Crisis

SEVEN

Bannerman telephoned the Medical Research Council in the morning. It seemed to take an age before he was put through to Hugh Milne.

‘I tried calling you in Edinburgh; I was told you had gone north,’ said Milne.

‘Something awful has happened,’ said Bannerman. ‘Lawrence Gill has been murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ exclaimed Milne.

‘I don’t know who did it or why, but I do know that it had something to do with this brain disease business.’

‘But this is incredible. Why would anyone want to murder a pathologist who was simply trying to establish a cause of death?’

Bannerman took a deep breath and said, 1 know it sounds stupid, but I’m convinced that someone or some …’ Bannerman searched for a word, ‘faction, does not want the true cause of death discovered.’ He told Milne about the brains having been removed from the cadavers in Edinburgh.

‘Where exactly are you?’ asked Milne.

There wasn’t much point in staying in Edinburgh with no pathological material to work on, so I came up to Achnagelloch. I found out from Gill’s wife about the island he had run off to, so I tried to find him to ask about the missing brains. Instead I found him at the bottom of a cliff.’

‘I suppose there’s no chance it was an accident?’

‘None at all. Gill was hiding on the island because he knew someone was after him. He tried sending a parcel to you which I think contained the missing brains.’

‘But why send it to us when we had already seen the slides he had prepared?’

‘I wish I knew.’

There was a pause in the conversation. Bannerman guessed that Milne was having difficulty coming to terms with what he had heard. He suspected that the introduction of possible criminal involvement in what was thought to be a purely medical mystery was having the same unsettling effect on Milne as it was on himself. Both of them were getting out of their depth.

Milne broke the silence, ‘Perhaps you should return to London immediately,’ he said. ‘There may be danger in pursuing the investigation.’

‘I’ve thought about that,’ said Bannerman, ‘but I’m here now, so I may as well ask around a bit. It would be a help though if Gill’s death were played down for the moment. I don’t want the newspapers making connections between Gill’s murder and the problems up here. I thought your colleague, Mr Allison, from the Prime Minister’s office might help in that direction.’

‘I’ll alert him. I’m sure he has no wish to see this develop into a media circus.’

‘I’m sure he hasn’t,’ agreed Bannerman with just the merest hint of sarcasm, thinking about the cover-up of the radiation leak at Invermaddoch.

As a first step, Bannerman set out to find the vet’s surgery in Achnagelloch. He hadn’t bothered to ask at the hotel for directions because he thought the place small enough for him to find it on his own and he wanted to take a look at the town. He liked small towns; he liked their manageable proportions, the fact that you could see how everything worked and fitted together, unlike big cities which were anonymous places, their workings hidden inside bland concrete boxes.

After twenty minutes of searching he admitted defeat and asked directions from a woman who was coming out of a shop, carrying bread and milk. The bell attached to the shop door jangled loudly as she closed it, obliging him to begin his question over again. ‘I’m looking for Mr Finlay, the vet,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where his surgery is please?’

The woman looked at Bannerman as if he had arrived from a strange planet. She stared at him so long without expression that he felt himself become embarrassed. The smile died on his lips.

‘You’re not from round here,’ said the woman.

‘No I’m not,’ agreed Bannerman, declining to add details.

‘Finlay lives in the old manse.’

‘The old manse.’

The woman nodded as if this were enough.

‘How do I find the old manse?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Just outside the town,’ said the woman.

This way?’ asked Bannerman, pointing with his finger to the east.

The woman nodded and looked at him as if there were no other way out of town.

‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

The old manse stood about a hundred metres back from the main road and was hidden from view by a stone wall which was topped by green lichen. Several yew trees formed a secondary screen and cast a shadow over the house. Bannerman walked up the drive to the dark building which looked as if it had been built to the design of a primary-school class drawing. It was a simple stone box, two storeys high with regularly placed windows, all the same size. The door was placed exactly in the middle and there was a single chimney in the centre of the roof. Outside, on a semi-circular apron of gravel, stood a Land Rover and a dark green Jaguar with a number plate on it that told Bannerman it was as new as it looked. He paused to admire the gleaming paintwork and the fat sports tyres. He rang the doorbell.

