Crisis

might be one which speeded up the disease rather than allowing it to cross any barrier. It was a complication he would have to bear in mind.

Although Gill had referred to the possibility of ‘mutant’ Scrapie in the notes he had not offered any thoughts on what might have caused the mutation. No mention was made of radiation or the proximity of a nuclear power station. If it hadn’t been radiation, what else could it have been? Bannerman wondered. Chemical or spontaneous mutation were the other two possibilities. Viruses were notorious for changing their structure. The AIDS virus did it all the time. The ‘flu’ virus did it too. UV radiation? UV light was a powerful mutagen. It was not inconceivable that changes in the ozone layer might allow UV levels to reach mutagenic levels. Chemical mutagenesis? Modern society produced a host of chemicals capable of altering DNA and inducing mutations. The possibilities seemed endless.

There were several practical questions that Bannerman wanted to ask. How soon after the diagnosis of Scrapie in the sheep of Inverladdie had the infected animals been slaughtered, and by what means? Had the corpses been buried quickly? Dead sheep lying around the hillside would be prey to vermin and carrion which would spread the virus.

Gill’s notes indicated that the local vet, Finlay, had been called in quickly by the farmer. According to Finlay’s report, the infected sheep had been slaughtered without delay and the corpses had been buried immediately in lime pits on the farm. Everything seemed satisfactory. Compensation had been paid to the farmer at Inverladdie and the veterinary inspectorate were keeping an eye on other farms in the area for further signs of Scrapie.

Bannerman found a problem with the research notes, however, when he tried to find out what experimental measures had been taken to investigate the pathology of the men’s deaths. He checked through all the papers again but found nothing. He felt sure that brain samples would have been sent to the Neurobiology Unit for testing in mice. He would check. He got out his diary where he had made a note of Hector Munro’s number, and called it. He remembered that Munro had said at the meeting in London that his people would be happy to give any help they could.

‘Munro.’

‘Dr Munro? This is Ian Bannerman. We met at the MRC in London.’

‘Of course, you decided to take the assignment then?’

‘This is my first day,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ve been going through the case notes and I find I need some information.’

‘Fire away.’

‘I presume Gill asked your people to test the brains of the dead men for confirmation of slow virus infection and to measure incubation times in mice. Do you have any results yet?’

‘I’m afraid you presume wrongly,’ replied Munro. ‘Gill did not send us anything from the autopsies.’

‘But your people are the acknowledged experts on this sort of thing!’ said Bannerman. The short incubation time is one of the most striking and worrying features about this whole business!’

‘I wouldn’t disagree with that,’ said Munro, ‘but nothing has come to us. I supposed that Stoddart’s people were carrying out their own investigation.’

Bannerman let out a sigh of frustration. ‘Departmental politics,’ he complained. ‘I’ll check on that. In the meantime would you mind if I sent you some brain biopsies for mice inoculation. I understand the men’s bodies are in the medical school here in Edinburgh. I’ll take the samples myself.’

‘We’d be delighted to help in any way,’ said Munro. The sooner we got this sorted out the better.’

Thanks. I’ll get them to you as quickly as I can.’

Bannerman put down the phone and cursed under his breath. What the hell was Gill playing at? He must have seen the awful implications in the men’s deaths, and yet he had failed to send samples to Munro’s Unit, and he had picked this very moment to bugger off with some dolly-bird. ‘Clown!’ he murmured. He called Stoddart to be told by his secretary that he had left for the day. He looked at his watch and muttered, ‘Short day George.’ He remembered that he would be seeing him later for dinner. He could ask about it then.

The Stoddarts lived in a spacious Georgian Flat in Edinburgh’s new town, the elegant area to the north of the castle and Princes Street, favoured by the professional classes. The room was freezing. Bannerman had to exercise great restraint in not rubbing his arms to keep the circulation going. A ‘small problem’ with the hearing, as George Stoddart called it, had been compensated for by placing a single-bar electric fire at the head of the dining-room. In a room which was thirty feet long and something like fourteen feet high, this did not make a lot of difference.

The room was also oppressively quiet. Bannerman was the only guest, since Morag Napier and her fiance? had had to call off at the last moment. Every clink of the cutlery seemed to resound in the long silences that punctuated the meal between infrequent, staccato bursts of polite conversation.

Bannerman gathered, when introduced to Stoddart’s wife, that she did not have a medical background. He therefore thought it improper to pursue the subject of brain pathology while eating the haggis which the Stoddarts had thought appropriate to welcome him to Scotland. He had managed to glean, however, that she was a leading light of the university wives’ ‘Friends of Rumania’ circle, and did his best to make conversation about that.

Stoddart seemed totally uninterested in anything his wife had to say and would interrupt, at will, with completely unrelated observations. ‘Of course I’m a pituitary man myself,’ he suddenly announced in the middle of a discussion about orphanage conditions. ‘Really?’ said Bannerman, embarrassed on behalf of Stoddart’s wife, who looked down at the tablecloth and appeared to be holding her tongue in check.

‘1 suppose you’re familiar with my work?’ asked Stoddart.

‘Of course,’ lied Bannerman, thinking it must have been twenty years since Stoddart had last published anything.

Stoddart saw this as his cue to launch into an after-dinner lecture on his life’s work.

Bannerman sought solace in the brandy while nodding at appropriate intervals and sneaking surreptitious glances at his watch. When, eventually, Mrs Stoddart asked to be excused so that she could begin clearing the table, Bannerman took the opportunity to interrupt Stoddart and find out what he wanted to know.

‘Professor, I must ask you, what animal tests were set up on the brains of the three men from Achnagelloch?’

Stoddart adopted a serious expression. He thought for a moment, and then said, ‘1 think you would have to ask Lawrence Gill that.’

‘But I can’t can I?’ said Bannerman.

‘I suppose not,’ agreed Stoddart. Then I suppose Dr Napier would be your best bet.’

‘You haven’t been taking an interest in this investigation yourself then?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I’m the collator for the MRC survey figures, of course,’ said Stoddart, with comfortable self-importance.

‘I see,’ said Bannerman, who was seething inside. Jesus Christ, he thought. He’s confronted with something like this and he’s collating the figures. If ever there was a candidate for early retirement, he was currently listening to him drone on about the pituitary gland.

The following morning was Saturday, but Bannerman was in the medical school just after eight-thirty. He wasn’t sure if Morag Napier would be around but he thought he might be able to get her home phone number from someone. Apart from that, he wanted to carry out an examination of the bodies of the three dead men and to get brain biopsies to send to Munro at the Neurobiology Unit. He found his way to the mortuary and collared the duty attendant. He told him what he wanted.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the man, shaking his head.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know about that?’ asked Bannerman, irritated but trying to keep his temper.

‘I’ve no note of this,’ said the man. ‘It’s not on my list.’

Then put it on your list!’ exclaimed Bannerman.

The man shook his head with a pitying smile and said, ‘It’s not as easy as that I’m afraid. There are procedures to be followed.’

Oh Christ, thought Bannerman. A traffic warden in charge of the mortuary is all I need. ‘Do you have a phone?’ he snapped.

‘Not an outside call, I trust,’ replied the man.

Bannerman brushed past him and called Stoddart, not caring if he was still in bed. As soon as Stoddart answered, he said curtly, ‘This is Bannerman. I’m at the mortuary and I want to examine the cadavers of the men