirouetting slowly to the floor in his death throes. The postman’s eyes didn’t blink. It took another explosion to break the spell. He didn’t know it at the time but it was a gas explosion from a neighbouring street.

Bannerman was thinking about going to bed when the phone rang. These days when the phone rang at night it was usually Shona but he had spoken to her already this evening, less than an hour ago. ‘Bannerman.’

‘Doctor Bannerman? This is Angus MacLeod in Achnagelloch.’

Bannerman was taken aback, but hid it well. He inquired after the GP’s health and asked, ‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’

‘It’s more what I can do for you,’ replied MacLeod. ‘There was an incident in Stobmor today which I thought you would be interested in.’ ‘Really? What sort of an incident?’ ‘A man went berserk.’

‘Berserk,’ repeated Bannerman. He could feel himself going cold.

‘A garage worker named Andrew Bell went totally out of control. It appears that he murdered his wife and his employer before immolating himself. In view of the deaths in Achnagelloch a few weeks ago, I thought you might be interested.’

Bannerman saw the awful implications of the news immediately. If this death was due to the same cause as the others it meant that the source of disease had not been contained after all! A mixture of fear and excitement welled up in his throat. ‘What happened to the man’s body?’ he asked in a voice that was almost a croak.

‘There was very little of it left,’ replied MacLeod. ‘He was doused in burning petrol and fell on to a lit welding torch.’

‘What are the chances of getting pathology samples?’ asked Bannerman. ‘Zero, I’m afraid,’ answered MacLeod. ‘We are not talking about burns Doctor. We are talking cremation.’

‘Damnation,’ said Bannerman as he realized he had been thwarted again. It suddenly registered what MacLeod had said about the man’s occupation. ‘You said he worked in a garage?’ he asked.

‘As a mechanic,’ replied MacLeod.

That doesn’t fit,’ said Bannerman. ‘How long has he been doing that?’

‘About fifteen years and before that he worked in a fish factory over on the east coast.’

‘But surely there must be some link with the others?’

‘There’s a familial connection,’ said MacLeod.

‘Go on,’ said Bannerman.

‘His daughter, May Bell. She is, or was, married to Gordon Buchan.’

‘Bell was May Buchan’s father?’ exclaimed Bannerman.

‘Yes. Does that help?’

‘I don’t know,’ confessed Bannerman. ‘I’ll let you know if I think of anything, and Doctor?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d appreciate your call. If there should happen to be any other incidents …’

‘I’ll let you know,’ promised MacLeod.

‘How the hell? …’ complained Bannerman as he thought it through. How could Gordon Buchan’s father-in-law contract the disease? He had nothing to do with sheep! He had worked in a garage for fifteen years. But surely it was too much of a coincidence to be due to anything else. The overwhelming priority for the moment was that the killer disease had not been wiped out. It was alive in Stobmor. It was too late to call the MRC; he would call Milne first thing in the morning.

Bannerman got to the hospital a little after eight-thirty to find that Milne had already called him. Bannerman phoned him back and lit a cigarette while he waited for an answer.

‘Bad news I’m afraid,’ said Milne.

‘You’re going to tell me that there has been another case,’ said Bannerman.

‘How did you know?’

‘MacLeod, the local GP, phoned me last night.’

‘I just don’t understand it,’ said Milne. The man is a garage mechanic.’

‘Me neither,’ agreed Bannerman.

‘I’m calling a special meeting for ten-thirty. Can you make it?’

Bannerman said that he could.

Cecil Allison from the Prime Minister’s office was the last to arrive at the meeting. Bannerman was looking out of the window at the rain while the only other two, Hugh Milne and the secretary of the MRC, Sir John Flowers, discussed some internal matter. Bannerman saw the dark Rover draw up at the door and Allison get out; he returned to the table.

‘So sorry to have kept you,’ said Allison, ‘I’ve been a bit snowed under this morning.’ He beamed at the others and sat down.

Flowers said, ‘Dr Bannerman thinks that we should mount a full scale investigation into the deaths at Stobmor and Achnagelloch; the time for low-profile sniffing around is past. I think I agree.’

