‘I agree that some skulduggery appears to have been going on but the fire could have been coincidence. Couldn’t it?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ replied Bannerman.
‘Maybe you don’t want to believe it,’ said Stella.
‘It’s not that simple,’ said Bannerman. ‘I didn’t imagine being assaulted. I didn’t imagine being shot at. The fairies didn’t slash the tyres on my car,’ protested Bannerman.
‘You said yourself that there was local feeling against you because of job fears,’ said Stella.
The local yobs wouldn’t have mounted a clean-up operation on the beach,’ said Bannerman. That would have required a management decision. You know the funny thing? I had almost written off any involvement of the power station until Milne told me about the clean-up this morning.’
‘You can’t read too much into that either,’ said Stella. ‘If the management at the power station thought you were going to make trouble they would be bound to clean up their act. That’s human nature. It’s like dusting before your mother-in-law arrives.’
‘So you don’t believe me,’ said Bannerman.
‘I believe, that you believe it,’ said Stella. ‘I’m just trying to get you to relax. It’s over. You did your best and from what you’ve told me there doesn’t seem to be a new disease to worry about, so why not let it drop?’
Bannerman nodded. He had no intention of letting it drop but he had no wish to continue talking about it.
‘So what else is new?’ asked Stella.
Bannerman smiled and said, ‘I met someone while I was away, a girl.’
‘Good for you,’ said Stella. ‘Is she special?’
‘I think so,’ replied Bannerman.
Then I’m happy for you,’ said Stella. Tell me about her. Is she young?’
‘Youngish,’ smiled Bannerman, thinking he detected a barb on the question. ‘Her name is Shona MacLean; she’s an artist. She makes me feel like I’ve never felt before. Alive, confident …’
‘Young?’ added Stella with an amused smile.
Bannerman shrugged his shoulders in disappointment at the question and Stella reached across the table to take both his hands. That was a joke silly,’ she whispered. ‘Really, I’m delighted for you. When do I get to meet her?’ ‘Soon, I hope,’ said Bannerman. ‘Very soon.’
Bannerman returned to his office and tried to stop thinking about Achnagelloch and its problems by concentrating on his work. Thinking it was about time that he make himself known to the locum the MRC had provided for the lab in his absence, he asked Olive about his whereabouts and was told that Dr Sherbourne was down in the PM room. That’s where I’ll be,’ said Bannerman.
From what Charlie Simmons had said on a previous occasion, Bannerman expected Sherbourne to be young. He looked like a schoolboy. He seemed totally out of place at work in the mortuary, looking like a first-rate advertisement for the land of the living. He was tall, good-looking, animated and exuded joie de vivre. He instantly made Bannerman feel a hundred years old. ‘Hello,’ said Sherbourne. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Dr Bannerman.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Sherbourne, becoming flustered. ‘Please excuse me. I heard you were back but I thought I would carry on until you said not to.’
‘Please do,’ said Bannerman. ‘I just came to introduce myself and say thank you for your efforts in my absence.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Sherbourne, looking as if he meant it. ‘It’s been most interesting. I’ve enjoyed every moment of it and it’s all been valuable experience.’
‘You intend to make pathology your career then?’
‘I certainly do,’ smiled Sherbourne who was about to make the first incision in the cadaver he had on the table. ‘I find it absolutely fascinating, but then you must feel that way too.’
Bannerman nodded without comment. He watched Sherbourne complete the cut and then change to rib shears to gain access to the internal organs. ‘Actually I want to be a forensic pathologist,’ said Sherbourne. ‘That’s my goal.’
His goal? thought Bannerman. He wants a life spent among mutilated corpses, headless torsos, semen stained clothing and last night’s vomit? That’s his goal? ‘I see,’ he said.
Sherbourne was about to drain the blood from the neck of the corpse when Bannerman stopped him. ‘Not that way,’ he said. ‘If you want to be a forensic pathologist you have to remember that signs of injury can be very hard to detect even after strangulation. You have to be very careful how you drain the blood. Watch.’ Bannerman took the knife from Sherbourne and made the incision for him.
‘Thank you!’ said Sherbourne enthusiastically. That’s exactly the kind of tip I need.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Bannerman returned to his office upstairs wondering about the younger generation and why he himself had become a pathologist. He wasn’t sure that he could remember clearly.
TWELVE
Stobmor
February 4th.
‘You’ll be late again if you don’t get a move on!’ cried Kirstie Bell.
‘So you’ve said!’ retorted her husband. ‘At least a hundred bloody times, woman.’
‘Don’t you swear at me Andrew Bell, I’m not one of these fish factory tarts. Just you mind your tongue around here.’ Kirstie Bell moved away from the table but continued her diatribe while washing dishes. ‘When I think of the men I could have married, I should have listened to my poor father. He always said you’d amount to nothing. He wanted me to marry Jock Croan, he did, and you know what? He was right. I saw Jock the other day and do you know what he was driving?’
Andrew Bell continued to eat his breakfast without heeding the question.
‘A Volvo, that’s what,’ announced Kirstie in triumph. ‘A brand new Volvo.’
‘And what have we got? Answer me that,’ demanded Kirstie.
Bell continued to eat, deliberately making a slurping sound with his spoon.
‘A 1979 Vauxhall Viva, that’s what, with more rust than paint!’
‘You know what Kirstie?’ said Andrew looking up from his plate. ‘What?’
‘I bet Jock Groan’s wife has got an en suite bathroom as well as double glazing … and cavity wall insulation. Oh and patio doors, mustn’t forget patio doors must we? What would life be without patio doors? The neighbours can’t see what you’ve got if you don’t have patio doors.’
‘Don’t you sneer at me Andrew Bell,’ raged Kirstie. ‘You’re just jealous. You just can’t bear to see other people getting on in life, that’s your trouble! I don’t know why I bother. I work my fingers to the bone to make the place look nice and what thanks do I get? None, that’s what.’ Andrew slurped his milk again. ‘You are disgusting!’ snarled Kirstie. Andrew slurped all the louder. Kirstie was suffused with anger. She took it out on the pot she was cleaning.
Andrew looked at her out of the corner of his eye and suddenly felt a mist of regret wash over him. Who was the snarling virago with the angry red face? She was so old. Whatever happened to the girl with the smiling face? The girl whose sexuality had captivated him thirty years ago, the girl whose pouting breasts and proud buttocks had fired his fantasies and kept him awake at night until she had finally brought them to fruition in his mother’s back bedroom, one Saturday night, after a dance in the town hall. May had been born nine months to the day, six months after the wedding. Could this shapeless mass in the faded towelling robe be the same Kirstie? he wondered. Even her voice was different. This creature made a harsh, low pitched noise from a throat ravaged by cigarette smoke. She continually whined and sounded resentful. The real Kirstie had a sweet, soft voice, one that could tease and excite, one that could promise so much by saying so little. And her eyes! That was another thing. Kirstie had lovely clear eyes. This woman had nasty little pebbles set in crows’ feet and underhung with folds of scrawny skin. This woman wasn’t Kirstie! This woman was some kind of usurper who had taken Kirstie’s place!