The presence of the Land Rover had cheered Bannerman. It suggested that he had caught Finlay before he set out on his rounds. This was confirmed by a woman who answered the door, eating a piece of toast. She pressed her hand to her chest and gave an exaggerated swallow to empty her mouth before saying, ‘Excuse me, I’m just finishing my breakfast.’

Bannerman asked if he might speak to Finlay. He was invited in and shown into a front room, where he stood looking at the pictures on the wall until he heard someone come into the room behind him.

‘You’re not from round here,’ said the short, balding man that Bannerman found before him. He had a fair, ruddy complexion and was running to fat despite the fact that Bannerman reckoned he could not have been more than thirty. His lips had a moist quality about them which Bannerman thought unpleasant in a man. He wore baggy corduroy trousers and a navy blue Guernsey sweater.

‘No, I’m not,’ agreed Bannerman, thinking that the next person to make that observation might well push him over the edge. He announced who he was and added, ‘‘I’m looking into the deaths of the three farm workers at Inverladdie.’

‘Most unfortunate,’ said Finlay. ‘Meningitis, I believe.’

Bannerman nodded. ‘A particularly virulent form,’ he said, ‘hence our interest.’

‘How can I help?’ asked Finlay.

‘I understand that there was an outbreak of Scrapie on the farm where the men worked?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ agreed Finlay, quietly. His expression betrayed the fact that he was trying to work out the connection.

‘You made the diagnosis in the animals?’

‘Yes … I’m sorry, I don’t see what this has to do with …’

Bannerman made a dismissive gesture with his hands and said, ‘At this stage I’m just gathering together all the facts I can about the dead men’s lives.’ He added what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

‘Again?’ asked Finlay with a suggestion of irritation.

‘I’m sorry?’’

‘A pathologist named Gill came to see me and asked the same sort of questions. I just don’t see what the Scrapie outbreak has to do with the deaths.’

Bannerman thought it strange that a vet could not follow such a line of questioning with ease. He had been prepared to ask for Finlay’s discretion in not mentioning the possibility of a link between Scrapie and the deaths, but now it did not seem necessary. ‘Did you send brain samples from the sheep to the vet lab?’ he asked.

‘No I didn’t,’ said Finlay.

‘Why not?’ asked Banner-man, as pleasantly as he could ask that sort of question.

‘Because I didn’t have to. It was quite obvious what was wrong with the animals. I’ve seen it before. Apart from that, Scrapie is not a notifiable disease and it costs money to have lab tests done. The farmers don’t like it.’

Bannerman nodded. ‘What exactly happened to the carcasses?’

‘They were buried on the farm in a lime pit.’

‘Immediately?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Why on the farm?’

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘Why do it themselves? Isn’t it more usual to have renderers take carcasses away?’

‘Not any more,’ replied the vet. ‘Firms of renderers used to pay farmers for diseased carcasses and then prepare cattle feed from them, but since it was shown that that was how cows got BSE the government has put a stop to it. The firms now charge the farmers for taking the carcasses away. It’s cheaper to dispose of them themselves.’

‘Thanks for the information,’ said Bannerman.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Finlay, coldly.

‘Have there been any further cases of Scrapie on local farms?’ asked Bannerman.

‘None.’

‘None that you’ve heard of?’

‘I keep my ear to the ground. If s hard to keep a secret in a small community like Achnagelloch. I would know if there had been any other animal problems.’

‘How about the nuclear power station? Have there been any problems with that?’

Finlay smiled and said, ‘Of course. Every time a ewe aborts, a child coughs or a cake fails to rise in the oven, the station gets the blame. People are people and we all need something to blame for our misfortunes.’

‘So you haven’t come across any veterinary problems associated with it?’

‘None that I could ascribe to the station with any degree of certainty, but then that’s always the problem with radiation isn’t it? You can’t see it, you can’t smell it and its effects take some time to show up. Usually by that time you can’t prove it any longer.’

Bannerman sympathized with Finlay’s assessment. ‘One last question,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘How do I get to Inverladdie Farm?’

‘Why do you want to go there?’ exclaimed Finlay.

‘I told you. I want to know everything about the dead men’s lives.’