Allison, urbane as ever, spread his palms in front of him in a gesture which appealed for calm. ‘As I understand it,’ he said smoothly, ‘there has been another death.’

‘Another three if we count the man’s wife and employer,’ said Milne, ‘and pretty horrific deaths they were, too.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Allison, his eyes betraying the slightest suggestion of irritation, ‘but for the purposes of our interest, i.e. the brain disease problem, there has been only one. Am I right?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Flowers.

‘And this man had nothing to do with sheep or cattle at all?’

‘No,’ said Flowers.

‘So the connection …’ Allison made the word ‘connection’ sound inappropriate, ‘has been made entirely through his irrational behaviour?’

‘His symptoms were identical by all accounts,’ said Bannerman, ‘and he was related to one of the men who died.’

‘His symptoms, as I have been led to believe, amount to deranged behaviour. Is that right?’

‘Well, yes,’ agreed Milne.

‘Nothing more specific than that?’

‘No,’ agreed Flowers. ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

‘The point I am making, gentlemen,’ said Allison leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table and create the impression of being about to impart a confidence, ‘is that this sort of thing happens all the time and all over the country. A man near the end of his tether grabs a rifle and shoots his way on to the front pages of the dailys. We’ve read about it all before! Her Majesty’s Government is continually under pressure to review firearm regulations because of it!’

Bannerman had expected Allison to play things down; doing this was almost a government reflex, but he had to admit that Allison had a point. The man was good at his job; he had made a convincing argument and was now waiting to see the strength of the opposition. Bannerman steeled himself to keep his temper and said, ‘My feeling is that this incident, happening as it did in Stobmor, is just too much of a coincidence. I firmly believe that this latest death is connected with the others and that there might be more if we do nothing. We have to pursue the source of this outbreak and identify it.’

Flowers and Milne sat on the sidelines, waiting for Allison’s response. When he spoke there was a much colder, harder edge to his voice. He said to Flowers, ‘Until yesterday you were prepared to give Her Majesty’s Government a statement saying that there was no evidence of a direct link between brain disease in animals and similar conditions in man. Now, because of one man going off his head and running amok … are you saying that you won’t?’ Flowers said calmly, ‘I think we must wait a little longer before giving you the reassurance you seek.’ ‘How much longer?’ asked Allison. He enunciated each word as if giving an elocution lesson.

‘Until we are satisfied Mr Allison,’ replied Flowers, earning Bannerman’s admiration for his steadiness under strong pressure from the government’s man.

Allison too seemed to sense that Flowers could not be bullied into committing the Council to something that he wasn’t happy about. His manner relaxed a little and he said, ‘Will you at least concede that this latest death might be due to the factors I’ve outlined. The man could have simply gone berserk after some domestic upheaval?’

Flowers, Milne and Bannerman all nodded.

‘In that case,’ said Allison, ‘I have a proposal.’

Bannerman moved defensively in his chair but didn’t speak.

‘If we launch a major investigation right now,’ said Allison, ‘the press will have a field day — Killer Brain Disease Stalks Scottish Town — that sort of thing. The truth will be totally lost under banner headlines and the damage to the farming community will be inestimable.’

‘What do you propose?’ asked Milne.

I propose that we do nothing,’ said Allison.

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing, for an agreed period and if during that period there have been no further cases of people running amok and murdering their wives then we regard the Scrapie affair in Achnagelloch as an isolated incident which is now closed. You issue an interim report on brain disease in this country stating that, although there has been a rise, the statistics do not signify a connection with farm animals. If, on the other hand, there is another case, then you are free to go ahead and investigate in any way you choose.’

‘What do you say gentlemen?’ asked Flowers of Milne and Bannerman.

‘How long?’ said Bannerman.

Three weeks,’ said Allison.

‘Four,’ said Bannerman.

‘Agreed,’ said Allison, looking to Flowers and Milne. They both indicated their agreement.

Allison looked at his watch and said that he would have to rush. He left the room and Bannerman instantly felt more relaxed. He smiled and shook his head slightly. Men like Allison could steal your eye teeth and you wouldn’t notice until dinner time.

