Crisis

he went on the rampage. What sort of connection could there be?’ she asked.

‘I think they were both suffering from the same illness,’ said Bannerman. ‘Your husband was working with the infected sheep on the farm before he fell ill wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he and the others were burying them in the lime pit.’

‘Was your father involved in this at all?’ asked Bannerman.

‘My father?’ exclaimed May Buchan as if it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. ‘No, of course not. He never came near the farm at the best of times. Apart from that he and Gordon didn’t exactly see eye to eye.’

‘So they didn’t see each other socially?’

May shook her head. ‘Once a year at most.’

‘But you saw your mother and father?’

‘I visited them in the town, usually once a week.’

‘Can you think of any way your father could have come into contact with the infected sheep on Inverladdie Farm?’

‘No,’ said May shaking her head in annoyance. ‘What’s all this about sheep? Why do you keep going on about sheep? Gordon died of meningitis.’

‘The truth is that we’re not quite sure what your husband and the others died of. It is just possible that infected sheep were involved,’ said Bannerman.

May looked as if she had been struck. Despite her tan, Bannerman saw her pale visibly. ‘What the hell do you mean, “involved”?’ she rasped. ‘The sheep died of Scrapie; the vet said so.’

Bannerman proceeded carefully. He said, ‘It is possible that it wasn’t an ordinary strain of Scrapie but something that could be transmitted to man.’

‘Oh my God,’ said May.

The air was electric. Bannerman knew he was on the verge of finding out something important. He mustn’t push May Buchan too hard. He let the silence put pressure on her.

‘Oh Christ!’ said May, burying her head in her hands.

Bannerman remained silent.

‘I can give you your connection,’ said May between sobs. ‘Gordon and the two others … and my father … ate meat from one of the sheep.’

‘They ate it?’ exclaimed Bannerman.

May nodded. ‘In the past when there’s been a Scrapie outbreak old man Sproat has got the beasts off to market as quickly as possible.’

‘But surely that’s illegal?’ said Bannerman.

‘Everyone knows that Scrapie doesn’t affect human beings so where’s the harm? If the farmers declare the disease, government compensation isn’t anything like market value so what can you expect?’

‘But Sproat didn’t send them to market this time,’ said Bannerman.

‘It all happened too quickly for him,’ said May. ‘The sheep were dropping like flies. He called in the vet and after a lot of discussion old man Sproat and the vet told Gordon and the others it was Scrapie. They were to bury the carcasses in a lime pit.’ May had to pause for a moment to compose herself before going on. ‘Gordon thought this was a bit of a waste so he and the others kept one of the sheep and brought it here. They butchered it and I put it in the freezer.’

‘And they all ate it?’

‘Gordon asked the two other sheep workers to Sunday dinner to thank them for their help.’

‘But you?’

‘I’m vegetarian and so is my mother.’

‘But the connection with your father?’ asked Bannerman.

May dabbed at her eyes with a paper tissue. ‘Just before I went off on holiday I went to see my mother. I took some mutton chops from the freezer. I thought they would do for Dad’s dinner.’

‘I see,’ said Bannerman. His mind was reeling from the information. Here surely was the proof that sheep Scrapie had been implicated in the men’s deaths. ‘Mrs Buchan did you know a man called Colin Turnbull?’ he asked.

May looked at him blankly. ‘Never heard of him,’ she replied.

‘Are you sure?’ Bannerman pressed. This was the one remaining link he had to forge. ‘I’m certain,’ said May. ‘Who is he?’

‘He was a quarry worker. His wife is the primary school teacher in Stobmor.’

‘Sorry. Don’t know them.’

‘Is there any chance that your husband might have known Colin Turnbull?’

‘I suppose so,’ said May, ‘but I think not. If Gordon had known him, so would I; it’s as simple as that in a place like this.’

Bannerman nodded, disappointed that he had failed at the final hurdle. Then suddenly he had a thought which wiped out all thoughts of disappointment. ‘Mrs Buchan,’ he said, trying to disguise the excitement he felt welling up inside him, ‘do you have any of the sheep left in the freezer?’

‘Well… yes,’ replied May.

Bannerman closed his eyes momentarily and gave silent thanks. ‘I need some for testing,’ he said.

May got up and went through to the kitchen. Bannerman followed her and watched as she raised the lid of a chest freezer. She lifted out a couple of white plastic bags and handed them to Bannerman. ‘Will this be enough?’ she asked.

‘Perfect,’ said Bannerman. ‘What happened to the remains of the carcass?’

‘Gordon buried it out the back.’

‘In lime?’

‘No.’

‘Can you show me where?’

May opened the kitchen door and pointed to the dry-stone dyke at the foot of the garden. She said, ‘Just there,’ pointing to a far corner.

‘I’ll need a shovel.’

‘In the shed round the corner.’

Bannerman fastened up his collar against the weather and asked if May had any plastic bags. She opened a drawer and handed him a couple of bin liners. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

‘Kitchen knives, sharp ones.’

May pointed to a wooden block next to the draining board. It held half a dozen knives. He selected two.

Bannerman was wet through in no time but it didn’t matter. His excitement at having found a source of pathological evidence took precedence over all other considerations. He even took comfort from the fact that the rain had made the ground soft and easy to turn over with the spade. The remains of the sheep were not deep. At the first sign of them he stopped using the spade and knelt down to remove earth with his hands, like an archaeologist uncovering precious artefacts of a long-departed civilization. He found the head and lifted it clear of the mud. A worm crawled out of an eye socket but apart from that it seemed to be in reasonably good condition. He carried it over to the tool shed to gain some protection from the elements while he got to work with the knives.

As he worked, he reassured himself with thoughts that the Scrapie agent was one of the toughest infective agents known to man. It could survive treatment which would sterilize any other known virus or bacterium in the world. A relatively short time lying in the soil would have no adverse effect at all. He managed to recover at least fifty grams of brain material and knew that that would be quite sufficient for analysis. With all his samples safely into plastic bags, Bannerman secured the necks and left them in the shed while he re- buried the remains of the sheep.

‘Did you get what you wanted?’ asked May when he returned to the house.

Bannerman nodded.

‘When will you know for sure?’

‘Probably within three to six weeks,’ replied Bannerman. He saw the look of self-recrimination in the woman’s