There doesn’t seem to be much point in wasting time on a sheep farm when …’

‘I’ve plenty of time, Mr Finlay,’ replied Bannerman, evenly.

Finlay gave him directions and showed him to the door.

‘Nice car,’ said Bannerman, referring to the Jaguar.

Finlay nodded and closed the door. Bannerman traced his finger lovingly along the line of the Jag as he passed and thought to himself that country vets must do a lot better than he had ever imagined.

Bannerman had to run the gauntlet of two labrador puppies on his way down the drive. Finlay’s wife, who had been down to the mail box at the entrance, tried to control them with one hand while carrying newspapers and mail with the other. He smiled and made a fuss of them for a few moments before saying goodbye and walking back to the hotel where his car was parked in a small courtyard at the back. When he got there, he found his way barred by two men dressed in leather aprons; they were unloading metal beer canisters from a brewery lorry parked across the entrance. The kegs were being rolled across the cobbles and down a ramp to the hotel’s cellar.

‘They won’t be long,’ said the hotel owner, appearing at the back door of the hotel. ‘Do you want something while you’re waiting?’

‘Coffee,’ replied Bannerman. He left the car and went inside. He almost immediately regretted his decision when he was met by a woman armed with a vacuum cleaner. She was attacking the hall carpet and his feet had the temerity to be on it. He side-stepped into the lounge and closed the glass door in a vain attempt to escape the noise. A few minutes later, coffee appeared and the owner asked what his plans were for the day.

‘I’m going up to Inverladdie Farm,’ replied Bannerman. ‘After that I’m going to try having a chat with the local GP.’

‘Angus MacLeod? A fine man,’ said the hotelier. ‘Some would say he’s getting a bit long in the tooth for the job, but I’m not one of them. The man has a wealth of experience. He’s been our doctor for nearly thirty years now.’

‘Really,’ said Bannerman, putting a possible age of seventy on the man. In his book, doing the same thing year in, year out did not amount to ‘a wealth of experience’ but he kept his thoughts to himself. He finished his coffee and set off for Inverladdie.

There was a contractor’s van parked in front of the whitewashed farmhouse. It bore the name of an Inverness firm of heating engineers and, as if to prove the point, there were several radiators of varying size and a pile of copper piping stacked outside the door. Next to that was a contractor’s skip piled high with what looked like bits of old plumbing.

Bannerman picked his way through the jumble and knocked on the door. There was no answer until he had knocked a second time. A plump woman in her early fifties with a shock of hair that could not make up its mind whether it was fair or grey appeared at the door; she was drying her hands on a tea towel. The towel had ‘Great Bridges of the World’ printed on it. Bannerman recognized the Forth Bridge near the bottom.

‘Yes?’

‘Good morning, my name’s Bannerman. I work for the Medical Research Council. I wonder if I might have a few words with you and your husband?’

‘Medical Research Council? We’ve already had university people here asking questions. What more is there to say?’

‘It won’t take long,’ said Bannerman with a smile.

‘John’s down in the town and we’re having a new heating system installed

‘So I see,’ said Bannerman. ‘John’s your husband?’

‘Yes, John Sproat. I’m Mrs Sproat.’

‘Will he be long?’

‘We’re still a man short on the farm. He went down to see if he could recruit someone.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman, reluctant to leave. He stood his ground until the woman was embarrassed into saying, ‘You’d best come in and have a cup of tea. He might be back by then.’

Agnes Sproat shut the kitchen door and Bannerman was pleased to find that much of the metallic hammering noise from the room next door was muted by it. She put on the kettle and bade Bannerman take a seat at the large scrubbed pine table in the middle of the room. It was a comfortable farmhouse kitchen, light, spacious and a large Aga stove made the room warm and welcoming. ‘We’ve been promising ourselves a new heating system for years,’ said Agnes Sproat. ‘You really need it up here,’ said Bannerman.

‘You’re from London?’

‘Yes.’

‘I went there once, about ten years ago,’ said Agnes Sproat. ‘It was too muggy for me. I couldn’t breathe.’

The sound of a car outside made her lean over the sink to look out of the window. ‘It’s John,’ she said. ‘You’re in luck.’

