Ken McClure - Crisis

‘I’ll do that, Doctor …?’

‘Bannerman.’

Bannerman filled in the time with phone calls to London. He spoke to Olive at the lab and then to the chief technician, Charlie Simmons, who told him that everything was going smoothly and that there was nothing to worry about.

‘How about the locum?’ asked Bannerman.

‘He’s about fourteen years old,’ replied Simmons. ‘We should have him trained by the time you get back.’

Bannerman smiled. It was pretty much the reply he had expected. He asked to speak to Leeman but was told that he was carrying out an autopsy. Bannerman said not to disturb him but to tell him that he had called and to pass on his regards. He asked to be transferred to Stella’s extension but the hospital switchboard cut him off somewhere in the proceedings and he had to call again simply to be told that Stella was in theatre. He had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was Angus MacLeod.

‘How can I help you, Dr Bannerman?’ asked MacLeod, in clear, measured tones.

‘I’m looking into the deaths of the three men from Inverladdie, Doctor,’ replied Bannerman. ‘I understand you were their doctor.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ replied MacLeod. “There’s no other practitioner in Achnagelloch.’

‘Perhaps we could talk?’

‘Come on over,’ said MacLeod. ‘When you leave the hotel turn left. Take the first right after the post office and my surgery is on your left, half way up the hill.’

Despite his name and, albeit refined, Scottish accent, there was nothing about Angus MacLeod’s dress to suggest Scottishness. Bannerman found this surprising. For some reason he had expected a tweed jacket at the very least, or perhaps a tartan tie, but no, MacLeod was wearing a dark, three piece suit with a gold watch chain disappearing into his waistcoat pocket. His white shirt was crisp and his tie was a muted dark blue. It went well with his silver hair. Bannerman reckoned that he could not have been far short of seventy but, despite the apparent frailty of his thin body, his voice was strong and his intellect seemed quick and unimpaired.

‘Good of you to see me Doctor,’ said Bannerman, stretching out his hand. He found MacLeod’s grasp firm and free of masonic information. He was shown into what was obviously MacLeod’s consulting room and invited to sit down.

‘There’s really not much I can tell you,’ said MacLeod, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on folded hands.

Bannerman could imagine him adopting this posture in front of generations of patients … Tell me all about it Mrs Macpherson, when did you first notice the swelling …

‘The condition came on so quickly that there was very little I could do, except provide some relief from the pain and give them sedation. One of the men was dead of course when they found him and another was raving mad in the streets. Gordon Buchan was the only one I managed to attend, simply because he had a wife to call me in.’

‘What were your thoughts when you first saw him?’ asked Bannerman.

MacLeod grimaced slightly at the memory. He said, ‘‘I once saw a man die of rabies in North Africa. That’s the only thing I could compare the condition to. Progression into complete dementia with the patient experiencing the most horrible nightmares.’

‘‘I wonder if I might see your case notes on the men?’ asked Bannerman. ‘‘I’m trying to collect together every single detail.’

‘Of course,’ replied MacLeod, getting up stiffly from his chair and opening a three-drawered filing cabinet. He brought out the relevant files and placed them on the desk in front of Bannerman.

‘I understand that some kind of viral meningitis is being blamed for the deaths,’ said MacLeod, as Bannerman worked his way through the slim files.

Bannerman met MacLeod’s eyes briefly and said, That’s what I understand too.’

‘Did you know that the men were employed on burying dead sheep when they fell ill?’

‘I had heard,’ said Bannerman without raising his eyes this time, although his pulse rate rose a little.

The sheep died of Scrapie … Did you know that?’

This time Bannerman felt he could no longer avoid MacLeod’s clever probing. He lifted his head and said, ‘Yes Doctor.’

‘Just so as you know,’ said MacLeod gently with a vaguely amused look on his face.

Bannerman closed the files and stacked them together on the desk. He said, ‘Yes Doctor, you are perfectly right in your suspicions. The Scrapie connection is why I’m here. I apologize for not having come clean with you right away.’

MacLeod shook his head slightly and made a gesture with his hands to signify that no offence had been taken. Then you believe it’s a real possibility?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Bannerman. ‘All the evidence seems to point to the men having contracted sheep Scrapie. I’m trying to prove it and find out just how it happened.’

‘A breach of the species barrier would be no joke,’ said MacLeod.

Bannerman nodded. He had taken a liking to MacLeod. He felt guilty about having misjudged the man when he first heard about the length of his service in the area. He asked, ‘What happened after the men’s deaths?’

‘I requested that post-mortems be carried out by the MRC instead of the area pathologist.’

‘Why?’

‘The symptoms displayed by the men suggested acute brain disease to me and I was aware of the MRC’s national survey. I called Stoddart in Edinburgh and he sent up a chap named Gill and his research assistant, Dr Napier. I must confess I was quite surprised to get George’s letter saying that meningitis was being blamed but I didn’t say anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know my place,’ grinned MacLeod. ‘GPs are the equivalent of village idiots as far as the medical establishment are concerned.’

Bannerman smiled and asked, ‘Do you know Stoddart personally?’

‘I once taught him basic anatomy,’ said MacLeod.

‘I think he forgot,’ said Bannerman and MacLeod’s face broke into a huge grin.

‘I didn’t realize you had taught medicine,’ said Bannerman.

‘Just for three years,’ replied MacLeod, ‘I had a spell in Africa in the fifties, playing at being the saviour of the dark continent and then a lectureship at Edinburgh — a different sort of jungle.’

‘And that’s where you met Stoddart?’

‘He was one of my students. In fact I think I can say that I was responsible for directing Stoddart towards a career in pathology.’

‘Really?’

‘I didn’t want him getting his hands on any live patients,’ smiled MacLeod.

Both men laughed.

‘It hasn’t stopped him getting to the top,’ said Bannerman.

‘Intellectual short-coming seldom does in my experience,’ said MacLeod.

‘So academia wasn’t for you?’ said Bannerman.

‘It certainly wasn’t,’ agreed MacLeod. ‘Academics are more institutionalized than prisoners in jail, only they don’t realize it.’

‘Why general practice?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I wanted to be part of a community, not something outside it. As a GP I’m at the heart of things. I’m in at the beginning and I’m there at the end. It was what I wanted to do and I’ve never regretted it.’

‘There’s not too many people can say that about their lives,’ said Bannerman.

‘On the contrary, Doctor,’ said MacLeod. ‘A lot of people say it but whether or not it’s true is an entirely different matter.’

‘Point taken,’ conceded Bannerman.

‘Would you join me in a drink, Doctor?’ asked MacLeod, opening his desk drawer and taking out a bottle. ‘But first be warned that if you should happen to say, “It’s a little early for me” I may be inspired to violence.’