‘You don’t really think that Bell’s death could be coincidence do you?’ asked Flowers.

‘No I don’t,’ said Bannerman. ‘Mind you, I hope with all my heart that it was.’

The days passed and Bannerman felt himself being drawn back into the routine lifestyle that he had known before going to Scotland. His friendship with Stella had changed however. They did not see each other as often as before and he no longer felt that he could do things like ring her up in the middle of the night to discuss some problem. He supposed that it was inevitable that the relationship should change and he felt sad in a way, but on the other hand his feelings for Shona were undiminished. The highlight of each and every day was the phone call to Shona in the evening. For the first time in his life he wanted to tell someone everything. Matters that previously would have seemed too trivial to rate a mention had to be imparted to Shona in detail. He knew this made him vulnerable but it was a new and not unpleasant experience. He had been keeping people at arm’s length all his life.

‘Still no word from the north?’ asked Shona.

‘No,’ said Bannerman. That’s ten days now.’

‘Do you still think there will be other cases?’

‘Yes. I’m convinced Bell contracted the same disease as Buchan and the other two men. That means the outbreak did not end with the burial of the infected sheep on Inverladdie. If we can show there was some connection, then there is still a chance that the outbreak may be contained locally. If not, then there must be another source of the disease that we haven’t even thought of. There’s just so much about this whole affair that we don’t understand.’

Ts there nothing you can do in the meantime?’ asked Shona.

Bannerman said not. ‘It’s just a matter of waiting and hoping I’m wrong.’

‘I’ll hope with you,’ said Shona.

‘I think we all better do that,’ said Bannerman,

‘If there is another case, will you be involved in the investigation or will it be taken out of your hands?’ asked Shona.

Bannerman hadn’t considered the possibility of not being involved. He said, ‘I’m going to see it through whatever they say.’

‘I understand,’ said Shona.

‘Whatever happens, I’ll come up for a long weekend at the end of the month, if that’s all right with you? We’ve lots to talk about.’

‘Of course,’ said Shona gently. ‘I’ll count the days.’

‘I’m sorry it can’t be sooner,’ said Bannerman.

‘Come when you can,’ said Shona.

After almost three weeks with no word from the MRC, Bannerman began to think that his worst fears might not after all be realized. One more week and the government would get the statement it wanted from the Council and that would be the end of the matter. The government would be happy, the farmers would be happy. Everyone would be happy … except Ian Bannerman. For him the fact would remain that seven people had died and a terrifying new disease had been created, even if it had disappeared for the moment. The outbreak would be conveniently forgotten by those in charge, those he saw as ostriches, happy ostriches with their heads safely back in the sand.

Newsnight had just finished on television and Bannerman was about to go to bed when the telephone rang. It was Angus MacLeod in Achnagelloch. Bannerman knew immediately why he must be calling and lost all trace of drowsiness.

‘There’s been another case?’ he asked without preamble.

‘Yes,’ replied MacLeod.

Bannerman closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Tell me.’

‘I was called out earlier this evening to see a young labourer. His wife called me because she thought he was behaving oddly. I recognized in him the same symptoms displayed by Gordon Buchan.’

‘But he’s alive?’

‘Yes,’ agreed MacLeod. ‘But for how much longer I don’t know. I’ve sedated him and had him moved to the cottage hospital at Stobmor. What do you think about a transfer?’

‘Where were you thinking of?’ asked Bannerman.

‘In view of what we both suspect, I thought we might try getting him admitted to the Department of Surgical Neurology at the Western General in Edinburgh but in another way I’m loath to do it.’

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I think if we’re honest we have to recognize that there’s no chance of saving his life. We’d be moving him to get as much neurological information about the course of the disease as we can. DSN at the Western General has all the right equipment. But whether or not this would be fair on his wife is another matter.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman, appreciating the moral dilemma. ‘My own view is that the only conclusive data we’ll get about the disease will come from post-mortem material. Reams of EEC print-out isn’t going to tell us much.’

‘In that case I think I should keep him here.’

‘Agreed,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’m going to come up there. I’d like to see the man for myself.’