Bannerman stood up and saw that a white Mercedes saloon had parked outside beside the skip. A tall, gaunt man was getting out; a few moments later he appeared in the kitchen doorway.

By no stretch of the imagination could John Sproat have been called handsome. His skin was sallow, his features sharp and angular and grey hair seemed to sprout from his head at odd angles. Spikes of it stuck up at the back and at both sides. He wore a tweed jacket and trousers. In his hand he carried a deerstalker hat.

‘John, this is Dr Bannerman from the Medical Research Council,’ said Agnes Sproat.

‘What do they want?’ asked Sproat to his wife, as if Bannerman wasn’t there.

‘I’ve come about the three men who died,’ said Bannerman.

Sproat shook his head to signify exasperation. ‘Another one,’ he said.

‘I’ve told him a doctor from the university was here,’ said Agnes Sproat.

‘And the police, and the area medical officer,’ added Sproat. ‘Maybe I should turn the place into a bloody safari park and charge admission.’ ‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled,’ said Bannerman, ‘evenly, but it’s important we investigate this thoroughly.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Sproat.

‘Ideally, I’d like you to show me round your farm. I’d like to see the terrain and the boundaries.’

‘And then you’ll leave us in peace?’

‘Probably,’ said Bannerman.

Sproat put on his hat and said, ‘Right then. Follow me.’

Bannerman smiled at Agnes Sproat and followed her husband out into the yard where they climbed into a Land Rover that seemed to have been buried up to its wheel hubs in manure at some point in the recent past. A black and white collie dog stood by the side of the vehicle until Sproat signalled to it to climb on board. It leapt up on to the rear platform and lay down as Sproat started the engine. They jolted off up the track leading to the hills.

‘I farm both sides of the glen,’ said Sproat. Bannerman could see sheep spread over the slopes of the hills on both sides. The Land Rover growled as Sproat dropped down through the gears in deference to the ever steepening slope. Stones were thrown out from the wheels as the tyres fought for grip on the loose surface of the track.

They reached the head of the glen and came to a halt with the vehicle perched at an angle on the crest of a hillock. The land from there spread out in a gentle slope that led down to the sea. To the east, Bannerman could see the somehow threatening outline of the Invermaddoch power station. It seemed incongruous in the rugged landscape.

‘Does your land go right up to the station?’ he asked Sproat.

To the fence,’ replied Sproat. There’s a two hundred yard boundary with a double fence.

‘So the sheep are confined to the west of the station?’

‘Yes.’

There’s no way the animals could stray further?’

‘No. We have to maintain the fences on the east side of the farm because the ground to the south and east of the station is so rough. If we didn’t, we’d lose animals in the gulleys and crevices and shepherding is impossible on that terrain. Not even the balloon trikes can cope with it.’

‘Do you have much contact with the people at the station?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Not much.’

Ts there a contingency plan for the area if there should be a problem?’

‘Search me,’ said Sproat. ‘If there is, no one told me.’

‘I just thought there might be evacuation plans should an emergency arise,’ said Bannerman.

There’s not much to evacuate round here,’ said Sproat.

Bannerman smiled ruefully and said, ‘I suppose you’re right … just a few sheep.’

‘I think we’ll get a warning just the same,’ volunteered Sproat.’

‘How so?’

‘One day, about eight or nine months ago, they must have had a problem down there. I’ve never heard such a racket in all my life; klaxons, sirens, the lot. It sounded like a major air raid.’.

‘Did you find out what the problem was?’ asked Bannerman.

Sproat shook his head. ‘Not a word,’ he said.

‘Would you mind if I were to take a look around the boundary on my own, maybe tomorrow?’

‘Feel free,’ said Sproat. ‘Although I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Just don’t underestimate the terrain down there, it’s a long walk up from the road. I can’t let you have a vehicle.’

‘No problem,’ said Bannerman. ‘I could use the exercise.’

Bannerman looked towards the sea and saw that there was a railway track tracing the shore line. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘It’s the line for the stone quarry,’ said Sproat. ‘The roads around here won’t accommodate the size of vehicle the quarry needs, so the Dutchman built a railway line to take out the stone to the sea terminal at Inchmad.’

‘Is the quarry near here?’ asked Bannerman.

