‘A deep depression centred off Iceland has moved south to bring rain and …’ Bannerman clicked off
the car radio. He didn’t need anyone to tell him
that it was raining cats and dogs as he headed for
Kyle of Lochalsh and the ferry to Skye. Being on
his own, he could indulge himself in the soothing
sounds of Gregorian chant. The sonorous sound
from the cassette player seemed appropriate for the forbidding darkness of the mountains and was only
interrupted by the occasional slap of water against the
floor pan as the Sierra’s wheels hit puddles at speed.
There was only one unscheduled interruption in
the journey, when traffic was held up by a landslide
near Glen Garry for about forty minutes. Eventually,
lumbering yellow mechanical diggers cleared the
road and policemen, wearing fluorescent waistcoats,
waved the traffic on.
Bannerman constantly found himself thinking
back to what had happened up on the Tarmachan
ridge. The fact that he had neither reported the affair
to the police nor consulted a doctor afterwards had
acted in a positive sense to minimize the seriousness
of the incident in his subconscious, but he still felt the
need to analyse it in terms of his personal behaviour.
Very few people are tested to the limit in their lives.
Consequently, many die without ever finding out how they would behave under extreme pressure.
Bannerman found himself examining his behaviour
in relationship to the very reason for his getting away
from the hospital for a while. He had been worried
about his performance under stress.
When seen in this light, he found that he had
reason to be pleased. True, he had been physically
sick with fear but this had happened
after
he had
coped with the situation, not during it. This in turn
reminded him that the shake in his hands at the hos
pital had happened after he had made his decision
on the emergency section, not before it. Maybe his
mental condition was better than he feared.
It was six in the evening when he reached the village
of Ralsay on North Uist. He had crossed on the ferry from the Kyle of Lochalsh to Kyleakin on Skye and
caught another from Uig, in the north of the island,
to Lochmaddy on North Uist. An ancient saloon
car, masquerading as a taxi, had brought him to
Ralsay.
‘Can you drop me at the hotel?’ Bannerman asked
the driver.
There’s no hotel,’ said the driver.
The pub then.’
‘No pub,’ said the driver.
‘Where do visitors stay in Ralsay then?’
They don’t get many.’
Bannerman, who was tired after a long journey,
found himself irritated at the driver’s unhelpful
attitude. There must be somebody who takes in visitors,’ he ventured.
‘You could try Mistress Ferguson along there on
the left,’ said the driver, who had decided that, as far as he was concerned, the journey was over.
‘On the left?’
The house has lions at the door,’ said the driver,
holding out his hand. Bannerman had a mind not to
tip him but relented and gave him an extra pound. ‘Have a drink on me,’ he said. The driver smiled
wanly and drove off. ‘And please God it chokes
you,’ added Bannerman. He walked along the dark
street until he came to the door with the lions. There
was a sign saying ‘Accommodation’ in the window.
It was a welcome sight.
‘Eleven pounds fifty including breakfast,’ said
the severe woman who answered the door. ‘One
pound extra if you want tea and biscuits at bed
time.’
‘Sounds like heaven,’ smiled Bannerman.
The woman looked at him as if he had blas
phemed. ‘Does that mean you will be wanting tea and biscuits?’ she asked.
‘Yes please,’ answered Bannerman meekly. He
followed the woman up a narrow flight of stairs and
into a room where the slope of the roof prevented
him standing upright anywhere other than on a
one-metre wide strip of carpet at the foot of an old brass bed. The room felt cold and smelt musty, but
it was a landlord’s market. Bannerman said it would be fine.
‘In advance,’ said the woman holding out her
hand.
‘Of course,’ smiled Bannerman getting out his
wallet and paying her. The woman examined the
English ten pound note with a look of mild disdain.
‘Actually, I’m a bit hungry at the moment,’
began Bannerman tentatively. ‘I don’t suppose you
could … ?’
‘
I could do you bacon and eggs.’
Bannerman waited for the mention of an alterna
tive but none came. That would be wonderful,’ he
said. ‘I’m most grateful.’
‘Not at all,’ said the woman. ‘We like to make
people feel welcome.’
Bannerman’s attempts at holding a conversation
with Mrs Ferguson, during his meal, all failed. It wasn’t that she was hostile, just uncommunicative.
She did it in such a natural way that Bannerman
concluded that he should take nothing personally
from the monosyllabic replies. This was the way
the woman must behave towards everyone. Tiring
of fruitless attempts at small-talk, he got round to the
purpose of his visit. ‘I’m looking for a woman called
Shona MacLean,’ he confessed. ‘Have you any idea
where I might find her?’
‘Follow the crowd, I should think,’ snapped the
woman.
I’m
sorry?’ replied Bannerman.
