Ken McClure - Crisis

‘Where’s the body?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Downstairs in the cellar, we’re using it as a makeshift mortuary. Do you want to see him?’

‘Yes,’ said Bannerman.

‘I’ll just check that Julie’s all right,’ said MacLeod. He was gone for only a moment before returning and saying, ‘It’s this way.’

MacLeod led the way through a heavy wooden door that led to a flight of stone steps. Bannerman noticed an immediate change of temperature as they left the centrally heated hospital to descend into the unheated stone cellar.

MacLeod clicked on the cellar light, a single bulkhead lamp surrounded by a wire cage, drenched in cobwebs. It seemed to fill the room with shadows rather than light. Turnbull’s body lay in the middle of the room on a slatted wooden bench; it was covered with a sheet which had been tucked in around the contours so that it was quite obvious what lay under it. The scene made Bannerman think of discoveries in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, but Turnbull was no ancient pharaoh; he was currently the only clue to a terrible disease.

Bannerman walked over to the body, untucked the sheet from the head and pulled it back. He recoiled at the sight. Turnbull’s eyes were open and his teeth were bared as if poised to leap up at him and grab his throat. But it was simply a death mask, the death mask of a man who had died in the throes of agony.

‘I’m sorry, there wasn’t time to do much about that,’ murmured MacLeod. ‘I had his wife to take care of. She was very upset.’

Bannerman tried to close Turnbull’s eyes but found the skin stretched too tightly across his eyelids. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘Some kind of early rigor, maybe connected with the disease.’ He found the same problem with the cheek muscles; they had contracted to tighten the skin at the sides of Turnbull’s mouth. ‘Will you ask Mrs Turnbull for PM permission?’ he asked MacLeod.

MacLeod was obviously reluctant. ‘She has just been through the most horrific experience,’ he said. ‘Could it wait until morning?’

Bannerman looked at the corpse, now re-covered with the sheet, and said, Td rather you did it now, if you think it at all possible.’

MacLeod shrugged and said, ‘I’ll see what sort of state she’s in when we go upstairs.’

‘What on earth …’ exclaimed MacLeod as he opened the door at the head of the cellar stairs and heard voices in the hallway. When Bannerman came out into the light he saw that there were three men talking to Sister Drummond inside the front door. He recognized one of them as the Dutchman, van Gelder; the other two were strangers, workmen by their appearance. The nurse stopped talking to the men and came over to MacLeod. She said, ‘Doctor, Mr Turnbull’s employer and two of his friends have come to see how he is.’ ‘You’ve told them?’ asked MacLeod quietly. ‘Yes Doctor. They’d like to see Mrs Turnbull.’ ‘Ask them to wait in the side room would you?’ said MacLeod.

As the nurse turned away MacLeod said to Bannerman, ‘I’ll see if Julie will sign the permission form.’ He left Bannerman standing in the hallway. Van Gelder saw him and smiled a greeting. He came over to shake hands saying, ‘Good to see you again Doctor, I thought you had left the area.’

‘I had,’ agreed Bannerman.

‘But no need to ask why you are back, eh? Another tragedy. What a terrible business. Turnbull was one of my most reliable workers. When are you chaps going to get to the bottom of it?’

‘Soon I hope,’ said Bannerman.

The other two men were looking across at them talking. The nurse was holding open the side room door, waiting to usher all three of them inside. Bannerman was aware that the look on the men’s faces was distinctly hostile. He wondered why; he didn’t know them.

‘Are these men Colin’s workmates?’ he asked van Gelder quietly.

‘I met them outside,’ said van Gelder. They’re old friends I understand,’ replied the Dutchman. ‘They’re employed at the power station. One of them told me he was in Turnbull’s class at school.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman. He remembered how Turnbull had once warned him about the ill feeling he was generating among the nuclear power workers. This was how he had known. Some of his friends worked at the station.

‘Is everything all right Doctor?’ asked van Gelder.

‘Yes,’ replied Bannerman distantly.

Everyone in the hall was suddenly startled by the sound of a female voice raised in anger. It was Julie Turnbull. Embarrassed glances were exchanged as the sound of her voice grew louder and louder until she was screaming, ‘No! No! On no account! Just leave my Colin alone!’

Julie Turnbull came bursting out of the room where she had been with MacLeod. She saw the two power workers and threw herself into the arms of one of them. ‘They want to cut Colin’s head off!’ she sobbed. They want his brain!’ ‘Jesus,’ said one of the men with open disgust. ‘No one is going to touch Colin,’ said the other man, holding Julie close to him.

Bannerman and MacLeod exchanged uneasy looks. MacLeod shrugged his apologies.

‘Mrs Turnbull,’ began Bannerman. ‘Believe me, no one is going to cut…’

The man holding her interrupted him with a stream of abuse. ‘Fucking doctors! What fucking use have you been, huh? Why don’t you just piss off and leave us all alone!’

Bannerman backed off, sensing that the situation was beyond saving for the moment. Van Gelder stepped forward diplomatically and intervened. ‘My dear Mrs Turnbull,’ he said, ‘perhaps you would allow me to drive you home? My car is just outside. Or perhaps there is somewhere else you would rather go? A relative or friend?’

Thank you,’ replied Julie, recovering her composure. She turned to MacLeod and said, Tm sorry Doctor … but I meant what I said.’

MacLeod nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. Julie made a point of ignoring Bannerman completely and left the hospital, supported by van Gelder. The two power station workers followed behind. Both of them gave Bannerman looks that suggested he might be wise to steer clear of them on dark nights. One said, ‘No one touches Colin’s body. Understand?’ Bannerman did not dignify the threat with a reply. He just stared at the man balefully until the man broke eye contact and left.

‘I’m sorry,’ said MacLeod. ‘I made a complete mess of it.’

‘It was my fault for rushing you into it,’ said Bannerman. ‘It would have been better to wait until the morning. The question now is, what the hell do we do?’

‘You can enforce it legally,’ said MacLeod.

‘I know,’ said Bannerman, ‘but I’m not insensitive to what that would mean for you.’ He knew that if MacLeod did not sign the death certificate Turnbull’s death would be classed as ‘sudden’ and would therefore merit a post-mortem examination as required by Scottish law, whether his wife gave permission or not. The locals would construe this as treachery by their GP since he knew of Julie Turnbull’s wishes.

‘Thanks,’ said MacLeod.

‘What would you say to a compromise?’ asked Bannerman.

MacLeod raised his eyebrows. ‘A compromise?’

Despite the fact that he trusted MacLeod, Bannerman still felt a little wary of making his suggestion. He said cautiously, ‘I could make do with a needle biopsy.’

MacLeod looked at him as if he hadn’t heard properly.

‘I could insert a wide gauge needle into Turnbull’s brain and get the samples I need without doing the full PM head job. I could do it so that it wouldn’t be noticeable to laymen. That way no post-mortem will have been carried out and Mrs Turnbull’s wishes will have been respected. You can sign the death certificate and your standing in the community will remain undiminished.’