Sproat didn’t reply. He just got back in the Land Rover and started the engine. They drove laboriously round the head of the glen and down into the next one, where they came to a halt. Bannerman was glad they did; his spine was beginning to protest at all the jarring.
‘We dug the pit over there,’ said Sproat, nodding to his right.
Bannerman could see where the ground had been disturbed. He got out and walked over to the mound. Sproat joined him.
‘I understand from the vet that no brain samples were taken from the sheep?’ said Bannerman.
‘That’s right. It was obvious what was wrong with them.’
Bannerman looked down at his feet.
‘If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you can forget it,’ said Sproat. ‘We didn’t skimp on the lime.’
Bannerman smiled. He had indeed been wondering whether there was any chance of the virus having survived in the sheep burial pit but he had no wish to start digging and decided to accept Sproat’s assurance. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.
They passed a small cottage on the way back to the farmhouse. Bannerman asked about it.
‘That’s where Gordon Buchan lived with his wife,’ said Sproat quietly.
‘Maybe I could have a word with Mrs Buchan,’ said Bannerman.
‘No,’ said Sproat quickly. ‘She’s away at the moment.’
‘Away?’ asked Bannerman.
‘On holiday. She needed to get away for a bit.’
Bannerman nodded. ‘And then what?’ he asked. ‘I presume it’s a tied cottage?’
‘It is,’ agreed Sproat. ‘She’ll probably move back to live with her family in Stobmor.’
They pulled into the farmyard as the first spots of rain began to dapple the windscreen. ‘More rain,’ complained Bannerman.
‘At least it’s not snow,’ said Sproat. ‘We store chemicals and fuel in the barn.’
Bannerman took a look round the barn and found nothing out of the ordinary. It was a sheep farm, so there wasn’t much call for the wide range of chemicals that might be found in arable farming. What there was seemed to be stored well and the labels were well-known proprietary brands.
‘What exactly is it you’re looking for?’ asked Sproat.
‘I’m not sure myself,’ replied Bannerman.
Later on that afternoon, Bannerman telephoned Angus MacLeod’s surgery from the hotel. He thought that that might be the best time to contact him, in the lull between morning and evening surgeries and when the house calls should be over for the day. His housekeeper answered and told him that MacLeod was having a nap.
‘Is it an emergency?’ she asked.
Bannerman said that it wasn’t but that he would like to speak to the doctor.
‘He only sees reps by prior appointment,’ said the housekeeper defensively.
‘I’m from the Medical Research Council,’ replied Bannerman.
‘I see, well if you give me your name I’ll tell the doctor you called.’
‘I’m staying at the hotel,’ said Bannerman. ‘Perhaps you would ask him to give me a ring when he wakes up?’
‘I’ll do that, Doctor …?’
‘Bannerman.’
Bannerman filled in the time with phone calls to London. He spoke to Olive at the lab and then to the chief technician, Charlie Simmons, who told him that everything was going smoothly and that there was nothing to worry about.
‘How about the locum?’ asked Bannerman.
‘He’s about fourteen years old,’ replied Simmons. ‘We should have him trained by the time you get back.’
Bannerman smiled. It was pretty much the reply he had expected. He asked to speak to Leeman but was told that he was carrying out an autopsy. Bannerman said not to disturb him but to tell him that he had called and to pass on his regards. He asked to be transferred to Stella’s extension but the hospital switchboard cut him off somewhere in the proceedings and he had to call again simply to be told that Stella was in theatre. He had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was Angus MacLeod.
‘How can I help you, Dr Bannerman?’ asked MacLeod, in clear, measured tones.
‘I’m looking into the deaths of the three men from Inverladdie, Doctor,’ replied Bannerman. ‘I understand you were their doctor.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied MacLeod. “There’s no other practitioner in Achnagelloch.’
‘Perhaps we could talk?’
‘Come on over,’ said MacLeod. ‘When you leave the hotel turn left. Take the first right after the post office and my surgery is on your left, half way up the hill.’
Despite his name and, albeit refined, Scottish accent, there was nothing about Angus MacLeod’s dress to suggest Scottishness. Bannerman found this surprising. For some reason he had expected a tweed jacket at the very least, or perhaps a tartan tie, but no, MacLeod was wearing a dark, three piece suit with a gold watch chain disappearing into his waistcoat pocket. His white shirt was crisp and his tie was a muted dark blue. It went well with his silver hair. Bannerman reckoned that he could not have been far short of seventy but, despite the apparent frailty of his thin body, his voice was strong and his intellect seemed quick and unimpaired.
‘Good of you to see me Doctor,’ said Bannerman, stretching out his hand. He found MacLeod’s grasp firm and free of masonic information. He was shown into what was obviously MacLeod’s consulting room and invited to sit down.
‘There’s really not much I can tell you,’ said MacLeod, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on folded hands.
Bannerman could imagine him adopting this posture in front of generations of patients … Tell me all about it Mrs Macpherson, when did you first notice the swelling …
‘The condition came on so quickly that there was very little I could do, except provide some relief from the pain and give them sedation. One of the men was dead of course when they found him and another was raving mad in the streets. Gordon Buchan was the only one I managed to attend, simply because he had a wife to call me in.’
‘What were your thoughts when you first saw him?’ asked Bannerman.
MacLeod grimaced slightly at the memory. He said, ‘‘I once saw a man die of rabies in North Africa. That’s the only thing I could compare the condition to. Progression into complete dementia with the patient experiencing the most horrible nightmares.’
‘‘I wonder if I might see your case notes on the men?’ asked Bannerman. ‘‘I’m trying to collect together every single detail.’
‘Of course,’ replied MacLeod, getting up stiffly from his chair and opening a three-drawered filing cabinet. He brought out the relevant files and placed them on the desk in front of Bannerman.
‘I understand that some kind of viral meningitis is being blamed for the deaths,’ said MacLeod, as Bannerman worked his way through the slim files.
Bannerman met MacLeod’s eyes briefly and said, That’s what I understand too.’
‘Did you know that the men were employed on burying dead sheep when they fell ill?’
‘I had heard,’ said Bannerman without raising his eyes this time, although his pulse rate rose a little.
The sheep died of Scrapie … Did you know that?’
This time Bannerman felt he could no longer avoid MacLeod’s clever probing. He lifted his head and said, ‘Yes Doctor.’
‘Just so as you know,’ said MacLeod gently with a vaguely amused look on his face.
Bannerman closed the files and stacked them together on the desk. He said, ‘Yes Doctor, you are perfectly right in your suspicions. The Scrapie connection is why I’m here. I apologize for not having come clean with you right away.’
MacLeod shook his head slightly and made a gesture with his hands to signify that no offence had been taken. Then you believe it’s a real possibility?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Bannerman. ‘All the evidence seems to point to the men having contracted sheep Scrapie. I’m trying to prove it and find out just how it happened.’
‘A breach of the species barrier would be no joke,’ said MacLeod.