Ken McClure - Crisis

‘I bet you eat butter too,’ smiled Shona.

‘And I like caffeine in my coffee.’

‘I hope you don’t go around saying things like that to the patients,’ said Shona.

‘I’ve never told anyone that before,’ said Bannerman, wondering why he was doing so now.

Bannerman became silent as Shona’s fingers brought relief from the nagging pain, but Gill’s death was uppermost in his mind.

Shona made up a futon bed for Bannerman in the room upstairs she used as a studio. The room had a large angled window set in the roof, which meant that he could lie on his back and look up at the stars set in a crisp, dear sky. The frost in the air made a halo round the brightest ones. There was a smell of oil paint in the room but it was not strong enough to be unpleasant and it reminded Bannerman of school days and the chaos of the art classroom. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore outside prolonged thoughts of childhood and conjured up images of family holidays and the elusive happiness that went with them.

At any other time such a pleasant ambience would have ensured that he drift off into a comfortable sleep, but not tonight. The thought of Gill’s body lying broken on the rocks, with the waves breaking over it, kept returning to haunt him. Gill must have found out something about the deaths that no one else knew. Something so important that he was murdered to keep him quiet. It didn’t seem to make any sense. He had already made known his suspicions about the involvement of the Scrapie agent in the affair and had forwarded sections of the brains to the MRC for examination. What more was there to know? What was the point of sending the brains to London, if that really was what was in the parcel.

After some further thought, Bannerman decided that there was one major difference between the sections of brain that Gill had sent to London and the actual missing brains themselves. The sections could be considered ‘dead’ material; the fixing procedure during the preparation would have killed off any live virus. The brains themselves however, would comprise a source of live virus. Was that the reason Gill had tried to send the parcel to the MRC? Because it contained live virus material? Bannerman felt a chill run up his spine as he thought about the interception of the parcel. He wondered why anyone would want to get their hands on such a deadly thing.

A whole range of nightmares queued up for consideration, ranging from criminal blackmail to the use of the virus as the ultimate biological weapon. Deranging large numbers of one’s enemies could be a good deal more effective than killing them. A SCUD missile full of brain destroying virus falling in the streets of Tel Aviv was not a pretty thought and, unlike nuclear weaponry, it would be cheap. Bannerman decided that he was letting his imagination run away with him. Apart from anything else the ‘new virus’ was still a matter of conjecture. Who knew about the possibility outside the Medical Research Council … and Her Majesty’s Government? This thought made Bannerman change tack. Maybe whoever had intercepted the parcel had not been interested in obtaining the live infecting agent at all? … Maybe they had simply wanted to destroy all evidence of it … to stop any further investigation?

When he woke, Bannerman took a leisurely shower in Shona MacLean’s bright, modern bathroom and looked out at the early morning sunshine as he towelled himself down. It was so pleasant to be in a bathroom that had no need of frosted glass. He could watch the waves break on the shore. The smell of coffee brewing gave his appetite an edge as he dressed and went downstairs to find Shona in the kitchen.

‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.

‘Eventually,’ said Bannerman. ‘How about you?’

‘Eventually,’ agreed Shona. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Lawrence. He was such a gentle man. I just can’t believe that anyone would have wanted to murder him.’

Bannerman nodded sympathetically but couldn’t think of anything to add.

‘You’ve had no new ideas?’ asked Shona.

Bannerman shrugged and shook his head. ‘Not really, but somehow I’m more than ever convinced that the answer lies in Achnagelloch.’

‘Don’t you think that maybe it would be a good idea to tell the police everything after all?’

‘Not just yet,’ said Bannerman.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Shona.

Shona phoned for a taxi for Bannerman while he packed his things. He hoped it wouldn’t be the same driver who had brought him to the village and his heart sank when he recognized the car as it pulled up outside. The same unsmiling man knocked at the door.

Take care,’ smiled Shona.

‘Thanks for everything,’ said Bannerman. ‘Not least for saving me from another night at Mrs Ferguson’s place!’

‘Keep in touch,’ said Shona.

‘I’d like that,’ said Bannerman, opening the door.

‘Oh it’s you,’ said the driver.

‘Correct,’ replied Bannerman.

‘I thought you were staying with Mrs Ferguson?’

‘Did you?’ replied Bannerman, getting into the car.

The first mile passed in silence and Bannerman would have preferred that the pattern continue, but the driver’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘Would your visit have been business or pleasure then?’ he asked, with an attempt at what he considered a friendly smile.

‘Business,’ said Bannerman curtly, turning to look out the window again.

‘And what exactly would your line of business be?’

They had almost reached the end of the journey. Bannerman waited until the car had stopped before replying. He brought out his wallet and said, ‘I’m an inspector of taxes. I work for the Inland Revenue.’ He handed over the fare and a pound extra and said as a parting shot, ‘Don’t forget to declare the tip, will you?’

The journey back to the mainland was uneventful and the Sierra started first time when he turned the key. With a last wistful look over the water Bannerman said a silent farewell to Shona MacLean and set out for Achnagelloch.

For the first three hours the weather was kind and Bannerman felt quite relaxed when he stopped for lunch at a small village pub. The owner turned out to be an Englishman from Surrey who, after a lifetime in Insurance, had sold up everything down south and moved to the north of Scotland to run the hotel.

‘How long have you been here?’ Bannerman asked.

‘This is our third winter,’ replied the man.

‘Does the reality match the dream?’

‘I wish to Christ I’d never moved,’ replied the man as he cleared away the dishes and bumped open the kitchen door with his backside.

Bannerman did not inquire further.

The rain started just south of Loch Shin and got progressively heavier until the wipers found it hard to cope. Bannerman had to slow to a crawl when he found the road along the west side of Loch Mor badly flooded. At times it was hard to tell where the loch ended and where the highway began. He prayed that the Sierra’s electrics would survive the deluge of water from both above and below the car and purposely kept it in low gear to keep the revs high. After more than one heart stopping moment he was relieved to find the road climbing to higher ground. He lit a cigarette and began to relax a little but the feeling was short lived: it stopped when the signposts directed him to leave the main A 838 road and start out on the tortuous trail along minor B roads to Achnagelloch.

He had travelled barely a mile before he was brought to a halt by rocks on the road. They had been swept down from the barren hillside by the torrents of rain water. There was no alternative but to get out and clear a passage through them. Luckily none of the rocks were too big or too heavy to move, he managed most of them with his feet but he still got very wet in the process. ‘Bloody country,’ he mumbled as he got back in the car and slammed the door. It was seven o’clock when he reached Achnagelloch and found it as welcoming as a writ.