‘You’ve had no new ideas?’ asked Shona.
Bannerman shrugged and shook his head. ‘Not really, but somehow I’m more than ever convinced that the answer lies in Achnagelloch.’
‘Don’t you think that maybe it would be a good idea to tell the police everything after all?’
‘Not just yet,’ said Bannerman.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Shona.
Shona phoned for a taxi for Bannerman while he packed his things. He hoped it wouldn’t be the same driver who had brought him to the village and his heart sank when he recognized the car as it pulled up outside. The same unsmiling man knocked at the door.
Take care,’ smiled Shona.
‘Thanks for everything,’ said Bannerman. ‘Not least for saving me from another night at Mrs Ferguson’s place!’
‘Keep in touch,’ said Shona.
‘I’d like that,’ said Bannerman, opening the door.
‘Oh it’s you,’ said the driver.
‘Correct,’ replied Bannerman.
‘I thought you were staying with Mrs Ferguson?’
‘Did you?’ replied Bannerman, getting into the car.
The first mile passed in silence and Bannerman would have preferred that the pattern continue, but the driver’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘Would your visit have been business or pleasure then?’ he asked, with an attempt at what he considered a friendly smile.
‘Business,’ said Bannerman curtly, turning to look out the window again.
‘And what exactly would your line of business be?’
They had almost reached the end of the journey. Bannerman waited until the car had stopped before replying. He brought out his wallet and said, ‘I’m an inspector of taxes. I work for the Inland Revenue.’ He handed over the fare and a pound extra and said as a parting shot, ‘Don’t forget to declare the tip, will you?’
The journey back to the mainland was uneventful and the Sierra started first time when he turned the key. With a last wistful look over the water Bannerman said a silent farewell to Shona MacLean and set out for Achnagelloch.
For the first three hours the weather was kind and Bannerman felt quite relaxed when he stopped for lunch at a small village pub. The owner turned out to be an Englishman from Surrey who, after a lifetime in Insurance, had sold up everything down south and moved to the north of Scotland to run the hotel.
‘How long have you been here?’ Bannerman asked.
‘This is our third winter,’ replied the man.
‘Does the reality match the dream?’
‘I wish to Christ I’d never moved,’ replied the man as he cleared away the dishes and bumped open the kitchen door with his backside.
Bannerman did not inquire further.
The rain started just south of Loch Shin and got progressively heavier until the wipers found it hard to cope. Bannerman had to slow to a crawl when he found the road along the west side of Loch Mor badly flooded. At times it was hard to tell where the loch ended and where the highway began. He prayed that the Sierra’s electrics would survive the deluge of water from both above and below the car and purposely kept it in low gear to keep the revs high. After more than one heart stopping moment he was relieved to find the road climbing to higher ground. He lit a cigarette and began to relax a little but the feeling was short lived: it stopped when the signposts directed him to leave the main A 838 road and start out on the tortuous trail along minor B roads to Achnagelloch.
He had travelled barely a mile before he was brought to a halt by rocks on the road. They had been swept down from the barren hillside by the torrents of rain water. There was no alternative but to get out and clear a passage through them. Luckily none of the rocks were too big or too heavy to move, he managed most of them with his feet but he still got very wet in the process. ‘Bloody country,’ he mumbled as he got back in the car and slammed the door. It was seven o’clock when he reached Achnagelloch and found it as welcoming as a writ.
On his first traverse along the main street he did not see a single living soul. He turned and came back to where he had seen a hotel sign and this time he caught a brief glimpse of a figure flitting out of one doorway and into another. There was no one in the small hotel reception area when he entered, clutching his bag and brushing the rain off his shoulders. He read some of the notices that were pinned up on a wall by the door while he waited, hoping to get a feel for the place.
They were typical small town notices; one concerning the progress of the darts team, some adverts for properties owned by the National Trust in the area — all depicting gloriously sunny days, and a couple of receipts from local charities for collections made at Christmas in the bar. One notice in particular caught Bannerman’s eye. It said that the sum of one hundred and eighty-three pounds had been raised for the fund for Mrs May Buchan. Bannerman recognized the name; one of the dead farm labourers had been called Buchan. The woman must be his widow.
‘Can I be helping you?’ inquired a soft highland voice behind him. He turned to find a man in his fifties wearing a heavy-knit cardigan over corduroy trousers, looking at him through thick-rimmed spectacles that sat beneath an unruly mop of grey hair.
Td like a room,’ said Bannerman.
‘Would you, now,’ replied the man, almost absent-mindedly as he appraised Bannerman virtually to the point of embarrassing him with his stare. ‘And what kind would you be wanting?’
‘Ideally a warm, dry comfortable one with its own bathroom,’ said Bannerman.
‘Well two out of three isn’t bad, as the Americans say,’ replied the man. ‘We don’t have rooms with bathrooms but as you’re the only guest you’ll not be having much bother with queuing.’
‘Sounds fine,’ agreed Bannerman, who was so tired after his drive that he would have taken a stable. ‘I’d like to go up right away if that’s all right.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the man softly.
‘No?’
‘I’ll have to have Agnes make the room up first. We don’t get much in the way of passing trade at this time of year. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the bar?’
Bannerman said that he would. He opened the door that the man pointed to and found himself in a small, smoky bar with a coal fire at one end. There were three men seated at the counter and a boy in his late teens was serving behind it. They looked at Bannerman as he entered. ‘It’s a rough night out there,’ said one of the men.
‘Certainly is,’ agreed Bannerman. The men looked to be local, two were wearing caps, one of whom was resting his elbow on a shepherd’s crook, the head of which had been carved out of horn. The third man was wearing dungarees and a woollen hat. He was considerably younger than the other two and smiled a welcome.
‘You’re English?’ said the younger man who had commented on the weather.
“Fraid so,’ said Bannerman with a smile.
The smile was returned. ‘We won’t hold it against you,’ said the man.
‘In that case perhaps I might buy you a drink?’ said Bannerman.
All three opted for whisky. Bannerman invited the barman to join them and the boy said he’d have a beer. The ice had been broken and faces relaxed into smiles.
‘What brings you to Achnagelloch?’ asked the man with the crook.
‘I’m a doctor,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ve come to talk to the local health authorities … about the three men who died.’
There was very little reaction from the men. One of them did shake his head and say. ‘Bad business, meningitis. My sister’s boy died of it.’
‘Did you know the men?’ Bannerman asked.
‘It’s a small place, most folks know everybody,’ said the man with the crook.
‘You look as if you work out on the hills yourself,’ said Bannerman.
The man nodded.
‘You too?’ Bannerman asked the other man wearing a flat cap.
‘Aye.’
‘How about you?’ Bannerman asked the younger man.
‘I’m in the quarry,’ replied the man.
The quarry?’