‘What do you say gentlemen?’ asked Flowers of
Milne and Bannerman.
‘How long?’ said Bannerman.
Three weeks,’ said Allison.
‘Four,’ said Bannerman.
‘Agreed,’ said Allison, looking to Flowers and Milne. They both indicated their agreement.
Allison looked at his watch and said that he would
have to rush. He left the room and Bannerman
instantly felt more relaxed. He smiled and shook his
head slightly. Men like Allison could steal your eye
teeth and you wouldn’t notice until dinner time.
‘You don’t really think that Bell’s death could be
coincidence do you?’ asked Flowers.
‘No I don’t,’ said Bannerman. ‘Mind you, I hope
with all my heart that it was.’
The days passed and Bannerman felt himself being
drawn back into the routine lifestyle that he had
known before going to Scotland. His friendship with
Stella had changed however. They did not see each
other as often as before and he no longer felt that he
could do things like ring her up in the middle of the
night to discuss some problem. He supposed that it
was inevitable that the relationship should change
and he felt sad in a way, but on the other hand his
feelings for Shona were undiminished.
The highlight of each and every day was the phone
call to Shona in the evening. For the first time in his
life he wanted to tell someone everything. Matters
that previously would have seemed too trivial to rate
a mention had to be imparted to Shona in detail. He knew this made him vulnerable but it was a
new and not unpleasant experience. He had been
keeping people at arm’s length all his life.
‘Still no word from the north?’ asked Shona.
‘No,’ said Bannerman. That’s ten days now.’
‘Do you still think there will be other cases?’
‘Yes. I’m convinced Bell contracted the same dis
ease as Buchan and the other two men. That means
the outbreak did not end with the burial of the
infected sheep on Inverladdie. If we can show there
was some connection, then there is still a chance that
the outbreak may be contained locally. If not, then
there must be another source of the disease that we haven’t even thought of. There’s just so much about
this whole affair that we don’t understand.’
Ts there nothing you can do in the meantime?’
asked Shona.
Bannerman said not. ‘It’s just a matter of waiting
and hoping I’m wrong.’
‘I’ll hope with you,’ said Shona.
‘
I think we all better do that,’ said Bannerman,
‘If there is another case, will you be involved in the
investigation or will it be taken out of your hands?’ asked Shona.
Bannerman hadn’t considered the possibility of
not being involved. He said, ‘I’m going to see it
through whatever they say.’
‘
I understand,’ said Shona.
‘Whatever happens, I’ll come up for a long week
end at the end of the month, if that’s all right with
you? We’ve lots to talk about.’
‘Of course,’ said Shona gently. ‘I’ll count the
days.’
‘I’m sorry it can’t be sooner,’ said Bannerman.
‘Come when you can,’ said Shona.
After almost three weeks with no word from the
MRC, Bannerman began to think that his worst
fears might not after all be realized. One more
week and the government would get the statement
it wanted from the Council and that would be the
end of the matter. The government would be happy,
the farmers would be happy. Everyone would be
happy … except Ian Bannerman. For him the fact
would remain that seven people had died and a
terrifying new disease had been created, even if
it had disappeared for the moment. The outbreak
would be conveniently forgotten by those in charge, those he saw as ostriches, happy ostriches with their
heads safely back in the sand.
Newsnight
had just finished on television and
Bannerman was about to go to bed when the tele
phone rang. It was Angus MacLeod in Achnagelloch.
Bannerman knew immediately why he must be call
ing and lost all trace of drowsiness.
‘There’s been another case?’ he asked without
preamble.
‘Yes,’ replied MacLeod.
Bannerman closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Tell
me.’
‘I was called out earlier this evening to see a young
labourer. His wife called me because she thought he
was behaving oddly. I recognized in him the same
symptoms displayed by Gordon Buchan.’
‘But he’s alive?’
‘Yes,’ agreed MacLeod. ‘But for how much longer
I don’t know. I’ve sedated him and had him moved
to the cottage hospital at Stobmor. What do you think
about a transfer?’
‘Where were you thinking of?’ asked Bannerman.
‘In view of what we both suspect, I thought we
might try getting him admitted to the Department
of Surgical Neurology at the Western General in
Edinburgh but in another way I’m loath to do it.’
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Bannerman.
‘
I think if we’re honest we have to recognize that
there’s no chance of saving his life. We’d be moving
him to get as much neurological information about
the course of the disease as we can. DSN at the Western General has all the right equipment. But
whether or not this would be fair on his wife is
another matter.’
‘I see,’ said Bannerman, appreciating the moral
dilemma. ‘My own view is that the only conclusive
data we’ll get about the disease will come from
post-mortem material. Reams of EEC print-out isn’t
going to tell us much.’
‘
In that case I think I should keep him here.’
‘Agreed,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’m going to come up
there. I’d like to see the man for myself.’
