Crisis (13 page)

‘So you don’t know where he is?’

‘No.’

Bannerman maintained a silence for a few moments,
hoping that it might oblige Vera Gill to reconsider a
little. She didn’t, so he pressed her a little further.
‘Mrs Gill, if your husband has just gone missing surely you would have reported the matter to the
police?’

‘All right,’ snapped Vera Gill. ‘He’s gone off with another woman. Is that what you wanted? But I don’t
know where they are.’

‘Do you know this other woman?’ asked
Bannerman, aware of the pain in Vera Gill’s eyes
but also knowing that she was his only hope of
finding Gill.

‘No,’ replied Vera Gill, but Bannerman could see
that she was lying. It wasn’t difficult. She wasn’t used to doing it. She diverted her eyes and looked
guilty, just like a child.

‘Mrs Gill
…
I know how much this must have
hurt you …’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ snapped Vera Gill with a venom
that surprised Bannerman. ‘You couldn’t possibly
know anything of the sort!’

It was Bannerman’s turn to divert his eyes. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Of course I don’t.’

Vera Gill took a number of deep breaths in the
ensuing silence, which was only broached by a ticking clock on the mantelshelf and the muted
sound of the children playing in the garden. ‘Her name is Shona MacLean,’ she said quietly.

Bannerman wrote it down.

‘Some years ago she and Lawrence had an affair,
when we lived in the north. He said it was all over
but there were occasional letters that arrived with a
give-away postmark.’

‘Did your husband tell you he was going off with
this woman?’ asked Bannerman.

‘No, but that was Lawerence,’ said Vera Gill, with
a snort.

Bannerman felt confused. He asked. ‘What exactly
did he say before he left?’

‘Almost nothing. I could see he was in a blue
funk over the whole thing but, as I say, that was
Lawrence. He hated making unpleasant decisions.
He got more and more agitated and angst-ridden
and then suddenly he announced that he had to go
away for a bit, and that was the last I saw of him.’

‘Where does this Shona MacLean live?’ asked
Banner man.

The village of Ralsay on the Island of North
Uist.’

On the way back to his apartment Bannerman stopped at a large newsagents and bought some
road maps of north-west Scotland and the Western Isles. Without access to the brain tissue of the dead
men there was very little in the way of pathological
investigation to be done at the medical school. The
brains of the infected laboratory mice would provide
more diseased material for him to work on, but even if his worst fears surrounding incubation times were
realized, that would not be for another couple of
weeks. He was beginning to think in terms of a visit
to the north to see the Achnagelloch area for himself.
If this could be combined with a trip to North Uist to
find Lawrence Gill, then so much the better.

FIVE

Bannerman’s original plan had been to eat out at one
of the restaurants in the Royal Mile that evening, but
the visit to Vera Gill had left him with little heart for
playing the tourist. Instead he decided to make do
with what was in the apartment. There were a couple
of packet meals. One of them had a nice picture on
the front. If he felt better later he might go out for a
drink. Instead, he phoned Stella just after eight.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘Not well,’ confessed Bannerman. The pathologist
who raised the alarm has disappeared and so have
the brains of the victims.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Stella.

‘
I know it sounds crazy, but their brains were
completely removed at autopsy and nobody knows where they are except the missing pathologist, and
he’s run off somewhere.’

‘Sounds like a Whitehall farce,’ said Stella.

‘If it wasn’t so serious,’ added Bannerman.

‘What’s the head of department doing about it?’
asked Stella.

‘Collating the figures,’ said Bannerman dryly.

‘Pardon?’

‘Nothing. He’s about as much use as a keep left
sign in a one way street.’

‘Distinguished, eh?’

‘Distinguished,’ agreed Bannerman, sharing an
old joke between the pair of them that ageing incom
petents in the world of academia were never called
so; they were invariably termed ‘distinguished’.

‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Stella.

‘I’ve read Gill’s lab notes and looked at the
microscope slides, as you know; it looks serious,
but I have to talk to Gill. I’m thinking of trying to find him myself.’

‘Surely that’s a job for the police,’ protested Stella.
‘Besides, where would you start?’

‘I’ve been pointed in the right direction,’ said Bannerman. ‘Gill ran off for domestic reasons.’

‘And with immaculate timing,’ added Stella.

‘Quite so,’ agreed Bannerman. ‘I think I might find
it hard to be civil to him when I find him.’

‘Where’s the “right direction”?’

‘His wife thinks he’s on the Island of North
Uist.’

This could turn out to be a holiday after all,’
said Stella.

‘I have to go north to see the location of the sheep
farm and talk to the local GP and vet. I also want to
take a look at the power station, find out where it fits
into the scheme of things. My plan at the moment is
to take in the island on the way up.’

‘A proper little Doctor Johnson,’ said Stella.

