‘I genuinely don’t know anything,’ said Bannerman.
‘But you’ll be doing the same thing Lawrence was doing, asking questions, poking your nose in.’
‘I suppose …’ said Bannerman thoughtfully.
‘Please be careful.’
Bannerman saw the look of concern in Shona’s eyes and nodded.
‘I won’t call the police until you’ve left,’ said Shona.
Thanks. One more thing,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d just report the finding of the body. Don’t tell them about the parcel or the man at the post office.’
‘If you say so, but won’t they think it was an accident in that case?’
‘I’ll make sure the authorities get to know what really happened. They’ll deal with it without the newspapers getting hold of it.’
Shona prepared a meal for them that Bannerman thought a good London restaurant would have had trouble matching. He purred appreciatively as he sipped his coffee afterwards.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ said Shona. ‘I like cooking, so I quite look forward to visits from authors and publishers when they come to see me about illustrations.’
The ‘visitors’ thought Bannerman, remembering what Mrs Ferguson had said. Malicious old cow. ‘Can I help with the washing up?’
‘Yes if you like,’ said Shona.
When they’d finished, Shona manoeuvred another log on to the fire and they sat down to enjoy the warmth and the afterglow of well-being that the meal had bestowed on them. Shona asked Bannerman what he did when he wasn’t investigating things. He confessed that this was the first time he had ever been asked to ‘investigate’ anything. He was a consultant pathologist at a London hospital.
‘Then why ask you?’ said Shona.
‘I suppose because I’m a bit of an expert on brain disease.’
‘I see. And do you like being “a bit of an expert on brain disease”?’
Once again Bannerman felt uncomfortable about the question. It was the same feeling he had experienced earlier on the boat. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied without conviction.
‘It must be very interesting,’ said Shona, getting up to put some music on. She sat down again and reaching behind her brought a cushion round to place it on the floor at her feet. ‘Sit down there,’ she said.
Bannerman opened his mouth to say something but closed it again and sat down between Shona’s feet with his back to the chair.
‘I noticed earlier that you have an injured right shoulder,’ she said. ‘You’ve been favouring it all day.’ She kneaded her fingers into the muscles at the right side of Bannerman’s neck and he let out a moan that was part pain, part pleasure. ‘I hurt it yesterday,’ he confessed.
‘It’s not often I get to practise as a physiotherapist,’ said Shona.
‘Why did you give it up?’
‘It wasn’t what I wanted to do.’
That simple?’
That simple. We only get once chance in this life.’
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Feel free.’
Shona stopped her massage until Bannerman had lit a cigarette with a burning wooden splinter from the fire.
‘I thought doctors didn’t smoke,’ said Shona.
This one does.’
‘You find it as difficult as the rest of us to give up eh?’
‘I haven’t tried,’ said Bannerman.
Shona sensed there was something behind the comment. ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘If it’s as dangerous as you chaps are always telling us?’
There’s a belief around that death is a curable condition. My profession is responsible for creating it. They seem to suggest that if you eat the right things, take the right amount of exercise, avoid alcohol, tobacco, stay out of the sun and God knows what else, you’ll increase your chances of living for ever. Not so.’
‘No?’
‘It will only seem like it. No heed is given to the quality of life on offer. It could be argued that by doing all these things you’ll increase your chances of surviving long enough to lose all your faculties and end up as a blind, deaf, incontinent, doolally geriatric. I decided some time ago that that wasn’t for me.’
‘I bet you eat butter too,’ smiled Shona.
‘And I like caffeine in my coffee.’
‘I hope you don’t go around saying things like that to the patients,’ said Shona.
‘I’ve never told anyone that before,’ said Bannerman, wondering why he was doing so now.
Bannerman became silent as Shona’s fingers brought relief from the nagging pain, but Gill’s death was uppermost in his mind.
Shona made up a futon bed for Bannerman in the room upstairs she used as a studio. The room had a large angled window set in the roof, which meant that he could lie on his back and look up at the stars set in a crisp, dear sky. The frost in the air made a halo round the brightest ones. There was a smell of oil paint in the room but it was not strong enough to be unpleasant and it reminded Bannerman of school days and the chaos of the art classroom. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore outside prolonged thoughts of childhood and conjured up images of family holidays and the elusive happiness that went with them.
At any other time such a pleasant ambience would have ensured that he drift off into a comfortable sleep, but not tonight. The thought of Gill’s body lying broken on the rocks, with the waves breaking over it, kept returning to haunt him. Gill must have found out something about the deaths that no one else knew. Something so important that he was murdered to keep him quiet. It didn’t seem to make any sense. He had already made known his suspicions about the involvement of the Scrapie agent in the affair and had forwarded sections of the brains to the MRC for examination. What more was there to know? What was the point of sending the brains to London, if that really was what was in the parcel.
After some further thought, Bannerman decided that there was one major difference between the sections of brain that Gill had sent to London and the actual missing brains themselves. The sections could be considered ‘dead’ material; the fixing procedure during the preparation would have killed off any live virus. The brains themselves however, would comprise a source of live virus. Was that the reason Gill had tried to send the parcel to the MRC? Because it contained live virus material? Bannerman felt a chill run up his spine as he thought about the interception of the parcel. He wondered why anyone would want to get their hands on such a deadly thing.
A whole range of nightmares queued up for consideration, ranging from criminal blackmail to the use of the virus as the ultimate biological weapon. Deranging large numbers of one’s enemies could be a good deal more effective than killing them. A SCUD missile full of brain destroying virus falling in the streets of Tel Aviv was not a pretty thought and, unlike nuclear weaponry, it would be cheap. Bannerman decided that he was letting his imagination run away with him. Apart from anything else the ‘new virus’ was still a matter of conjecture. Who knew about the possibility outside the Medical Research Council … and Her Majesty’s Government? This thought made Bannerman change tack. Maybe whoever had intercepted the parcel had not been interested in obtaining the live infecting agent at all? … Maybe they had simply wanted to destroy all evidence of it … to stop any further investigation?
When he woke, Bannerman took a leisurely shower in Shona MacLean’s bright, modern bathroom and looked out at the early morning sunshine as he towelled himself down. It was so pleasant to be in a bathroom that had no need of frosted glass. He could watch the waves break on the shore. The smell of coffee brewing gave his appetite an edge as he dressed and went downstairs to find Shona in the kitchen.
‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.
‘Eventually,’ said Bannerman. ‘How about you?’
‘Eventually,’ agreed Shona. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Lawrence. He was such a gentle man. I just can’t believe that anyone would have wanted to murder him.’
Bannerman nodded sympathetically but couldn’t think of anything to add.