circulation but a protest from his aching head overruled the move. He compromised by resting for a moment before continuing upstairs to telephone Angus MacLeod.
‘Who did you say did it?’ said MacLeod, thinking that he hadn’t heard right.
‘The corpse, well, of course, it wasn’t the corpse, it was someone pretending to be the corpse. Oh Christ, just get over here will you,’ he snapped. He immediately regretted it but, for the moment, the pain in his head was dictating his behaviour. He found a bathroom and examined the damage to his face in the mirror. The blood made it look much worse than it actually was and he recoiled from the sight that met him. He looked as if he had just been a spectacularly unsuccessful contender for the heavyweight championship of the world. ‘Lucky punch Harry,’ he murmured in true British heavyweight style. ‘Lucky punch.’
MacLeod arrived and called out his name.
‘In here,’ croaked Bannerman.
MacLeod came into the bathroom and immediately took over. ‘Let me do that,’ he insisted. ‘Come through here. It’ll be more comfortable.’ He led Bannerman to one of the treatment rooms where he set about cleaning up his face and resetting his broken nose. ‘You’re going to have two lovely black eyes in the morning,’ he said. ‘You can get dark glasses at MacPhail’s in the High Street.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bannerman sourly. ‘I found the front door unlocked when I arrived. Did you forget to lock it?’
‘On the contrary, I distinctly remember locking it,’ said Macleod.
Bannerman nodded. ‘I should have thought of that,’ he said. ‘Whoever broke in tonight was inside when I arrived. It never even occurred to me to think that someone had picked the lock. ‘I assumed you had left it open.’
‘Should I call the police?’ asked MacLeod.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Bannerman, thinking the local constabulary would make of it all.
‘But Turnbull’s body. It’s gone.’
‘And I don’t think we’ll see it again,’ said Bannerman. ‘Whoever removed it obviously suspected that I’d try to get to the body for path specimens, permission or no permission, and they were right. They even saw me arrive to carry out what amounts to an illegal procedure. It could be argued that I am a bigger criminal than they are. They will maintain that they were only seeing that the grieving widow’s wishes were respected.’
‘Difficult,’ said MacLeod. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Sleep,’ replied Bannerman, touching the bridge of his nose as if it were a butterfly’s wing. ‘I need some sleep.’
Bannerman woke early. The wind had disturbed him by attempting to rattle his bedroom window out of its frame as the latest gale swept in from the Atlantic to funnel through the streets of Stobmor. ‘Bloody country,’ he murmured as he lay listening to the sound which alternated between a moan and a howl according to wind velocity. After a few minutes he decided it would be better to get up. There was an electric kettle in the room in deference to the fashion for ‘tea making facilities’ in hotel bedrooms. He got up and switched it on. He checked the range of sachets beside the kettle while it boiled. Tea, coffee and hot chocolate. They all had one thing in common; they had obviously been lying in the room for a very long time. The packs were all brittle. Bannerman guessed that they had seen summer come and go in Stobmor. He tore open a sachet of instant coffee and braced himself for the taste. He was wise to do so. The ‘coffee’ tasted like salt water laced with floor sweepings and cigarette ash.
A couple of sips proved enough. He poured the contents of the cup down the wash-hand basin and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He drew his finger lightly round the dark purple circles under both eyes. ‘Good Lord,’ he murmured. ‘If London Zoo are looking for a new panda, you’re in with a chance.’
With a sigh of resignation, he crossed to the window where he drew open the curtains to look out on deserted, wind-swept streets. The sky was ominously dark and threatening. Rain wasn’t far away. ‘Bonnie Scotland,’ he whispered, ‘you’re an absolute joy …’
Bannerman pondered on what he should do next. He felt frustrated and angry at having been beaten yet again by the factions determined to prevent investigation of the outbreak but he knew that he mustn’t allow these feelings to dictate his actions. He must be practical. He felt sure that Turnbull’s body would be kept hidden until a cremation took place. Alerting the police might force the handing over of the body but access would still be nigh impossible. He would still not be able to get the specimens he needed for lab investigation.
He still had the option of forcing the issue with court involvement and Angus MacLeod’s collusion but he’d ruled this out because of what it would do to relationships within the community. He decided on a conservative course of action. Despite the terms of the deal with Allison, which allowed him to call for a full-scale investigation if another case arose within the four week period, there was no point in doing so if there was nothing there to investigate! There were, however, a couple of other things he could do until he had decided what to tell the MRC. One was to talk to Gordon Buchan’s widow.
The last time he had been in the area May Buchan had been recuperating on holiday. Presumably she was back now and perhaps she could throw some light on how her father had contracted the disease. First he would have to find out where she was staying.
He remembered that Sproat, the farmer at Inverladdie, had said she would be moving back in with her parents when she returned, but of course, they were now both dead and the family house in Stobmor had been burned to the ground. Would she still be staying in the tied cottage on the farm? he wondered. The girl who served him breakfast confirmed, between sidelong glances at the state of his face, that she was. When it seemed that she might have plucked up enough courage to ask what had happened, Bannerman said quickly, ‘Don’t ask.’
Wearing a pair of dark glasses which he purchased from MacPhail’s in the High Street, as recommended by Angus MacLeod, Bannerman got into the car to drive up to Inverladdie Farm. There hadn’t been a mirror in the dark, dusty general store so he looked at himself as best he could in the rear view mirror of the car. ‘Very Jack Nicholson,’ he murmured at the sight. He hoped he wouldn’t alarm May Buchan.
The rain that had been threatening for the last two hours finally arrived as Bannerman nursed the car up the track to Inverladdie Farm. One moment he was driving up a clearly defined farm road, the next he was moving slowly up the bed of a fast flowing river.
When he eventually reached the cottage he was pleased to see that someone was at home. There was a light on in the kitchen. He made a run for the shelter of the porch and knocked on the door. It was answered by a very tanned woman in her thirties; her hair had been bleached almost blonde by recent exposure to the sun. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a white sweater with a small gold crucifix dangling over it. Her feet were bare.
‘Mrs Buchan? I’m Ian Bannerman. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?’
May Buchan looked as if she might have argued the point had the weather been kinder but rain and wind were funnelling in through the open door. She said, ‘You’d better come in.’
Bannerman explained who he was and expressed his sympathy at the death of her husband and parents.
May thanked him automatically and stared at his glasses. ‘It’s not exactly sunny,’ she said.
Bannerman touched the glasses self-consciously and said, ‘I have a slight eye problem.’ He thought it rather rude of May Buchan to have made the comment, but at least it told him what kind of person she was. On the other hand, maybe the loss of three close relations in quick succession had simply stripped the veneer of social nicety from her?
‘I see,’ she said, still staring.
Bannerman tried to establish some kind of rapport with her. ‘You have a wonderful tan,’ he said. ‘You didn’t get that in Bonnie Scotland.’
‘Nassau.’
‘The Bahamas?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
‘The Sproats have been very kind. They paid for the trip. They thought it would help me get over Gordon’s death.’
‘That was very nice of them,’ said Bannerman, thinking that he had misjudged John Sproat.
‘It was a surprise,’ said May. ‘Unfortunately while I was away my father … well, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’m trying to establish a connection between your husband’s death and your father’s and I’d like you to help me find it.’
May looked uncertain. ‘But Gordon died of meningitis. Dad wasn’t ill. Something just snapped inside him and