‘I’m beginning to wish I’d never got into this,’ said
Bannerman.

There was no point in delaying his departure for the
north, thought Bannerman, but on the other hand, trying to reach the Western Isles on a Sunday was
probably not such a good idea. He probably wouldn’t
be stoned to death as a heathen intruder, but trans
port might be a problem. He toyed with the notion of travelling to Inverness by train on Sunday night
and getting a connection to the Kyle of Lochalsh on
Monday morning, but then he had a better idea. If
he were to rent a car he could start his journey on
Sunday morning and stop off somewhere on the
way to do a bit of hill walking. He could do with
some fresh air to rid himself of the claustrophobic
feel of the medical school and its brooding walls. He
could stay overnight at a small hotel and then head
for North Uist on Monday morning.

The idea filled him with enthusiasm; he consulted
the local telephone directory for details of weather
forecasting services for the areas he would pass
through on his way north. Ten minutes later he
had decided on tackling the Tarmachan Ridge, north
of Loch Tay. He had been assured by the weather people that the region north of Loch Tay was to be
cold and clear with blue skies and sunshine. Fine
settled weather.

Bannerman called Hertz and, using his credit card,
arranged for a Ford Sierra to be made available to him
until further notice. He tried calling Morag Napier to
let her know his plans but there was no answer. He
would call her in the morning before he left.

Bannerman approached Loch Tay from the east and
stopped in Lawers village to book himself into the
Ben Lawers Hotel for the night. The weather was as good as had been promised, and he enjoyed coaxing the Ford along the narrow road that faithfully traced
the north shore of Loch Tay until he swung north
to park at the entrance to the old quarry road that
crosses the estates of Tarmachan and Morenish. He reflected that it had been fifteen years since he had last come here. As far as he could see, nothing had
changed.

The sun was warm on his face as he sat on the
edge of the car boot to change his socks and pull
on his boots. It was the kind of day that made you
want to just put on a sweater and sprint off up into
the mountains, but he knew better. In the Scottish
hills you had to prepare for the worst. The weather
here was among the most fickle in the world, a fact
that had been the downfall of so many who had
succumbed to the beauty of the mountains from the car park and ventured too far without thinking what
would happen if the temperature fell like a stone
and the wind screamed down from the north like
a demented demon.

Bannerman checked his rucksack for everything
he might need and some things he hoped he
wouldn’t. Bandages, pain killers, torch, survival
bag, spare clothing. He set off along the quarry
track until the approach to the south ridge of Meall
nan Tarmachan became less steep, then he climbed
up strongly through the bracken to join it. He then headed north up the ridge, pausing occasionally to
catch his breath and look back along the length of
Loch Tay sparkling below in the sunshine. Ten years
ago he might have climbed directly up on to the ridge
at the north-east corner but now he was content to
take a more leisurely line.

As he neared the end of the ridge where the
ground fell away sharply, before the final steep
ascent to the summit of Tarmachan, he paused
again and took off his rucksack to sit down and
chew a chocolate bar. Far below he could see that
another car had parked behind his own, but there
was no sign of its driver on the hill. The sun slid
behind some clouds that had crept down from the north and Bannerman realized that he was getting
cold. He had only been sitting still for a few minutes
but the height he had gained in the last hour, and
the fact that there was now a north-easterly wind
to contend with, told him that the temperature was
now below freezing.

He got to his feet and put on a Berghaus Goretex
shell jacket and a pair of woollen mitts before remov
ing his ice axe from its holster and swinging his pack
on to his back and tightening the straps. He would
soon be above the snow line and the axe would give
him a feeling of security on the slippery slopes. It
may not have been a technique for the purists, but
sinking the axe into the ground and holding on to it at
awkward moments was a psychological comfort and
provided at least one hand-hold he could rely on.

The clouds above him were now thickening and
their speed was increasing. This gave him a clue as
to what to expect when he came out of the lee of the south face and crested the main ridge. As he did so,
he had to drop to his knees to maintain balance when
the full force of the wind hit him. Pride would not
let him move on without first touching the summit
cairn, but caution and common sense made him
approach the final rise on his hands and knees.
He touched the stones and looked briefly over the
edge down to Loch Tay, now three thousand feet below. He had a brief impression of movement in
the bracken below the crags to his left but concluded
that it must have been a trick of the light which kept
changing as successive banks of cloud crossed the
sun with varying degrees of thickness.

Bannerman had a decision to make. The wind
was much stronger than either he or the weather
forecasters had anticipated, and he knew that the
section of the ridge to the west of Meall Garbh, the
next mountain on the ridge, was very narrow and
exposed. Should he go on, or turn back and descend
in the lee of Tarmachan. After some consideration he
put off making the final decision until he had reached
the second summit.