Crisis (5 page)

A light tapping came to the door and Bannerman
said, ‘Come in.’

The prep’s ready.’

Bannerman nodded and walked over to the door
where the technician held it open for him. As he
passed through, the technician said quietly. ‘You
were right. I had a look. It’s malignant.’

Bannerman paused in the doorway for
a
second
and felt the tension melt from him. He took a couple
of shallow breaths and said, ‘I didn’t imagine for a
moment that it wasn’t, Charlie.’

‘Of course not,’ said the technician with the barest
suggestion of a smile. For a moment they held each
other’s gaze then the technician said, ‘The second
prep is as clear as a bell … poor woman.’

TWO

Bannerman left the hospital at six-thirty. He noticed that Stella’s white Volkswagen Golf was still in the
car-park as he edged his own Rover out of its
sardine-like space at the end of the line reserved
for ‘Medical Staff. He had hoped that the worst of the rush-hour traffic would be over but he still had
to wait for nearly a minute at the gate before he could
ease out into the slow moving line. He swore as he
had to clear the windscreen yet again with his glove
as condensate built up because of the rain. ‘Living in London is like living down a dark wet hole,’ he muttered, turning up the fan and switching on the
rear screen demister.

The traffic came to a halt because of some unknown
obstruction up ahead; it did nothing to improve his
temper. He pushed a cassette of Vivaldi into the car’s tape player and tried to concentrate on the
music rather than the frustration of city driving.
The tapes had been Stella’s idea. Fed up with his
bad temper at the wheel, she had embarked on a
programme of ‘sound therapy’, insisting that he try out the soothing effect of various musical styles as
an aid to relaxation.

So far the biggest success had been a tape of
Gregorian chant, recorded by French monks in
an alpine monastery. The sonorous tolling of bells
and echoing prayer chants had induced a marked improvement in his driving demeanour with their
constant allusion to human mortality. The ironic
drawback was that Stella found the ecclesiastical
aura in the car almost as irritating as his bad temper.
She had insisted on him finding something else. It had been Mozart’s turn last week, which had only
moderate success; now it was Vivaldi’s big chance
with
The Four Seasons.

The traffic started to move but again ground to
a halt less than fifty yards further on. Bannerman slipped the gear stick into neutral and sighed in
frustration.
Winter
wasn’t doing too well. It took a further thirty-five minutes to reach the turn off for
his apartment block. A few twists and turns through
quiet back streets and he was safely through the
gates and into the haven of Redholm Court.

As he got out and locked the car he suddenly
remembered that he had yet to get some wine to
take over to Stella’s. He toyed with getting it on his way there but decided that if he did that it would be
warm. There was an off-licence a quarter of a mile down the road so he pulled up his collar and hurried
along to it. He was back within fifteen minutes.

With the wine safely in the kitchen fridge
Bannerman took off his coat and poured himself
a large gin from a bottle which stood on a tray beside
the window. He closed the curtains and switched
on the television to catch what was left of the early
evening news on Channel Four.

Bannerman lived on the third floor. It was a pleasant two-bedroomed flat rented at a price which included
all services. He had stayed there for the last two years
and had no intention of moving unless he had to. It was quiet, warm in winter and pleasant in summer because of the south-facing balcony and roof garden. The building itself was surrounded by private
gardens which included several mature beech trees and a series of well-kept flower beds which the gardeners stocked according to the season. There
was also a garage for his car although he seldom
used it, preferring instead to leave it on the tarmac
apron facing the row of lock-ups.

There was little in the way of furniture in the
apartment, something which owed nothing to ‘mini
malist’ fashion but much to Bannerman’s lack of
interest in matters domestic. Most of what there
was designed to hold books although even these
pieces were insufficient to cope with his collection
and several volumes lived permanently on the floor,
something his cleaner was at pains to point out at
frequent intervals. She maintained that it interfered
with her ‘Hoover’.

Unknown to her, this fact gave Bannerman per
verse pleasure. Anything that impeded the progress
of that monstrous machine was to be applauded. He
had an almost irrational loathing of the ‘Hoover’. It
was a hated enemy, the ultimate symbol of domestic
drudgery. On the odd occasion he found himself
in the flat when the dreaded noise started up he
would be into a track suit and off running round the
grounds before the cleaner had finished saying, ‘I
hope this won’t disturb you too much Doctor …’

Bannerman finished his drink, kicked off his shoes
and padded off to the bathroom to shower. He
noticed
a
message on the hall table and stopped to
read it. It was from the cleaner and said that one of
his shirts had gone missing in the laundry. She had
‘told them off about it and, ‘by the way’ he needed some more shirts anyway. Several were looking
‘weary’. Bannerman had to admit that that was
fair criticism. He was probably one of the laundry
company’s best customers.

