Morag said, ‘I’ll take you there.’
Bannerman followed her through a maze of basement corridors until he knew that they were getting near the animal lab from the unmistakable smell of mice. She knocked on a glass-fronted door that was reinforced by wire.
‘Who is it?’ came a voice from inside.
‘Morag Napier.’
The door was unlocked, and Morag and Bannerman walked through into the animal house. The room was a whitewashed, basement room, lit by fluorescent strip lighting. One entire wall was decked with metal shelves upon which stood row after row of mouse boxes, each equipped with an automatic water feeder bottle. Another section of the lab housed rats, guinea pigs and rabbits. There was a preparation table in the middle of the floor and a row of sinks stood beyond. There were two small rooms leading off the main room. Bannerman could see an animal post-mortem board in one of them with a tray of instruments lying beside it.
The girl who answered the door continued with her feeding schedule, dropping a handful of mouse ‘nuts’ into each box and checking to see if the inhabitants were still alive.
‘We need some information,’ said Morag.
‘Uh huh,’ replied the girl.
‘We need to know if Dr Gill asked for any mice tests to be set up when he returned from the north.’
‘It will be in the book,’ said the girl. The red one in the office.’
Morag and Bannerman took this as an invitation to look for themselves. They started scanning back through the pages of the animal records.
‘Here we are,’ said Morag, underlining an entry with her finger. Bannerman looked over her shoulder.
The entry read, ‘Six mice, Dr Lawrence Gill, three samples, two mice per sample. Ref. W 17–22. Cross Ref. MRC 3’.
‘MRC 3,’ repeated Bannerman. These must be the ones.’
‘How do we find W 17–22?’ Morag asked the technician.
The girl stopped feeding her charges and moved along the row to tap one of the boxes with her palm. ‘From here to the left,’ she said.
Morag took down the box the girl had touched and looked inside. ‘Alive and well,’ she said, handing the box to Bannerman and bringing down the next one. ‘Same.’
All six mice were alive and apparently healthy.
‘Well, it’s a relief to know the tests were set up,’ said Bannerman. At least Gill had done something right. He put on protective gloves and picked up one of the mice from its box to let it run over the back of his hand. It seemed perfectly healthy in every way. The mouse tried to get a grip of his gloved thumb with its teeth and Bannerman massaged the black spot in its otherwise white fur until it let go. He dropped the animal gently back into its box and closed the lid. ‘I suppose it’s a bit soon for any brain disease to have developed, even if it is a new strain. We’ll have to keep an eye on these chaps. They may hold the answer to this whole business.’
Morag nodded and said, ‘I’ll see to it.’
‘But I still have to talk to Gill,’ said Bannerman. ‘Does his wife live in Edinburgh?’
Morag Napier looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes but surely you’re not going to …’
‘I need to see her,’ said Bannerman. ‘If she knows that her husband has run off with someone, she probably knows who with and possibly where to.’
‘But she’ll be upset!’ protested Morag. ‘How can you be so heartless?’
‘If three young men have died of Scrapie we have a great deal more to worry about than the sensibilities of Lawrence Gill and his wife,’ said Bannerman.
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Morag reluctantly. ‘I’ll get you the address.’
Bannerman invited Morag Napier to have lunch with him, but she declined, saying that she had ‘things to do’. It wasn’t too big a disappointment; the offer had been made out of politeness. He suspected that Morag did not hold a single opinion that hadn’t been vetted by her subconscious for ‘suitability’. Instead, he had lunch at a pub in the High Street and watched the world go by for an hour or so before phoning Lawrence Gill’s wife.
‘Vera Gill.’
‘Mrs Gill, my name’s Bannerman. I’m a pathologist working for the MRC.’
‘What can I do for you, Mr Bannerman?’ said a polite voice.
‘I’d like to talk to you about your husband.’
‘What about him?’ The voice had gone cold.
‘I’m sorry. I know it seems insensitive in the circumstances, but please, it’s very important.’
‘I can’t think what that could possibly be,’ said Vera Gill.
‘I’d rather not talk over the telephone. Could we meet?’
Vera Gill hesitated, and Bannerman repeated how important it was.
‘Very well. Come round this afternoon.’
Bannerman scribbled down the address and they agreed on a meeting at three-thirty.
Vera Gill lived with her children, two girls, in a pleasant semi-detached house in the Colinton area of the city. The girls, who were wrapped up warmly against a cold east wind, were playing in the garden when Bannerman arrived. As he opened the gate and started to walk up the path the youngest girl asked, ‘Have you brought my daddy home?’
Bannerman was struggling for a reply when the older child said, ‘She doesn’t fully understand yet.’
Bannerman smiled apologetically. The older child could not have been more than ten.
Vera Gill appeared at the door and invited Bannerman inside. As she ushered him past her she said to the older child, ‘Keep Wendy amused will you, darling. Mummy has to talk to this man for a little while.’
‘She is quite a young lady,’ said Bannerman as the door was closed.
‘She’s very mature for her age,’ agreed Vera Gill. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without her support over the last week or so. Now, what did you want to know?’
‘Mrs Gill, it’s very important that I find your husband. 1 need some vital information from him.’
Vera Gill’s face clouded over. She said, ‘I have heard nothing from my husband since he left here on the 16th of January. Not a word.’
‘So you don’t know where he is?’
‘No.’
Bannerman maintained a silence for a few moments, hoping that it might oblige Vera Gill to reconsider a little. She didn’t, so he pressed her a little further. ‘Mrs Gill, if your husband has just gone missing surely you would have reported the matter to the police?’
‘All right,’ snapped Vera Gill. ‘He’s gone off with another woman. Is that what you wanted? But I don’t know where they are.’
‘Do you know this other woman?’ asked Bannerman, aware of the pain in Vera Gill’s eyes but also knowing that she was his only hope of finding Gill.
‘No,’ replied Vera Gill, but Bannerman could see that she was lying. It wasn’t difficult. She wasn’t used to doing it. She diverted her eyes and looked guilty, just like a child.
‘Mrs Gill … I know how much this must have hurt you …’
‘Oh no you don’t!’ snapped Vera Gill with a venom that surprised Bannerman. ‘You couldn’t possibly know anything of the sort!’
It was Bannerman’s turn to divert his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Of course I don’t.’
Vera Gill took a number of deep breaths in the ensuing silence, which was only broached by a ticking clock on the mantelshelf and the muted sound of the children playing in the garden. ‘Her name is Shona MacLean,’ she said quietly.
Bannerman wrote it down.
‘Some years ago she and Lawrence had an affair, when we lived in the north. He said it was all over but there were occasional letters that arrived with a give-away postmark.’
‘Did your husband tell you he was going off with this woman?’ asked Bannerman.
‘No, but that was Lawerence,’ said Vera Gill, with a snort.
Bannerman felt confused. He asked. ‘What exactly did he say before he left?’
‘Almost nothing. I could see he was in a blue funk over the whole thing but, as I say, that was Lawrence. He hated making unpleasant decisions. He got more and more agitated and angst-ridden and then suddenly he announced that he had to go away for a bit, and that was the last I saw of him.’