get as much neurological information about the course of the disease as we can. DSN at the Western General has all the right equipment. But whether or not this would be fair on his wife is another matter.’
‘I see,’ said Bannerman, appreciating the moral dilemma. ‘My own view is that the only conclusive data we’ll get about the disease will come from post-mortem material. Reams of EEC print-out isn’t going to tell us much.’
‘In that case I think I should keep him here.’
‘Agreed,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’m going to come up there. I’d like to see the man for myself.’
‘Very good.’
‘You said he was a labourer. A farm labourer?’
‘No, he works at the stone quarry.’
‘Any connection with the patients who have already died?’
‘No family connection this time I’m afraid, but I did have one thought …’
‘Yes?’
‘The quarry lies to the west of Inverladdie Farm. It’s not inconceivable that infected sheep could have wandered over there.’
‘That’s a thought,’ agreed Bannerman, ‘but he would still have had to come into close contact with the infected animals to pick up the virus through cuts or grazes.’
‘Quarry workers invariably have plenty of these,’ said Munro.
‘I suppose so,’ said Bannerman, still not convinced. ‘I’d better have a note of some patient details.’ He straightened up the pad by the telephone and flicked off the cap of his pen with his thumb.
MacLeod dictated, ‘Male, twenty-eight years old, no medical history to speak of. Apart from headaches over the past week there was no real sign of illness until yesterday when his wife noticed lapses in concentration. She said he appeared at times to go into a trance. Today his behaviour became irrational and alarmed her so much that she called me in.’
‘In what way irrational?’
‘She found him eating the food in the dog’s bowl, then he tried to go to work without any boots on. When she tried to talk to him, she says he looked at her as if he didn’t know her, sometimes as if he hated her. They’ve always been such a loving couple; she’s taking it very badly.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Bannerman.
‘In view of what happened with Andrew Bell, I didn’t think I could risk leaving Turnbull at home, even with sedation. That’s why I had him moved to the cottage hospital.’
‘Did you say “Turnbull”?’ asked Bannerman.
‘Colin Turnbull,’ said MacLeod.
‘Hell and damnation,’ said Bannerman.
‘You know him?’
‘He was a regular in the bar of the hotel when I was up there, I liked him.’
‘A bright chap,’ said MacLeod. ‘He was doing a degree part-time.’
‘I remember,’ said Bannerman.
‘His wife, Julie, is the primary school teacher in Stobmor.’
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.’
THIRTEEN
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.’