As a medical student he had discovered that
pathologists carried the smell of their profession
about with them. Even on social occasions he had noticed the sweet tang of formaldehyde or some
other tissue fixative clinging to their clothes. For this
reason, when he became a pathologist himself, he
decided that this must not be the case with him. To
this end, he kept two separate sets of clothes, one for
work and the other for social use. They were never
allowed to mix. Each day when he came home he would strip off and shower before putting on fresh
clothes and placing his working ones in the laundry
basket, the
All Baba
basket as the cleaner called it.
It was a nice allusion; he liked it. It was a ‘working’
shirt that had gone missing and it was his range of ‘working’ shirts that were looking decidedly faded.
It was only Tuesday. He would put off dealing with
the problem until the weekend.

Bannerman lingered longer than usual in the shower,
letting the warm water cascade on the back of his
neck and slacken off the tension there while he
mulled over the events of the day. Uppermost in
his mind was the decision he had been called upon
to make on the breast biopsy. It had worked out well
in the end but it had also given him more than a few
bad moments. What worried him most was the fact
that he had noticed a distinct tremor in his fingers
while he waited for an improved prep to be made.
He had had worrying moments before in his career,
many, but he could not recall ever having seen his hands shake before.

When he stepped out of the shower he towelled
himself down in front of the big mirror at the back of
the sink and examined himself critically, something
he rarely did. Perhaps the appraisal was inspired by
earlier thoughts of his approaching birthday but he
hadn’t really looked at himself in a long time. He
leaned forward to examine his hair, thinning a bit,
a state exaggerated by it being wet but undeniable nevertheless. He frizzed it at the front with his
fingertips.

His clean-shaven face carried no spare flesh and
his chin line was still firm - well, reasonably firm.
Perhaps there was just the vaguest suggestion of
a double chin there but it disappeared when he
pushed his jaw out a little - so he did. His brown
eyes, when examined closely with the aid of a finger
pulling down the lower lid, seemed clear and bright
and his teeth were straight and reasonably white. His
upper body was well muscled, though softer than it
had been some ten years ago, and the thickening
round the middle he would ascribe to Christmas for
the time being.

He had a slightly low centre of gravity which
kept his height a couple of inches under six feet.
His thighs were a bit too thick and muscular when
they could have done with being a bit slimmer and
longer, a fact which nevertheless had helped him in
his rugby playing days. He had played for Glasgow
University when he was a medical student there.
‘Frankly Bannerman,’ he thought, ‘you’re not going to be in demand as a romantic lead … but then,’ he
reasoned, ‘you never were.’ He wrapped the towel
round his waist and went through to the bedroom
to dress.

The entry phone crackled into life and Stella Lansing’s
voice said, ‘Come on up, Ian.’ The door relay clicked
and released the lock without waiting for him to say
anything.

‘It’s not Ian,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’m a multiple
rapist and I’ve come to have my way with you.’
He climbed the stairs to Stella’s apartment, bottle
in hand, and found the door ajar. He let himself in
and closed it with enough noise to let Stella know he had arrived.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ came her voice from
the kitchen. ‘I’m behind as usual. Help yourself to a
drink.’

Bannerman ignored the suggestion and went
straight to the kitchen where he came up behind Stella and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hello.’

Stella half turned and said, ‘I think I’ve ruined the
potatoes.’

‘Good,’ replied Bannerman. ‘I’m on a diet.’

‘Since when?’ asked Stella.

‘Since this morning.’

‘It’s not like you to care about things like that,’
said Stella.

Bannerman digested the comment in silence. It
deserved some thought.

‘Why don’t you pour us both a drink,’ said Stella,
intent on stirring something on the hob.

This time Bannerman did as he was bid. Stella
joined him a few moments later, undoing her
apron and throwing it casually away as she walked
towards him. Bannerman smiled at the gesture.
Stella did everything with grace and panache. He was reminded of a story he had once heard about
Fred Astaire. It was said that he could walk across stage smoking a cigarette, throw it away, stub it out
with his foot and all without breaking stride.

Stella smoothed her brown hair back from the
sides of her head and straightened her dress before
sitting down. Both gestures were unnecessary. Stella
always liked to maintain that she was disorganized
and ‘in a tizzy’ but it was seldom, if ever, true.
If she had messed up the potatoes it must have
been because God had decreed that they should be
messed up.

Stella sat down beside him and smiled. ‘How was
your day?’ she asked. She had a slightly round face which tempered perfectly her slim elegant figure,
whereas sharper features would have made her
appear forbidding. A pleasantly wide mouth broke into a smile and bestowed on her what Bannerman
always thought of as an air of amused detachment.
An enemy might have seen it as patronizing.