The rain that had been threatening for the last two
hours finally arrived as Bannerman nursed the car
up the track to Inverladdie Farm. One moment he
was driving up a clearly defined farm road, the
next he was moving slowly up the bed of a fast
flowing river.
When he eventually reached the cottage he was
pleased to see that someone was at home. There
was a light on in the kitchen. He made a run for the
shelter of the porch and knocked on the door. It was
answered by a very tanned woman in her thirties;
her hair had been bleached almost blonde by recent
exposure to the sun. She was wearing tight-fitting
jeans and a white sweater with a small gold crucifix
dangling over it. Her feet were bare.
‘Mrs Buchan? I’m Ian Bannerman. I wonder if I
could ask you a few questions?’
May Buchan looked as if she might have argued the
point had the weather been kinder but rain and wind
were funnelling in through the open door. She said,
‘You’d better come in.’
Bannerman explained who he was and expressed
his sympathy at the death of her husband and
parents.
May thanked him automatically and stared
at his glasses. ‘It’s not exactly sunny,’ she said.
Bannerman touched the glasses self-consciously
and said, ‘I have a slight eye problem.’ He thought
it rather rude of May Buchan to have made the comment, but at least it told him what kind of person she
was. On the other hand, maybe the loss of three close
relations in quick succession had simply stripped the
veneer of social nicety from her?
‘I see,’ she said, still staring.
Bannerman tried to establish some kind of rapport
with her. ‘You have a wonderful tan,’ he said. ‘You
didn’t get that in Bonnie Scotland.’
‘Nassau.’
‘The Bahamas?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
‘The Sproats have been very kind. They paid for
the trip. They thought it would help me get over
Gordon’s death.’
‘That was very nice of them,’ said Bannerman, thinking that he had misjudged John Sproat.
‘It was a surprise,’ said May. ‘Unfortu
nately while I was away my father … well, you
know.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ll come straight
to the point. I’m trying to establish a connection
between your husband’s death and your father’s
and I’d like you to help me find it.’
May looked uncertain. ‘But Gordon died of
meningitis. Dad wasn’t ill. Something just snapped
inside him and he went on the rampage. What sort
of connection could there be?’ she asked.
‘
I think they were both suffering from the same ill
ness,’ said Bannerman. ‘Your husband was working with the infected sheep on the farm before he fell ill
wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he and the others were burying them in the
lime pit.’
‘Was your father involved in this at all?’ asked
Bannerman.
‘My father?’ exclaimed May Buchan as if it was
the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. ‘No,
of course not. He never came near the farm at the
best of times. Apart from that he and Gordon didn’t
exactly see eye to eye.’
‘So they didn’t see each other socially?’
May shook her head. ‘Once a year at
most.’
‘But you saw your mother and father?’
‘I visited them in the town, usually once a week.’
‘Can you think of any way your father could
have come into contact with the infected sheep on
Inverladdie Farm?’
‘No,’ said May shaking her head in annoyance. ‘What’s all this about sheep? Why do you keep
going on about sheep? Gordon died of meningitis.’
‘The truth is that we’re not quite sure what your
husband and the others died of. It is just possible that
infected sheep were involved,’ said Bannerman.
May looked as if she had been struck.
Despite her tan, Bannerman saw her pale visibly.
‘What the hell do you mean, “involved”?’ she
rasped. ‘The sheep died of
Scrapie;
the vet said so.’
Bannerman proceeded carefully. He said, ‘It is
possible that it wasn’t an ordinary strain of
Scrapie
but something that could be transmitted to man.’
‘Oh my God,’ said May.
The air was electric. Bannerman knew he was on
the verge of finding out something important. He
mustn’t push May Buchan too hard. He let the silence
put pressure on her.
‘Oh Christ!’ said May, burying her head in
her hands.
Bannerman remained silent.
‘
I can give you your connection,’ said May
between sobs. ‘Gordon and the two others … and
my father
…
ate meat from one of the sheep.’
‘
They ate it?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
May nodded. ‘In the past when there’s
been a
Scrapie
outbreak old man Sproat has got the
beasts off to market as quickly as possible.’
‘But surely that’s illegal?’ said Bannerman.
‘Everyone knows that
Scrapie
doesn’t affect human
beings so where’s the harm? If the farmers declare the
disease, government compensation isn’t anything like market value so what can you expect?’
‘But Sproat didn’t send them to market this time,’
said Bannerman.
‘It all happened too quickly for him,’ said May. ‘The sheep were dropping like flies. He
called in the vet and after a lot of discussion old man
Sproat and the vet told Gordon and the others it was
Scrapie.