Sproat raised his left arm and pointed to the north-west. ‘About half a mile,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t the noise worry you?’ asked Bannerman.

“They only blast once a month. Any other noise is carried away on the wind and with all the stone going out by rail there’s no extra traffic to speak of. You’d hardly know they’re there.’

‘The best kind of neighbours to have,’ said Bannerman.

‘Aye,’ agreed Sproat. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to see?’

‘Maybe you could show me where you buried the infected sheep and then where you store chemicals on the farm?’

Sproat didn’t reply. He just got back in the Land Rover and started the engine. They drove laboriously round the head of the glen and down into the next one, where they came to a halt. Bannerman was glad they did; his spine was beginning to protest at all the jarring.

‘We dug the pit over there,’ said Sproat, nodding to his right.

Bannerman could see where the ground had been disturbed. He got out and walked over to the mound. Sproat joined him.

‘I understand from the vet that no brain samples were taken from the sheep?’ said Bannerman.

‘That’s right. It was obvious what was wrong with them.’

Bannerman looked down at his feet.

‘If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you can forget it,’ said Sproat. ‘We didn’t skimp on the lime.’

Bannerman smiled. He had indeed been wondering whether there was any chance of the virus having survived in the sheep burial pit but he had no wish to start digging and decided to accept Sproat’s assurance. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.

They passed a small cottage on the way back to the farmhouse. Bannerman asked about it.

‘That’s where Gordon Buchan lived with his wife,’ said Sproat quietly.

‘Maybe I could have a word with Mrs Buchan,’ said Bannerman.

‘No,’ said Sproat quickly. ‘She’s away at the moment.’

‘Away?’ asked Bannerman.

‘On holiday. She needed to get away for a bit.’

Bannerman nodded. ‘And then what?’ he asked. ‘I presume it’s a tied cottage?’

‘It is,’ agreed Sproat. ‘She’ll probably move back to live with her family in Stobmor.’

They pulled into the farmyard as the first spots of rain began to dapple the windscreen. ‘More rain,’ complained Bannerman.

‘At least it’s not snow,’ said Sproat. ‘We store chemicals and fuel in the barn.’

Bannerman took a look round the barn and found nothing out of the ordinary. It was a sheep farm, so there wasn’t much call for the wide range of chemicals that might be found in arable farming. What there was seemed to be stored well and the labels were well-known proprietary brands.

‘What exactly is it you’re looking for?’ asked Sproat.

‘I’m not sure myself,’ replied Bannerman.

Later on that afternoon, Bannerman telephoned Angus MacLeod’s surgery from the hotel. He thought that that might be the best time to contact him, in the lull between morning and evening surgeries and when the house calls should be over for the day. His housekeeper answered and told him that MacLeod was having a nap.

‘Is it an emergency?’ she asked.

Bannerman said that it wasn’t but that he would like to speak to the doctor.

‘He only sees reps by prior appointment,’ said the housekeeper defensively.

‘I’m from the Medical Research Council,’ replied Bannerman.

‘I see, well if you give me your name I’ll tell the doctor you called.’

‘I’m staying at the hotel,’ said Bannerman. ‘Perhaps you would ask him to give me a ring when he wakes up?’

‘I’ll do that, Doctor …?’

‘Bannerman.’

Bannerman filled in the time with phone calls to London. He spoke to Olive at the lab and then to the chief technician, Charlie Simmons, who told him that everything was going smoothly and that there was nothing to worry about.

‘How about the locum?’ asked Bannerman.

‘He’s about fourteen years old,’ replied Simmons. ‘We should have him trained by the time you get back.’

Bannerman smiled. It was pretty much the reply he had expected. He asked to speak to Leeman but was told that he was carrying out an autopsy. Bannerman said not to disturb him but to tell him that he had called and to pass on his regards. He asked to be transferred to Stella’s extension but the hospital switchboard cut him off somewhere in the proceedings and he had to call again simply to be told that Stella was in theatre. He had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was Angus MacLeod.

‘How can I help you, Dr Bannerman?’ asked MacLeod, in clear, measured tones.

‘I’m looking into the deaths of the three men from Inverladdie, Doctor,’ replied Bannerman. ‘I understand you were their doctor.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ replied MacLeod. “There’s no other practitioner in Achnagelloch.’

