Bell ignored him and set up the welding set beside an old Bedford van. He unwound the hoses from the heads of the cylinders and opened the valve on the acetylene cylinder; he ignited the torch flame and it started to burn with a slow licking yellow flame. Bell stared at it and smiled as if remembering something. MacKinnon came to stand by his side. He said, ‘I don’t like having to bawl you out every morning. Why can’t we talk this thing out?’
Bell ignored him and reached up to turn on the oxygen supply. The yellow flame turned to intense blue as oxygen entered the flow. It made MacKinnon angry because neither man was wearing protective goggles. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he stormed, covering his eyes.
Bell turned round as if in a trance. He smiled, distantly, and without further hesitation pushed the torch flame right into MacKinnon’s face. MacKinnon’s features were transformed into a blackened crater within seconds and he fell to the floor, his head wreathed in smoke which drifted slowly upwards. Bell stepped over the body and started to work on the van as if nothing had happened. He hoisted it up on the hydraulic lift and positioned himself underneath. He was welding the chassis when the postman came into the garage and saw MacKinnon’s body. The man let out a cry of horror.
Bell looked out from under the van and smiled at him. ‘Hello Neil,’ he said with a smile. ‘How are things?’
The postman backed away; he thought the smile on Bell’s face the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. There was something disturbingly unnatural about it. Bell stood there as if waiting for an answer, the welding torch still burning in his hand, its flame now cutting through the petrol tank of the van. The postman turned on his heel and ran screaming to the door. An ear-splitting blast behind him helped him on his way and sent him sprawling out into the street.
Neil Campbell struggled to his knees and looked back in through the maw of the doorway. He saw the flaming figure of Andrew Bell, hands raised in the air, pirouetting slowly to the floor in his death throes. The postman’s eyes didn’t blink. It took another explosion to break the spell. He didn’t know it at the time but it was a gas explosion from a neighbouring street.
Bannerman was thinking about going to bed when the phone rang. These days when the phone rang at night it was usually Shona but he had spoken to her already this evening, less than an hour ago. ‘Bannerman.’
‘Doctor Bannerman? This is Angus MacLeod in Achnagelloch.’
Bannerman was taken aback, but hid it well. He inquired after the GP’s health and asked, ‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’
‘It’s more what I can do for you,’ replied MacLeod. ‘There was an incident in Stobmor today which I thought you would be interested in.’ ‘Really? What sort of an incident?’ ‘A man went berserk.’
‘Berserk,’ repeated Bannerman. He could feel himself going cold.
‘A garage worker named Andrew Bell went totally out of control. It appears that he murdered his wife and his employer before immolating himself. In view of the deaths in Achnagelloch a few weeks ago, I thought you might be interested.’
Bannerman saw the awful implications of the news immediately. If this death was due to the same cause as the others it meant that the source of disease had not been contained after all! A mixture of fear and excitement welled up in his throat. ‘What happened to the man’s body?’ he asked in a voice that was almost a croak.
‘There was very little of it left,’ replied MacLeod. ‘He was doused in burning petrol and fell on to a lit welding torch.’
‘What are the chances of getting pathology samples?’ asked Bannerman. ‘Zero, I’m afraid,’ answered MacLeod. ‘We are not talking about burns Doctor. We are talking cremation.’
‘Damnation,’ said Bannerman as he realized he had been thwarted again. It suddenly registered what MacLeod had said about the man’s occupation. ‘You said he worked in a garage?’ he asked.
‘As a mechanic,’ replied MacLeod.
That doesn’t fit,’ said Bannerman. ‘How long has he been doing that?’
‘About fifteen years and before that he worked in a fish factory over on the east coast.’
‘But surely there must be some link with the others?’
‘There’s a familial connection,’ said MacLeod.
‘Go on,’ said Bannerman.
‘His daughter, May Bell. She is, or was, married to Gordon Buchan.’
‘Bell was May Buchan’s father?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
‘Yes. Does that help?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Bannerman. ‘I’ll let you know if I think of anything, and Doctor?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d appreciate your call. If there should happen to be any other incidents …’
‘I’ll let you know,’ promised MacLeod.
‘How the hell? …’ complained Bannerman as he thought it through. How could Gordon Buchan’s father-in-law contract the disease? He had nothing to do with sheep! He had worked in a garage for fifteen years. But surely it was too much of a coincidence to be due to anything else. The overwhelming priority for the moment was that the killer disease had not been wiped out. It was alive in Stobmor. It was too late to call the MRC; he would call Milne first thing in the morning.
Bannerman got to the hospital a little after eight-thirty to find that Milne had already called him. Bannerman phoned him back and lit a cigarette while he waited for an answer.
‘Bad news I’m afraid,’ said Milne.
‘You’re going to tell me that there has been another case,’ said Bannerman.
‘How did you know?’
‘MacLeod, the local GP, phoned me last night.’
‘I just don’t understand it,’ said Milne. The man is a garage mechanic.’
‘Me neither,’ agreed Bannerman.
‘I’m calling a special meeting for ten-thirty. Can you make it?’
Bannerman said that he could.
Cecil Allison from the Prime Minister’s office was the last to arrive at the meeting. Bannerman was looking out of the window at the rain while the only other two, Hugh Milne and the secretary of the MRC, Sir John Flowers, discussed some internal matter. Bannerman saw the dark Rover draw up at the door and Allison get out; he returned to the table.
‘So sorry to have kept you,’ said Allison, ‘I’ve been a bit snowed under this morning.’ He beamed at the others and sat down.
Flowers said, ‘Dr Bannerman thinks that we should mount a full scale investigation into the deaths at Stobmor and Achnagelloch; the time for low-profile sniffing around is past. I think I agree.’
Allison, urbane as ever, spread his palms in front of him in a gesture which appealed for calm. ‘As I understand it,’ he said smoothly, ‘there has been another death.’
‘Another three if we count the man’s wife and employer,’ said Milne, ‘and pretty horrific deaths they were, too.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Allison, his eyes betraying the slightest suggestion of irritation, ‘but for the purposes of our interest, i.e. the brain disease problem, there has been only one. Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Flowers.
‘And this man had nothing to do with sheep or cattle at all?’
‘No,’ said Flowers.
‘So the connection …’ Allison made the word ‘connection’ sound inappropriate, ‘has been made entirely through his irrational behaviour?’
‘His symptoms were identical by all accounts,’ said Bannerman, ‘and he was related to one of the men who died.’
‘His symptoms, as I have been led to believe, amount to deranged behaviour. Is that right?’
‘Well, yes,’ agreed Milne.
‘Nothing more specific than that?’
‘No,’ agreed Flowers. ‘I suppose you could call it that.’
‘The point I am making, gentlemen,’ said Allison leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table and create the impression of being about to impart a confidence, ‘is that this sort of thing happens all the time and all over the