That woman is never short of visitors.’ Mrs
Ferguson swept crumbs from the table as if they
were an invading swarm of killer ants.
Bannerman felt uncomfortable, as he always did
in close proximity to domestic frenzy. ‘Does she stay
near here?’ he ventured.
The white house with the red door. Appropriate
if you ask me.’
Thank you,’ said Bannerman, excusing himself
and going upstairs. He tried to see outside from
the small window but inky blackness cloaked the
village. He would have to wait until morning.
A cold, uncomfortable night was followed by a
shave in tepid water and a greasy breakfast of more
bacon and eggs. Bannerman packed his bag and said
his goodbyes to Mrs Ferguson.
‘
I trust we’ll be seeing you here again some time,’
said the woman with as near as she ever came to
a smile.
‘
I hope so,’ smiled Bannerman, thinking it would
be shortly after hell froze over. He walked down
the street to the white house with the red door.
His knock was answered by a good looking woman
in her late twenties; she was wearing jeans, which
emphasized her narrow waist and rounded hips,
and a shapeless grey tee shirt with a dolphin on
it. Her fair hair tumbled round a smiling face that
made Bannerman want to smile in return.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re a new face round here.’
‘I’m looking for Shona MacLean,’ said Bannerman.
‘You’ve found her,’ replied the woman. ‘What can
I do for you?’
‘I hope you can help me find Lawrence Gill,’ said
Bannerman.
The smile faded, and the woman said, ‘I haven’t seen Lawrence for years. Who are you?’
‘I’m Ian Bannerman. I’m a pathologist and I’m
trying to pick up the pieces of what Gill was working
on when he ran off.’
‘Ran off?’ exclaimed Shona MacLean.
‘Frankly, Miss MacLean, Gill’s wife told me that
he had run off to be with you.’
Shona MacLean’s mouth fell open and she looked
genuinely shocked. This came as a surprise to Bannerman. Up till now he thought that Shona
MacLean was lying.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
Bannerman was shown into a pleasant room that
was furnished brightly with an emphasis on pine and chintz. He sat down on a long sofa that lay along the
window wall. Shona perched herself on the arm of
a large matching chair.
‘Can you prove you are who you say you are?’
asked Shona MacLean.
Bannerman took out his wallet and extracted credit
cards, his driving licence and his hospital ID card,
which carried a photograph of him. Shona MacLean
leaned forward to examine them and handed them
back. ‘Do you have a connection with the Medical
Research Council?’ she asked.
Bannerman was surprised at the question. ‘It was they who asked me to carry out this investigation,’
he said. ‘Why do you ask?’ He could see that Shona
MacLean was hiding something. ‘You have seen
Lawrence Gill recently haven’t you?’ he said.
Shona MacLean nodded.
‘He did come here?’
‘Yes, but not for the reason you suppose. Lawrence
and I had an affair years ago, but that was all over. He
came here because he needed a place to hide.’
To hide?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
‘He was terrified. He said that people were
after him and that they would kill him if they
caught him.’
‘But why?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘But he’s on the island?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
Shona nodded. ‘He’s hiding on a neighbouring
island. It’s uninhabited.’
‘But surely he can’t stay there for ever,’ exclaimed
Bannerman. ‘Won’t he be in just as much danger
again when he comes off the island?’
‘Lawrence said not. He gave me a parcel to send
to the Medical Research Council in London. He
said that once they had it, the game would be
over and there would be no point in hounding
him any more.’
‘A parcel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say what was in it?’
Shona shook her head.
‘Describe it.’
Shona indicated a squarish box with her hands.
‘About a foot square I’d say.’
‘And you sent this parcel off?’
‘I took it to the post office in Cairnish.’
‘When?’
‘The nineteenth.’
‘Can I use your phone?’
‘Of course.’
Bannerman called the MRC in London and asked
to speak to Milne. He asked about the parcel.
‘It hasn’t arrived,’ said Milne. ‘What was in it?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Bannerman. He put down
the phone and said, ‘It’s had plenty of time to
get there.’
‘I’ll check with the post office,’ said Shona.
Bannerman sat down again while Shona called the
post office in Cairnish. She began by exchanging
pleasantries with someone called Kirstie. ‘If s about
the parcel I brought in on the nineteenth,’ said
Shona. “The one for London.’
Bannerman watched the expression on Shona’s
face change to one of concern. ‘Dr Gill did?’ she
exclaimed. ‘But that’s impossible … No, no, noth
ing wrong Kirstie. I must have misunderstood
something. Don’t worry about it. See you soon.’
Shona put down the phone slowly and Bannerman waited with baited breath for her to speak.
The post office say that Lawrence came in later
that day to recover the parcel. He showed them
proper identification and Kirstie returned the parcel
to him.’
‘Is that possible?’ asked Bannerman.