‘Perhaps we could talk?’

‘Come on over,’ said MacLeod. ‘When you leave the hotel turn left. Take the first right after the post office and my surgery is on your left, half way up the hill.’

Despite his name and, albeit refined, Scottish accent, there was nothing about Angus MacLeod’s dress to suggest Scottishness. Bannerman found this surprising. For some reason he had expected a tweed jacket at the very least, or perhaps a tartan tie, but no, MacLeod was wearing a dark, three piece suit with a gold watch chain disappearing into his waistcoat pocket. His white shirt was crisp and his tie was a muted dark blue. It went well with his silver hair. Bannerman reckoned that he could not have been far short of seventy but, despite the apparent frailty of his thin body, his voice was strong and his intellect seemed quick and unimpaired.

‘Good of you to see me Doctor,’ said Bannerman, stretching out his hand. He found MacLeod’s grasp firm and free of masonic information. He was shown into what was obviously MacLeod’s consulting room and invited to sit down.

‘There’s really not much I can tell you,’ said MacLeod, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on folded hands.

Bannerman could imagine him adopting this posture in front of generations of patients … Tell me all about it Mrs Macpherson, when did you first notice the swelling …

‘The condition came on so quickly that there was very little I could do, except provide some relief from the pain and give them sedation. One of the men was dead of course when they found him and another was raving mad in the streets. Gordon Buchan was the only one I managed to attend, simply because he had a wife to call me in.’

‘What were your thoughts when you first saw him?’ asked Bannerman.

MacLeod grimaced slightly at the memory. He said, ‘‘I once saw a man die of rabies in North Africa. That’s the only thing I could compare the condition to. Progression into complete dementia with the patient experiencing the most horrible nightmares.’

‘‘I wonder if I might see your case notes on the men?’ asked Bannerman. ‘‘I’m trying to collect together every single detail.’

‘Of course,’ replied MacLeod, getting up stiffly from his chair and opening a three-drawered filing cabinet. He brought out the relevant files and placed them on the desk in front of Bannerman.

‘I understand that some kind of viral meningitis is being blamed for the deaths,’ said MacLeod, as Bannerman worked his way through the slim files.

Bannerman met MacLeod’s eyes briefly and said, That’s what I understand too.’

‘Did you know that the men were employed on burying dead sheep when they fell ill?’

‘I had heard,’ said Bannerman without raising his eyes this time, although his pulse rate rose a little.

The sheep died of Scrapie … Did you know that?’

This time Bannerman felt he could no longer avoid MacLeod’s clever probing. He lifted his head and said, ‘Yes Doctor.’

‘Just so as you know,’ said MacLeod gently with a vaguely amused look on his face.

Bannerman closed the files and stacked them together on the desk. He said, ‘Yes Doctor, you are perfectly right in your suspicions. The Scrapie connection is why I’m here. I apologize for not having come clean with you right away.’

MacLeod shook his head slightly and made a gesture with his hands to signify that no offence had been taken. Then you believe it’s a real possibility?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Bannerman. ‘All the evidence seems to point to the men having contracted sheep Scrapie. I’m trying to prove it and find out just how it happened.’

‘A breach of the species barrier would be no joke,’ said MacLeod.

Bannerman nodded. He had taken a liking to MacLeod. He felt guilty about having misjudged the man when he first heard about the length of his service in the area. He asked, ‘What happened after the men’s deaths?’

‘I requested that post-mortems be carried out by the MRC instead of the area pathologist.’

‘Why?’

‘The symptoms displayed by the men suggested acute brain disease to me and I was aware of the MRC’s national survey. I called Stoddart in Edinburgh and he sent up a chap named Gill and his research assistant, Dr Napier. I must confess I was quite surprised to get George’s letter saying that meningitis was being blamed but I didn’t say anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know my place,’ grinned MacLeod. ‘GPs are the equivalent of village idiots as far as the medical establishment are concerned.’

Bannerman smiled and asked, ‘Do you know Stoddart personally?’

‘I once taught him basic anatomy,’ said MacLeod.