They were to bury the carcasses in a lime pit.’
May had to pause for a moment to compose
herself before going on. ‘Gordon thought this was a
bit of a waste so he and the others kept one of the
sheep and brought it here. They butchered it and I
put it in the freezer.’
‘And they all ate it?’
‘Gordon asked the two other sheep workers to
Sunday dinner to thank them for their help.’
‘But you?’
‘
I’m vegetarian and so is
my mother.’
‘But the connection with your father?’ asked
Bannerman.
May dabbed at her eyes with a paper
tissue. ‘Just before I went off on holiday I went to
see my mother. I took some mutton chops from the
freezer. I thought they would do for Dad’s dinner.’
‘I see,’ said Bannerman. His mind was reeling from
the information. Here surely was the proof that sheep
Scrapie
had been implicated in the men’s deaths. ‘Mrs
Buchan did you know a man called Colin Turnbull?’
he asked.
May looked at him blankly. ‘Never heard
of him,’ she replied.
‘Are you sure?’ Bannerman pressed. This was the
one remaining link he had to forge.
‘I’m certain,’ said May. ‘Who is he?’
‘He was a quarry worker. His wife is the primary
school teacher in Stobmor.’
‘
Sorry. Don’t know them.’
‘Is there any chance that your husband might have
known Colin Turnbull?’
‘
I suppose so,’ said May, ‘but I think not.
If Gordon had known him, so would I; it’s as simple
as that in a place like this.’
Bannerman nodded, disappointed that he had
failed at the final hurdle. Then suddenly he had
a thought which wiped out all thoughts of disap
pointment. ‘Mrs Buchan,’ he said, trying to disguise
the excitement he felt welling up inside him, ‘do you
have any of the sheep left in the freezer?’
‘Well… yes,’ replied May.
Bannerman closed his eyes momentarily and gave
silent thanks. ‘I need some for testing,’ he said.
May got up and went through to the
kitchen. Bannerman followed her and watched as
she raised the lid of a chest freezer. She lifted out
a couple of white plastic bags and handed them to Bannerman. ‘Will this be enough?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ said Bannerman. ‘What happened to the
remains of the carcass?’
‘Gordon buried it out the back.’
‘In lime?’
‘No.’
‘Can you show me where?’
May opened the kitchen door and pointed
to the dry-stone dyke at the foot of the garden. She
said, ‘Just there,’ pointing to a far corner.
‘I’ll need a shovel.’
‘In the shed round the corner.’
Bannerman fastened up his collar against the
weather and asked if May had any plastic bags.
She opened a drawer and handed him a couple of
bin liners. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.
‘Kitchen knives, sharp ones.’
May pointed to a wooden block next to
the draining board. It held half a dozen knives. He
selected two.
Bannerman was wet through in no time but it didn’t
matter. His excitement at having found a source of
pathological evidence took precedence over all other
considerations. He even took comfort from the fact
that the rain had made the ground soft and easy to
turn over with the spade. The remains of the sheep were not deep. At the first sign of them he stopped
using the spade and knelt down to remove earth with
his hands, like an archaeologist uncovering precious
artefacts of a long-departed civilization.
He found the head and lifted it clear of the mud.
A worm crawled out of an eye socket but apart from
that it seemed to be in reasonably good condition.
He carried it over to the tool shed to gain some protection from the elements while he got to work with the knives.
As he worked, he reassured himself with thoughts that the
Scrapie
agent was one of the toughest infec
tive agents known to man. It could survive treatment
which would sterilize any other known virus or
bacterium in the world. A relatively short time lying
in the soil would have no adverse effect at all. He managed to recover at least fifty grams of brain
material and knew that that would be quite sufficient
for analysis. With all his samples safely into plastic
bags, Bannerman secured the necks and left them
in the shed while he re-buried the remains of the
sheep.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ asked May
when he returned to the house.
Bannerman nodded.
‘When will you know for sure?’
‘Probably within three to six weeks,’ replied
Bannerman. He saw the look of self-recrimination in the woman’s eyes and said, ‘You really mustn’t blame yourself you know.’
‘I served it up to them. I killed them.’
‘
There was no way you could have possibly
known. As you say,
Scrapie
has always been considered harmless to human beings.’
‘Why should it be any different this time?’
Bannerman shook his head and said, ‘I don’t
know, but with a bit of luck, and these,’ he held
up the bags, ‘I’m going to find out.’
Bannerman turned as he got to the door and said,
‘Mrs Buchan I would be very grateful if you would
say nothing about this to anyone. Nothing has been proved as yet.’