‘Really,’ said Bannerman, putting a possible age of seventy on the man. In his book, doing the same thing year in, year out did not amount to ‘a wealth of experience’ but he kept his thoughts to himself. He finished his coffee and set off for Inverladdie.
There was a contractor’s van parked in front of the whitewashed farmhouse. It bore the name of an Inverness firm of heating engineers and, as if to prove the point, there were several radiators of varying size and a pile of copper piping stacked outside the door. Next to that was a contractor’s skip piled high with what looked like bits of old plumbing.
Bannerman picked his way through the jumble and knocked on the door. There was no answer until he had knocked a second time. A plump woman in her early fifties with a shock of hair that could not make up its mind whether it was fair or grey appeared at the door; she was drying her hands on a tea towel. The towel had ‘Great Bridges of the World’ printed on it. Bannerman recognized the Forth Bridge near the bottom.
‘Yes?’
‘Good morning, my name’s Bannerman. I work for the Medical Research Council. I wonder if I might have a few words with you and your husband?’
‘Medical Research Council? We’ve already had university people here asking questions. What more is there to say?’
‘It won’t take long,’ said Bannerman with a smile.
‘John’s down in the town and we’re having a new heating system installed
‘So I see,’ said Bannerman. ‘John’s your husband?’
‘Yes, John Sproat. I’m Mrs Sproat.’
‘Will he be long?’
‘We’re still a man short on the farm. He went down to see if he could recruit someone.’
‘I see,’ said Bannerman, reluctant to leave. He stood his ground until the woman was embarrassed into saying, ‘You’d best come in and have a cup of tea. He might be back by then.’
Agnes Sproat shut the kitchen door and Bannerman was pleased to find that much of the metallic hammering noise from the room next door was muted by it. She put on the kettle and bade Bannerman take a seat at the large scrubbed pine table in the middle of the room. It was a comfortable farmhouse kitchen, light, spacious and a large Aga stove made the room warm and welcoming. ‘We’ve been promising ourselves a new heating system for years,’ said Agnes Sproat. ‘You really need it up here,’ said Bannerman.
‘You’re from London?’
‘Yes.’
‘I went there once, about ten years ago,’ said Agnes Sproat. ‘It was too muggy for me. I couldn’t breathe.’
The sound of a car outside made her lean over the sink to look out of the window. ‘It’s John,’ she said. ‘You’re in luck.’
Bannerman stood up and saw that a white Mercedes saloon had parked outside beside the skip. A tall, gaunt man was getting out; a few moments later he appeared in the kitchen doorway.
By no stretch of the imagination could John Sproat have been called handsome. His skin was sallow, his features sharp and angular and grey hair seemed to sprout from his head at odd angles. Spikes of it stuck up at the back and at both sides. He wore a tweed jacket and trousers. In his hand he carried a deerstalker hat.
‘John, this is Dr Bannerman from the Medical Research Council,’ said Agnes Sproat.
‘What do they want?’ asked Sproat to his wife, as if Bannerman wasn’t there.
‘I’ve come about the three men who died,’ said Bannerman.
Sproat shook his head to signify exasperation. ‘Another one,’ he said.
‘I’ve told him a doctor from the university was here,’ said Agnes Sproat.
‘And the police, and the area medical officer,’ added Sproat. ‘Maybe I should turn the place into a bloody safari park and charge admission.’ ‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled,’ said Bannerman, ‘evenly, but it’s important we investigate this thoroughly.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Sproat.
‘Ideally, I’d like you to show me round your farm. I’d like to see the terrain and the boundaries.’
‘And then you’ll leave us in peace?’
‘Probably,’ said Bannerman.
Sproat put on his hat and said, ‘Right then. Follow me.’
Bannerman smiled at Agnes Sproat and followed her husband out into the yard where they climbed into a Land Rover that seemed to have been buried up to its wheel hubs in manure at some point in the recent past. A black and white collie dog stood by the side of the vehicle until Sproat signalled to it to climb on board. It leapt up on to the rear platform and lay down as Sproat started the engine. They jolted off up the track leading to the hills.
‘I farm both sides of the glen,’ said Sproat. Bannerman could see sheep spread over the slopes of the hills on both sides. The Land Rover growled as Sproat dropped down through the gears in deference to the ever steepening slope. Stones were thrown out from the wheels as the tyres fought for grip on the loose surface of the track.
They reached the head of the glen and came to a halt with the vehicle perched at an angle on the crest of a hillock. The land from there spread out in a gentle slope that led down to the sea. To the east, Bannerman could see the somehow threatening outline of the Invermaddoch power station. It seemed incongruous in the rugged landscape.
‘Does your land go right up to the station?’ he asked Sproat.
To the fence,’ replied Sproat. There’s a two hundred yard boundary with a double fence.
‘So the sheep are confined to the west of the station?’
‘Yes.’
There’s no way the animals could stray further?’
‘No. We have to maintain the fences on the east side of the farm because the ground to the south and east of the station is so rough. If we didn’t, we’d lose animals in the gulleys and crevices and shepherding is impossible on that terrain. Not even the balloon trikes can cope with it.’
‘Do you have much contact with the people at the station?’ asked Bannerman.
‘Not much.’
Ts there a contingency plan for the area if there should be a problem?’
‘Search me,’ said Sproat. ‘If there is, no one told me.’
‘I just thought there might be evacuation plans should an emergency arise,’ said Bannerman.
There’s not much to evacuate round here,’ said Sproat.
Bannerman smiled ruefully and said, ‘I suppose you’re right … just a few sheep.’
‘I think we’ll get a warning just the same,’ volunteered Sproat.’
‘How so?’
‘One day, about eight or nine months ago, they must have had a problem down there. I’ve never heard such a racket in all my life; klaxons, sirens, the lot. It sounded like a major air raid.’.
‘Did you find out what the problem was?’ asked Bannerman.
Sproat shook his head. ‘Not a word,’ he said.
‘Would you mind if I were to take a look around the boundary on my own, maybe tomorrow?’
‘Feel free,’ said Sproat. ‘Although I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Just don’t underestimate the terrain down there, it’s a long walk up from the road. I can’t let you have a vehicle.’
‘No problem,’ said Bannerman. ‘I could use the exercise.’
Bannerman looked towards the sea and saw that there was a railway track tracing the shore line. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘It’s the line for the stone quarry,’ said Sproat. ‘The roads around here won’t accommodate the size of vehicle the quarry needs, so the Dutchman built a railway line to take out the stone to the sea terminal at Inchmad.’
‘Is the quarry near here?’ asked Bannerman.
Sproat raised his left arm and pointed to the north-west. ‘About half a mile,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t the noise worry you?’ asked Bannerman.
“They only blast once a month. Any other noise is carried away on the wind and with all the stone going out by rail there’s no extra traffic to speak of. You’d hardly know they’re there.’
‘The best kind of neighbours to have,’ said Bannerman.
‘Aye,’ agreed Sproat. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to see?’
‘Maybe you could show me where you buried the infected sheep and then where you store chemicals on the farm?’