Crisis (17 page)

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ said Shona. ‘I like
cooking, so I quite look forward to visits from
authors and publishers when they come to see me
about illustrations.’

The ‘visitors’ thought Bannerman, remembering what Mrs Ferguson had said. Malicious old cow.
‘Can I help with the washing up?’

‘Yes if you like,’ said Shona.

When they’d finished, Shona manoeuvred another
log on to the fire and they sat down to enjoy
the warmth and the afterglow of well-being that
the meal had bestowed on them. Shona asked
Bannerman what he did when he wasn’t inves
tigating things. He confessed that this was the
first time he had ever been asked to ‘investigate’
anything. He was a consultant pathologist at a
London hospital.

‘Then why ask you?’ said Shona.

‘
I suppose because I’m a bit of an expert on brain
disease.’

‘I see. And do you like being “a bit of an expert
on brain disease”?’

Once again Bannerman felt uncomfortable about the question. It was the same feeling he had experi
enced earlier on the boat. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied
without conviction.

‘It must be very interesting,’ said Shona, getting
up to put some music on. She sat down again and
reaching behind her brought a cushion round to
place it on the floor at her feet. ‘Sit down there,’
she said.

Bannerman opened his mouth to say something but closed it again and sat down between Shona’s
feet with his back to the chair.

‘I noticed earlier that you have an injured right
shoulder,’ she said. ‘You’ve been favouring it all day.’ She kneaded her fingers into the muscles at
the right side of Bannerman’s neck and he let out
a moan that was part pain, part pleasure. ‘I hurt it
yesterday,’ he confessed.

‘It’s not often I get to practise as a physiotherapist,’
said Shona.

‘Why did you give it up?’

‘It wasn’t what I wanted to do.’

That simple?’

That simple. We only get once chance in this
life.’

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Feel free.’

Shona stopped her massage until Bannerman had
lit a cigarette with a burning wooden splinter from
the fire.

‘I thought doctors didn’t smoke,’ said Shona.

This one does.’

‘You find it as difficult as the rest of us to give up eh?’

‘I haven’t tried,’ said Bannerman.

Shona sensed there was something behind the
comment. ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘If it’s as dangerous
as you chaps are always telling us?’

There’s a belief around that death is a curable
condition. My profession is responsible for creating
it. They seem to suggest that if you eat the right things, take the right amount of exercise, avoid
alcohol, tobacco, stay out of the sun and God knows
what else, you’ll increase your chances of living for
ever. Not so.’

‘No?’

‘It will only seem like it. No heed is given to the quality of life on offer. It could be argued that by
doing all these things you’ll increase your chances
of surviving long enough to lose all your faculties
and end up as a blind, deaf, incontinent, doolally
geriatric. I decided some time ago that that wasn’t
for me.’

‘I bet you eat butter too,’ smiled Shona.

‘And I like caffeine in my coffee.’

‘I hope you don’t go around saying things like that
to the patients,’ said Shona.

‘
I’ve never told anyone that before,’ said Bannerman, wondering why he was doing so now.

Bannerman became silent as Shona’s fingers brought relief from the nagging pain, but Gill’s death was uppermost in his mind.

Shona made up a futon bed for Bannerman in the room upstairs she used as a studio. The room had a large angled window set in the roof, which meant that he could lie on his back and look up at the stars set in a crisp, dear sky. The frost in the air made a halo round the brightest ones. There was a smell of oil paint in the room but it was not strong enough to be unpleasant and it reminded Bannerman of school days and the chaos of the art classroom. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore outside prolonged
thoughts of childhood and conjured up images of
family holidays and the elusive happiness that went
with them.

At any other time such a pleasant ambience would
have ensured that he drift off into a comfortable
sleep, but not tonight. The thought of Gill’s body
lying broken on the rocks, with the waves breaking
over it, kept returning to haunt him. Gill must have
found out something about the deaths that no one
else knew. Something so important that he was
murdered to keep him quiet. It didn’t seem to
make any sense. He had already made known his
suspicions about the involvement of the
Scrapie
agent
in the affair and had forwarded sections of the brains
to the MRC for examination. What more was there to
know? What was the point of sending the brains to
London, if that really was what was in the parcel.

After some further thought, Bannerman decided that there was one major difference between the sections
of brain that Gill had sent to London and the actual
missing brains themselves. The sections could be
considered ‘dead’ material; the fixing procedure
during the preparation would have killed off any
live virus. The brains themselves however, would
comprise a source of live virus. Was that the reason
Gill had tried to send the parcel to the MRC? Because
it contained
live
virus material? Bannerman felt a chill
run up his spine as he thought about the interception
of the parcel. He wondered why anyone would want
to get their hands on such a deadly thing.

