Crisis (20 page)

‘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 hus
band?’

‘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 ham
mering 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 our
selves 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 thor
oughly.’

‘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 hun
dred 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 fur
ther?’

‘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 crev
ices and shepherding is impossible on that ter
rain. 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,’ volun
teered 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. ‘Per
haps you would ask him to give me a ring when he
wakes up?’

‘
I’ll do that, Doctor … ?’

‘Bannerman.’