Ken McClure - Crisis

‘Because I didn’t have to. It was quite obvious what was wrong with the animals. I’ve seen it before. Apart from that, Scrapie is not a notifiable disease and it costs money to have lab tests done. The farmers don’t like it.’

Bannerman nodded. ‘What exactly happened to the carcasses?’

‘They were buried on the farm in a lime pit.’

‘Immediately?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Why on the farm?’

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘Why do it themselves? Isn’t it more usual to have renderers take carcasses away?’

‘Not any more,’ replied the vet. ‘Firms of renderers used to pay farmers for diseased carcasses and then prepare cattle feed from them, but since it was shown that that was how cows got BSE the government has put a stop to it. The firms now charge the farmers for taking the carcasses away. It’s cheaper to dispose of them themselves.’

‘Thanks for the information,’ said Bannerman.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Finlay, coldly.

‘Have there been any further cases of Scrapie on local farms?’ asked Bannerman.

‘None.’

‘None that you’ve heard of?’

‘I keep my ear to the ground. If s hard to keep a secret in a small community like Achnagelloch. I would know if there had been any other animal problems.’

‘How about the nuclear power station? Have there been any problems with that?’

Finlay smiled and said, ‘Of course. Every time a ewe aborts, a child coughs or a cake fails to rise in the oven, the station gets the blame. People are people and we all need something to blame for our misfortunes.’

‘So you haven’t come across any veterinary problems associated with it?’

‘None that I could ascribe to the station with any degree of certainty, but then that’s always the problem with radiation isn’t it? You can’t see it, you can’t smell it and its effects take some time to show up. Usually by that time you can’t prove it any longer.’

Bannerman sympathized with Finlay’s assessment. ‘One last question,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘How do I get to Inverladdie Farm?’

‘Why do you want to go there?’ exclaimed Finlay.

‘I told you. I want to know everything about the dead men’s lives.’

There doesn’t seem to be much point in wasting time on a sheep farm when …’

‘I’ve plenty of time, Mr Finlay,’ replied Bannerman, evenly.

Finlay gave him directions and showed him to the door.

‘Nice car,’ said Bannerman, referring to the Jaguar.

Finlay nodded and closed the door. Bannerman traced his finger lovingly along the line of the Jag as he passed and thought to himself that country vets must do a lot better than he had ever imagined.

Bannerman had to run the gauntlet of two labrador puppies on his way down the drive. Finlay’s wife, who had been down to the mail box at the entrance, tried to control them with one hand while carrying newspapers and mail with the other. He smiled and made a fuss of them for a few moments before saying goodbye and walking back to the hotel where his car was parked in a small courtyard at the back. When he got there, he found his way barred by two men dressed in leather aprons; they were unloading metal beer canisters from a brewery lorry parked across the entrance. The kegs were being rolled across the cobbles and down a ramp to the hotel’s cellar.

‘They won’t be long,’ said the hotel owner, appearing at the back door of the hotel. ‘Do you want something while you’re waiting?’

‘Coffee,’ replied Bannerman. He left the car and went inside. He almost immediately regretted his decision when he was met by a woman armed with a vacuum cleaner. She was attacking the hall carpet and his feet had the temerity to be on it. He side-stepped into the lounge and closed the glass door in a vain attempt to escape the noise. A few minutes later, coffee appeared and the owner asked what his plans were for the day.

‘I’m going up to Inverladdie Farm,’ replied Bannerman. ‘After that I’m going to try having a chat with the local GP.’

‘Angus MacLeod? A fine man,’ said the hotelier. ‘Some would say he’s getting a bit long in the tooth for the job, but I’m not one of them. The man has a wealth of experience. He’s been our doctor for nearly thirty years now.’

‘Really,’ said Bannerman, putting a possible age of seventy on the man. In his book, doing the same thing year in, year out did not amount to ‘a wealth of experience’ but he kept his thoughts to himself. He finished his coffee and set off for Inverladdie.

There was a contractor’s van parked in front of the whitewashed farmhouse. It bore the name of an Inverness firm of heating engineers and, as if to prove the point, there were several radiators of varying size and a pile of copper piping stacked outside the door. Next to that was a contractor’s skip piled high with what looked like bits of old plumbing.

Bannerman picked his way through the jumble and knocked on the door. There was no answer until he had knocked a second time. A plump woman in her early fifties with a shock of hair that could not make up its mind whether it was fair or grey appeared at the door; she was drying her hands on a tea towel. The towel had ‘Great Bridges of the World’ printed on it. Bannerman recognized the Forth Bridge near the bottom.

‘Yes?’

‘Good morning, my name’s Bannerman. I work for the Medical Research Council. I wonder if I might have a few words with you and your husband?’

‘Medical Research Council? We’ve already had university people here asking questions. What more is there to say?’

‘It won’t take long,’ said Bannerman with a smile.

‘John’s down in the town and we’re having a new heating system installed

‘So I see,’ said Bannerman. ‘John’s your husband?’

‘Yes, John Sproat. I’m Mrs Sproat.’

‘Will he be long?’

‘We’re still a man short on the farm. He went down to see if he could recruit someone.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman, reluctant to leave. He stood his ground until the woman was embarrassed into saying, ‘You’d best come in and have a cup of tea. He might be back by then.’

Agnes Sproat shut the kitchen door and Bannerman was pleased to find that much of the metallic hammering noise from the room next door was muted by it. She put on the kettle and bade Bannerman take a seat at the large scrubbed pine table in the middle of the room. It was a comfortable farmhouse kitchen, light, spacious and a large Aga stove made the room warm and welcoming. ‘We’ve been promising ourselves a new heating system for years,’ said Agnes Sproat. ‘You really need it up here,’ said Bannerman.

‘You’re from London?’

‘Yes.’

‘I went there once, about ten years ago,’ said Agnes Sproat. ‘It was too muggy for me. I couldn’t breathe.’

The sound of a car outside made her lean over the sink to look out of the window. ‘It’s John,’ she said. ‘You’re in luck.’

Bannerman stood up and saw that a white Mercedes saloon had parked outside beside the skip. A tall, gaunt man was getting out; a few moments later he appeared in the kitchen doorway.

By no stretch of the imagination could John Sproat have been called handsome. His skin was sallow, his features sharp and angular and grey hair seemed to sprout from his head at odd angles. Spikes of it stuck up at the back and at both sides. He wore a tweed jacket and trousers. In his hand he carried a deerstalker hat.

‘John, this is Dr Bannerman from the Medical Research Council,’ said Agnes Sproat.

‘What do they want?’ asked Sproat to his wife, as if Bannerman wasn’t there.

‘I’ve come about the three men who died,’ said Bannerman.