‘Very good.’
‘You said he was a labourer. A farm labourer?’
‘No, he works at the stone quarry.’
‘Any connection with the patients who have
already died?’
‘No family connection this time I’m afraid, but I
did have one thought …’
‘Yes?’
‘The quarry lies to the west of Inverladdie Farm.
It’s not inconceivable that infected sheep could have
wandered over there.’
‘
That’s a thought,’ agreed Bannerman, ‘but he
would still have had to come into close contact with
the infected animals to pick up the virus through cuts
or grazes.’
‘Quarry workers invariably have plenty of these,’
said Munro.
‘I suppose so,’ said Bannerman, still not con
vinced. ‘I’d better have a note of some patient
details.’ He straightened up the pad by the telephone
and flicked off the cap of his pen with his thumb.
MacLeod dictated, ‘Male, twenty-eight years old,
no medical history to speak of. Apart from headaches
over the past week there was no real sign of illness
until yesterday when his wife noticed lapses in
concentration. She said he appeared at times to go
into a trance. Today his behaviour became irrational
and alarmed her so much that she called me in.’
‘In what way irrational?’
‘She found him eating the food in the dog’s bowl,
then he tried to go to work without any boots on.
When she tried to talk to him, she says he looked at
her as if he didn’t know her, sometimes as if he hated
her. They’ve always been such a loving couple; she’s
taking it very badly.’
‘
That’s understandable,’ said Bannerman.
‘
In view of what happened with Andrew Bell, I
didn’t think I could risk leaving Turnbull at home,
even with sedation. That’s why I had him moved to
the cottage hospital.’
‘Did you say “Turnbull”?’ asked Bannerman.
‘Colin Turnbull,’ said MacLeod.
‘Hell and damnation,’ said Bannerman.
‘You know him?’
‘He was a regular in the bar of the hotel when I
was up there, I liked him.’
‘A bright chap,’ said MacLeod. ‘He was doing a degree part-time.’
‘
I remember,’ said Bannerman.
‘His wife, Julie, is the primary school teacher in
Stobmor.’
Bannerman recalled the paintings in the win
dows of the school. He asked, ‘Who knows about
Turnbull’s condition?’
‘You can’t keep secrets in a place this size,’ replied
MacLeod. ‘Stories of another meningitis case will be
all over town by now.’
‘Damn,’ said Bannerman.
‘You can’t keep this sort of thing under wraps for
ever,’ said MacLeod.
‘
That isn’t what was worrying me,’ said
Bannerman.
‘
Then what?’
‘
I think it would be an excellent idea if some kind
of guard were placed on Colin Turnbull.’
‘He’s heavily sedated. I don’t think he’s a danger
to anyone,’ said MacLeod.
‘It’s the danger to him I was thinking about,’ said
Bannerman.
‘
I don’t understand,’ said MacLeod.
‘Not everyone wants us to get to the bottom of
this outbreak Doctor.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to spend the night at the hospital,’ said
MacLeod, ‘and Julie Turnbull will be there as well,
so he won’t be alone.’
‘I didn’t realize you intended staying with him
Doctor,’ said Bannerman.
‘I brought Colin Turnbull into the world twenty-
eight years ago,’ said MacLeod. ‘I was a guest at his
wedding to Julie and I was around when their child
was stillborn three years ago. It seems that fate has decreed that Colin Turnbull will die soon, so I will
be there to make him as comfortable as possible and
to do what I can for Julie.’
‘Of course,’ said Bannerman, feeling alienated.
Things weren’t done that way at St Luke’s. Some
where along the line the personal touch had been
superseded by bleeping monitors and chart record
ers. If anyone else had said what MacLeod just had he would have found it corny, but because he knew
and liked MacLeod he felt slightly ashamed.
‘When can we expect you?’ asked MacLeod.
‘I intend getting the first British Airways shuttle
to Aberdeen in the morning. I’ll pick up a hire car
at the airport and with a bit of luck I should make
it by mid-afternoon.’
‘Shall I book you into a hotel?’ asked MacLeod.
That would be kind.’
‘Achnagelloch or Stobmor?’
‘Stobmor. The hospital’s there. Doctor
…
I hate
to have to ask this but
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have the facilities for me to carry out a
post-mortem?’
‘
There’s a small operating theatre. You could
use that.’
THIRTEEN
Bannerman watched the hours pass slowly by on
the clock by his bedside. At two-thirty he knew that
he was not going to be able to sleep, so he got up. He decided to go in to the hospital, changing his original plan about phoning staff later in the day.
Going in personally would give him the chance
to leave notes for those his absence would affect
most, Olive, Charlie Simmons and Nigel Leeman.
The hospital authorities would not be too enchanted
with his sudden disappearance but going through
official channels would take too much time, and
he didn’t have it; he suspected Colin Turnbull had
even less.