There’s no way the animals could stray further?’
‘No. We have to maintain the fences on the east side of the farm because the ground to the south and east of the station is so rough. If we didn’t, we’d lose animals in the gulleys and crevices and shepherding is impossible on that terrain. Not even the balloon trikes can cope with it.’
‘Do you have much contact with the people at the station?’ asked Bannerman.
‘Not much.’
Ts there a contingency plan for the area if there should be a problem?’
‘Search me,’ said Sproat. ‘If there is, no one told me.’
‘I just thought there might be evacuation plans should an emergency arise,’ said Bannerman.
There’s not much to evacuate round here,’ said Sproat.
Bannerman smiled ruefully and said, ‘I suppose you’re right … just a few sheep.’
‘I think we’ll get a warning just the same,’ volunteered Sproat.’
‘How so?’
‘One day, about eight or nine months ago, they must have had a problem down there. I’ve never heard such a racket in all my life; klaxons, sirens, the lot. It sounded like a major air raid.’.
‘Did you find out what the problem was?’ asked Bannerman.
Sproat shook his head. ‘Not a word,’ he said.
‘Would you mind if I were to take a look around the boundary on my own, maybe tomorrow?’
‘Feel free,’ said Sproat. ‘Although I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Just don’t underestimate the terrain down there, it’s a long walk up from the road. I can’t let you have a vehicle.’
‘No problem,’ said Bannerman. ‘I could use the exercise.’
Bannerman looked towards the sea and saw that there was a railway track tracing the shore line. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘It’s the line for the stone quarry,’ said Sproat. ‘The roads around here won’t accommodate the size of vehicle the quarry needs, so the Dutchman built a railway line to take out the stone to the sea terminal at Inchmad.’
‘Is the quarry near here?’ asked Bannerman.
Sproat raised his left arm and pointed to the north-west. ‘About half a mile,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t the noise worry you?’ asked Bannerman.
“They only blast once a month. Any other noise is carried away on the wind and with all the stone going out by rail there’s no extra traffic to speak of. You’d hardly know they’re there.’
‘The best kind of neighbours to have,’ said Bannerman.
‘Aye,’ agreed Sproat. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to see?’
‘Maybe you could show me where you buried the infected sheep and then where you store chemicals on the farm?’
Sproat didn’t reply. He just got back in the Land Rover and started the engine. They drove laboriously round the head of the glen and down into the next one, where they came to a halt. Bannerman was glad they did; his spine was beginning to protest at all the jarring.
‘We dug the pit over there,’ said Sproat, nodding to his right.
Bannerman could see where the ground had been disturbed. He got out and walked over to the mound. Sproat joined him.
‘I understand from the vet that no brain samples were taken from the sheep?’ said Bannerman.
‘That’s right. It was obvious what was wrong with them.’
Bannerman looked down at his feet.
‘If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you can forget it,’ said Sproat. ‘We didn’t skimp on the lime.’
Bannerman smiled. He had indeed been wondering whether there was any chance of the virus having survived in the sheep burial pit but he had no wish to start digging and decided to accept Sproat’s assurance. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.
They passed a small cottage on the way back to the farmhouse. Bannerman asked about it.
‘That’s where Gordon Buchan lived with his wife,’ said Sproat quietly.
‘Maybe I could have a word with Mrs Buchan,’ said Bannerman.
‘No,’ said Sproat quickly. ‘She’s away at the moment.’
‘Away?’ asked Bannerman.
‘On holiday. She needed to get away for a bit.’
Bannerman nodded. ‘And then what?’ he asked. ‘I presume it’s a tied cottage?’
‘It is,’ agreed Sproat. ‘She’ll probably move back to live with her family in Stobmor.’
They pulled into the farmyard as the first spots of rain began to dapple the windscreen. ‘More rain,’ complained Bannerman.
‘At least it’s not snow,’ said Sproat. ‘We store chemicals and fuel in the barn.’
Bannerman took a look round the barn and found nothing out of the ordinary. It was a sheep farm, so there wasn’t much call for the wide range of chemicals that might be found in arable farming. What there was seemed to be stored well and the labels were well-known proprietary brands.
‘What exactly is it you’re looking for?’ asked Sproat.
‘I’m not sure myself,’ replied Bannerman.
Later on that afternoon, Bannerman telephoned Angus MacLeod’s surgery from the hotel. He thought that that might be the best time to contact him, in the lull between morning and evening surgeries and when the house calls should be over for the day. His housekeeper answered and told him that MacLeod was having a nap.
‘Is it an emergency?’ she asked.
Bannerman said that it wasn’t but that he would like to speak to the doctor.
‘He only sees reps by prior appointment,’ said the housekeeper defensively.
‘I’m from the Medical Research Council,’ replied Bannerman.
‘I see, well if you give me your name I’ll tell the doctor you called.’
‘I’m staying at the hotel,’ said Bannerman. ‘Perhaps you would ask him to give me a ring when he wakes up?’
‘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
