Ken McClure - Crisis

Bannerman recalled the paintings in the windows 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 Things weren’t done that way at St Luke’s. Somewhere along the line the personal touch had been superseded by bleeping monitors and chart recorders. 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.’

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.

He left word on Olive’s desk that if the MRC were to phone she was to tell them he was already on his way to Scotland and would be in touch later in the day. His last act in the lab was to assemble a few post-mortem instruments. He didn’t think he would have to take a full set with him, but concentrated on the type of instruments that the cottage hospital would not have. He left out the knives and scalpels that pathology and surgery had in common.

He knew that the ironware would present a problem at the airport when he went through the metal detector but he was carrying plenty of identification and was quite happy for the knives to travel in the hold of the aircraft. With a last look round, he turned out the fluorescent lights and locked the door. He was on his way.

Bannerman breakfasted lightly at Heathrow, more to break the monotony of waiting than through any feeling of hunger. Afterwards he telephoned Shona to say that he was travelling north. He apologized for phoning so early but she insisted that she was up and dressed and had already been for a walk on the beach.

“Then the weather’s fine up there?’ said Bannerman.

‘At the moment,’ said Shona, ‘but there’s a storm coming in from the west. It may stop the ferry sailing but if it doesn’t I’ll come across to the mainland and meet you in Stobmor.’

‘I hoped you’d say that,’ said Bannerman.

Shona’s predicted storm swept across Scotland an hour later and was in full song when Bannerman’s aircraft crossed the Perthshire hills; the captain apologized for ‘turbulence’ during the approach to Aberdeen airport. Bannerman lost contact with his stomach more than once during the descent, the worst moment being when the aircraft seemed to crab sideways on the final approach before steadying at the last moment to thump down on the tarmac. There were sighs of relief all round in the cabin and Bannerman even noticed a little smile pass between two of the stewardesses as they unbuckled their belts and stood up to prepare for disembarkation.

A ‘mix-up’ in the paperwork meant that his hire car was not waiting for him and he had to wait thirty minutes while uniformed girls made telephone calls and a car was eventually brought out from the city. He passed the time drinking lukewarm coffee at a plastic table in the airport cafe, watching the rain pass horizontally across his field of view outside the window. If it was like this in the west, the ferries would certainly not be running.

The car arrived and Bannerman set off on the road north. The rain changed to sleet just north of Huntly, in distillery country, and became snow as he skirted Inverness, heading for the north-west. The snow was lying on the minor roads and it took him over ninety minutes to negotiate the last twenty miles of the journey. It was six in the evening when he reached Stobmor. He dumped his things in his hotel bedroom and made straight for the cottage hospital.

Bannerman knew from the sound of sobbing as soon as he entered the hospital that he was too late. Through a half-glazed door, leading off the entrance hall, he could see Angus MacLeod comforting a woman he thought must be Colin Turnbull’s wife. She had her back to him and MacLeod held up his hand to signify that he should stay outside for the moment. Bannerman nodded and moved along the hallway to the next room where he found a nurse making tea. He introduced himself.

‘I’m Sister Drummond. Dr MacLeod expected you earlier,’ said the nurse, putting the lid back on the tea pot.

The weather,’ said Bannerman.

‘It is bad,’ conceded the nurse.

‘I take it Colin Turnbull’s dead?’ said Bannerman.

‘Fifteen minutes ago.’

Bannerman could see, although the nurse was trying to give out signs of normality, that she was clearly upset. There was a definite quiver in her cheeks. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently.

The woman nodded but put a hand up to her face as if checking that there were no tears on her face. She swallowed as if preparing to speak. Bannerman waited.

‘I have never …’ she began, ‘I have never seen anyone die that way …’ The words seemed to act as a relief valve. She let out her breath and tears started to flow freely down her face. ‘It was horrible … quite, quite horrible; he seemed possessed …’

The door opened and Angus MacLeod joined them. ‘How’s that tea coming along?’ he asked.

‘It’s ready,’ said the nurse.

‘Perhaps you would sit with Mrs Turnbull for a bit Sister?’

‘Of course Doctor.’

The nurse left the room and MacLeod said, ‘Just too late I’m afraid.’

Bannerman nodded. He said, ‘I hear it wasn’t a very pretty end.’

‘He was totally deranged. The sedation wasn’t enough to keep him under. It wasn’t easy to listen to. I only wish that Julie could have been spared that.’