‘I think he forgot,’ said Bannerman and MacLeod’s face broke into a huge grin.

‘I didn’t realize you had taught medicine,’ said Bannerman.

‘Just for three years,’ replied MacLeod, ‘I had a spell in Africa in the fifties, playing at being the saviour of the dark continent and then a lectureship at Edinburgh — a different sort of jungle.’

‘And that’s where you met Stoddart?’

‘He was one of my students. In fact I think I can say that I was responsible for directing Stoddart towards a career in pathology.’

‘Really?’

‘I didn’t want him getting his hands on any live patients,’ smiled MacLeod.

Both men laughed.

‘It hasn’t stopped him getting to the top,’ said Bannerman.

‘Intellectual short-coming seldom does in my experience,’ said MacLeod.

‘So academia wasn’t for you?’ said Bannerman.

‘It certainly wasn’t,’ agreed MacLeod. ‘Academics are more institutionalized than prisoners in jail, only they don’t realize it.’

‘Why general practice?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I wanted to be part of a community, not something outside it. As a GP I’m at the heart of things. I’m in at the beginning and I’m there at the end. It was what I wanted to do and I’ve never regretted it.’

‘There’s not too many people can say that about their lives,’ said Bannerman.

‘On the contrary, Doctor,’ said MacLeod. ‘A lot of people say it but whether or not it’s true is an entirely different matter.’

‘Point taken,’ conceded Bannerman.

‘Would you join me in a drink, Doctor?’ asked MacLeod, opening his desk drawer and taking out a bottle. ‘But first be warned that if you should happen to say, “It’s a little early for me” I may be inspired to violence.’

Bannerman smiled and said, ‘I would be honoured.’

MacLeod poured the whisky and Bannerman asked, ‘What happened about the examination of the bodies?’

‘They were taken to the small cottage hospital facility we have at Stobmor. Dr Gill performed elementary examinations and then Dr Napier took over the brunt of the laboratory work while Gill went around asking questions. After a few days it was decided that the bodies would be taken to Edinburgh for full autopsy.’

‘I didn’t realize you had a hospital in the area,’ said Bannerman.

‘It’s more of a clinic, really,’ replied MacLeod. ‘But we have a nursing sister and it’s somewhere where small or emergency operations can be carried out, should the need arise.’

Bannerman wondered about MacLeod’s ability to operate at his age but did not say anything. MacLeod smiled as he read his mind and said, ‘We can call on a surgical rota from Inverness and Glasgow.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman.

‘And now you are going to ask me about the power station,’ said MacLeod.

‘I am?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you know that?’ asked Bannerman who was increasingly enjoying MacLeod’s company.

‘If you are looking for a likely cause of mutation in a virus, you could hardly ignore the presence of a nuclear power station next door could you?’

‘Once again I have to take my hat off to you Doctor,’ said Bannerman, with a smile. ‘Has the presence of the station caused any health problems in the area?’

‘It’s hard to be objective,’ replied MacLeod. The population is so small up here that it’s difficult to gather meaningful statistics.’

‘You have a higher than average childhood leukaemia incidence,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ve had a look at the figures for the area.’

That’s a good example,’ said MacLeod. Two years ago our figures were slightly below the national average. Two cases last year, one in Stobmor and another in one of the outlying farms, were enough to push us into the “statistically higher than average” category. It could have been chance.’

Bannerman nodded and said, ‘I thought that might be the case.’

‘Lies, damned lies and statistics,’ sighed MacLeod. ‘But that’s not to say that the children didn’t get it from the presence of the station. We just can’t prove it one way or the other.’

That brings me to my next question,’ said Bannerman. ‘Do you have any radiation monitoring equipment?’

MacLeod said that he had, adding, ‘I was given it when they opened the station, a battery operated Geiger counter and calibration kit.’

‘I’d like to borrow it,’ said Bannerman. ‘I want to take a look at the boundary land between the station and Inverladdie Farm.’

‘By all means,’ said MacLeod. He got out of his chair and slid open the bottom cupboard door of a bookcase that held volumes of medical text books. He brought out a wooden box fitted with brass catches, which he unclasped. There we are,’ he said, removing the cylindrical monitoring probe. ‘Better check the batteries.’