A whole range of nightmares queued up for con
sideration, ranging from criminal blackmail to the
use of the virus as the ultimate biological weapon.
Deranging large numbers of one’s enemies could
be a good deal more effective than killing them.
A SCUD missile full of brain destroying virus
falling in the streets of Tel Aviv was not a pretty
thought and, unlike nuclear weaponry, it would
be cheap. Bannerman decided that he was letting
his imagination run away with him. Apart from anything else the ‘new virus’ was still a matter of
conjecture. Who knew about the possibility outside the Medical Research Council … and Her Majes
ty’s Government? This thought made Bannerman
change tack. Maybe whoever had intercepted the
parcel had not been interested in obtaining the live infecting agent at all? … Maybe they had simply
wanted to destroy all evidence of it
…
to stop any
further investigation?

When he woke, Bannerman took a leisurely shower
in Shona MacLean’s bright, modern bathroom and
looked out at the early morning sunshine as he
towelled himself down. It was so pleasant to be
in a bathroom that had no need of frosted glass.
He could watch the waves break on the shore. The
smell of coffee brewing gave his appetite an edge as
he dressed and went downstairs to find Shona in the
kitchen.

‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.

‘Eventually,’ said Bannerman. ‘How about you?’

‘Eventually,’ agreed Shona. ‘I couldn’t stop think
ing about Lawrence. He was such a gentle man. I just can’t believe that anyone would have wanted to murder him.’

Bannerman nodded sympathetically but couldn’t
think of anything to add.

‘You’ve had no new ideas?’ asked Shona.

Bannerman shrugged and shook his head. ‘Not
really, but somehow I’m more than ever convinced
that the answer lies in Achnagelloch.’

‘Don’t you think that maybe it would be a good
idea to tell the police everything after all?’

‘Not just yet,’ said Bannerman.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Shona.

Shona phoned for a taxi for Bannerman while he
packed his things. He hoped it wouldn’t be the
same driver who had brought him to the village
and his heart sank when he recognized the car as it
pulled up outside. The same unsmiling man knocked
at the door.

Take care,’ smiled Shona.

‘Thanks for everything,’ said Bannerman. ‘Not
least for saving me from another night at Mrs
Ferguson’s place!’

‘Keep in touch,’ said Shona.

‘
I’d like that,’ said Bannerman, opening the door.

‘Oh it’s you,’ said the driver.

‘Correct,’ replied Bannerman.

‘
I thought you were staying with Mrs Ferguson?’

‘Did you?’ replied Bannerman, getting into the car.

The first mile passed in silence and Bannerman
would have preferred that the pattern continue, but
the driver’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘Would
your visit have been business or pleasure then?’
he asked, with an attempt at what he considered
a friendly smile.

‘Business,’ said Bannerman curtly, turning to look
out the window again.

‘And what exactly would your line of business
be?’

They had almost reached the end of the journey. Bannerman waited until the car had stopped before
replying. He brought out his wallet and said, ‘I’m an
inspector of taxes. I work for the Inland Revenue.’ He handed over the fare and a pound extra and said
as a parting shot, ‘Don’t forget to declare the tip,
will you?’

The journey back to the mainland was uneventful
and the Sierra started first time when he turned
the key. With a last wistful look over the water
Bannerman said a silent farewell to Shona MacLean
and set out for Achnagelloch.

For the first three hours the weather was kind and
Bannerman felt quite relaxed when he stopped for
lunch at a small village pub. The owner turned out to
be an Englishman from Surrey who, after a lifetime in
Insurance, had sold up everything down south and
moved to the north of Scotland to run the hotel.

‘How long have you been here?’ Bannerman
asked.

‘This is our third winter,’ replied the man.

‘Does the reality match the dream?’

‘
I wish to Christ I’d never moved,’ replied the man
as he cleared away the dishes and bumped open the
kitchen door with his backside.

Bannerman did not inquire further.

The rain started just south of Loch Shin and got
progressively heavier until the wipers found it hard
to cope. Bannerman had to slow to a crawl when
he found the road along the west side of Loch Mor
badly flooded. At times it was hard to tell where
the loch ended and where the highway began. He
prayed that the Sierra’s electrics would survive the
deluge of water from both above and below the car
and purposely kept it in low gear to keep the revs
high. After more than one heart stopping moment
he was relieved to find the road climbing to higher
ground. He lit a cigarette and began to relax a little
but the feeling was short lived: it stopped when the
signposts directed him to leave the main A 838 road
and start out on the tortuous trail along minor B
roads to Achnagelloch.

He had travelled barely a mile before he was
brought to a halt by rocks on the road. They had
been swept down from the barren hillside by the
torrents of rain water. There was no alternative but
to get out and clear a passage through them. Luckily
none of the rocks were too big or too heavy to move,
he managed most of them with his feet but he still
got very wet in the process. ‘Bloody country,’ he
mumbled as he got back in the car and slammed
the door. It was seven o’clock when he reached Achnagelloch and found it as welcoming as a writ.