‘Very good.’

‘You said he was a labourer. A farm labourer?’

‘No, he works at the stone quarry.’

‘Any connection with the patients who have already died?’

‘No family connection this time I’m afraid, but I did have one thought …’

‘Yes?’

‘The quarry lies to the west of Inverladdie Farm. It’s not inconceivable that infected sheep could have wandered over there.’

‘That’s a thought,’ agreed Bannerman, ‘but he would still have had to come into close contact with the infected animals to pick up the virus through cuts or grazes.’

‘Quarry workers invariably have plenty of these,’ said Munro.

‘I suppose so,’ said Bannerman, still not convinced. ‘I’d better have a note of some patient details.’ He straightened up the pad by the telephone and flicked off the cap of his pen with his thumb.

MacLeod dictated, ‘Male, twenty-eight years old, no medical history to speak of. Apart from headaches over the past week there was no real sign of illness until yesterday when his wife noticed lapses in concentration. She said he appeared at times to go into a trance. Today his behaviour became irrational and alarmed her so much that she called me in.’

‘In what way irrational?’

‘She found him eating the food in the dog’s bowl, then he tried to go to work without any boots on. When she tried to talk to him, she says he looked at her as if he didn’t know her, sometimes as if he hated her. They’ve always been such a loving couple; she’s taking it very badly.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Bannerman.

‘In view of what happened with Andrew Bell, I didn’t think I could risk leaving Turnbull at home, even with sedation. That’s why I had him moved to the cottage hospital.’

‘Did you say “Turnbull”?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Colin Turnbull,’ said MacLeod.

‘Hell and damnation,’ said Bannerman.

‘You know him?’

‘He was a regular in the bar of the hotel when I was up there, I liked him.’

‘A bright chap,’ said MacLeod. ‘He was doing a degree part-time.’

‘I remember,’ said Bannerman.

‘His wife, Julie, is the primary school teacher in Stobmor.’

Bannerman recalled the paintings in the windows of the school. He asked, ‘Who knows about Turnbull’s condition?’

‘You can’t keep secrets in a place this size,’ replied MacLeod. ‘Stories of another meningitis case will be all over town by now.’

‘Damn,’ said Bannerman.

‘You can’t keep this sort of thing under wraps for ever,’ said MacLeod.

‘That isn’t what was worrying me,’ said Bannerman.

‘Then what?’

‘I think it would be an excellent idea if some kind of guard were placed on Colin Turnbull.’

‘He’s heavily sedated. I don’t think he’s a danger to anyone,’ said MacLeod.

‘It’s the danger to him I was thinking about,’ said Bannerman.

‘I don’t understand,’ said MacLeod.

‘Not everyone wants us to get to the bottom of this outbreak Doctor.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to spend the night at the hospital,’ said MacLeod, ‘and Julie Turnbull will be there as well, so he won’t be alone.’

‘I didn’t realize you intended staying with him Doctor,’ said Bannerman.

‘I brought Colin Turnbull into the world twenty-eight years ago,’ said MacLeod. ‘I was a guest at his wedding to Julie and I was around when their child was stillborn three years ago. It seems that fate has decreed that Colin Turnbull will die soon, so I will be there to make him as comfortable as possible and to do what I can for Julie.’

‘Of course,’ said Bannerman, feeling alienated. Things weren’t done that way at St Luke’s. Somewhere along the line the personal touch had been superseded by bleeping monitors and chart recorders. If anyone else had said what MacLeod just had he would have found it corny, but because he knew and liked MacLeod he felt slightly ashamed.

‘When can we expect you?’ asked MacLeod.

‘I intend getting the first British Airways shuttle to Aberdeen in the morning. I’ll pick up a hire car at the airport and with a bit of luck I should make it by mid-afternoon.’

‘Shall I book you into a hotel?’ asked MacLeod.

That would be kind.’

‘Achnagelloch or Stobmor?’

‘Stobmor. The hospital’s there. Doctor … I hate to have to ask this but

‘Yes?’

‘Do you have the facilities for me to carry out a post-mortem?’

‘There’s a small operating theatre. You could use that.’