‘You don’t really think that Bell’s death could be coincidence do you?’ asked Flowers.
‘No I don’t,’ said Bannerman. ‘Mind you, I hope with all my heart that it was.’
The days passed and Bannerman felt himself being drawn back into the routine lifestyle that he had known before going to Scotland. His friendship with Stella had changed however. They did not see each other as often as before and he no longer felt that he could do things like ring her up in the middle of the night to discuss some problem. He supposed that it was inevitable that the relationship should change and he felt sad in a way, but on the other hand his feelings for Shona were undiminished. The highlight of each and every day was the phone call to Shona in the evening. For the first time in his life he wanted to tell someone everything. Matters that previously would have seemed too trivial to rate a mention had to be imparted to Shona in detail. He knew this made him vulnerable but it was a new and not unpleasant experience. He had been keeping people at arm’s length all his life.
‘Still no word from the north?’ asked Shona.
‘No,’ said Bannerman. That’s ten days now.’
‘Do you still think there will be other cases?’
‘Yes. I’m convinced Bell contracted the same disease as Buchan and the other two men. That means the outbreak did not end with the burial of the infected sheep on Inverladdie. If we can show there was some connection, then there is still a chance that the outbreak may be contained locally. If not, then there must be another source of the disease that we haven’t even thought of. There’s just so much about this whole affair that we don’t understand.’
Ts there nothing you can do in the meantime?’ asked Shona.
Bannerman said not. ‘It’s just a matter of waiting and hoping I’m wrong.’
‘I’ll hope with you,’ said Shona.
‘I think we all better do that,’ said Bannerman,
‘If there is another case, will you be involved in the investigation or will it be taken out of your hands?’ asked Shona.
Bannerman hadn’t considered the possibility of not being involved. He said, ‘I’m going to see it through whatever they say.’
‘I understand,’ said Shona.
‘Whatever happens, I’ll come up for a long weekend at the end of the month, if that’s all right with you? We’ve lots to talk about.’
‘Of course,’ said Shona gently. ‘I’ll count the days.’
‘I’m sorry it can’t be sooner,’ said Bannerman.
‘Come when you can,’ said Shona.
After almost three weeks with no word from the MRC, Bannerman began to think that his worst fears might not after all be realized. One more week and the government would get the statement it wanted from the Council and that would be the end of the matter. The government would be happy, the farmers would be happy. Everyone would be happy … except Ian Bannerman. For him the fact would remain that seven people had died and a terrifying new disease had been created, even if it had disappeared for the moment. The outbreak would be conveniently forgotten by those in charge, those he saw as ostriches, happy ostriches with their heads safely back in the sand.
Newsnight had just finished on television and Bannerman was about to go to bed when the telephone rang. It was Angus MacLeod in Achnagelloch. Bannerman knew immediately why he must be calling and lost all trace of drowsiness.
‘There’s been another case?’ he asked without preamble.
‘Yes,’ replied MacLeod.
Bannerman closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Tell me.’
‘I was called out earlier this evening to see a young labourer. His wife called me because she thought he was behaving oddly. I recognized in him the same symptoms displayed by Gordon Buchan.’
‘But he’s alive?’
‘Yes,’ agreed MacLeod. ‘But for how much longer I don’t know. I’ve sedated him and had him moved to the cottage hospital at Stobmor. What do you think about a transfer?’
‘Where were you thinking of?’ asked Bannerman.
‘In view of what we both suspect, I thought we might try getting him admitted to the Department of Surgical Neurology at the Western General in Edinburgh but in another way I’m loath to do it.’
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Bannerman.
‘I think if we’re honest we have to recognize that there’s no chance of saving his life. We’d be moving him to get as much neurological information about the course of the disease as we can. DSN at the Western General has all the right equipment. But whether or not this would be fair on his wife is another matter.’
‘I see,’ said Bannerman, appreciating the moral dilemma. ‘My own view is that the only conclusive data we’ll get about the disease will come from post-mortem material. Reams of EEC print-out isn’t going to tell us much.’
‘In that case I think I should keep him here.’
‘Agreed,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’m going to come up there. I’d like to see the man for myself.’
‘Very good.’
‘You said he was a labourer. A farm labourer?’
‘No, he works at the stone quarry.’
‘Any connection with the patients who have already died?’
‘No family connection this time I’m afraid, but I did have one thought …’
‘Yes?’
‘The quarry lies to the west of Inverladdie Farm. It’s not inconceivable that infected sheep could have wandered over there.’
‘That’s a thought,’ agreed Bannerman, ‘but he would still have had to come into close contact with the infected animals to pick up the virus through cuts or grazes.’
‘Quarry workers invariably have plenty of these,’ said Munro.
‘I suppose so,’ said Bannerman, still not convinced. ‘I’d better have a note of some patient details.’ He straightened up the pad by the telephone and flicked off the cap of his pen with his thumb.
MacLeod dictated, ‘Male, twenty-eight years old, no medical history to speak of. Apart from headaches over the past week there was no real sign of illness until yesterday when his wife noticed lapses in concentration. She said he appeared at times to go into a trance. Today his behaviour became irrational and alarmed her so much that she called me in.’
‘In what way irrational?’
‘She found him eating the food in the dog’s bowl, then he tried to go to work without any boots on. When she tried to talk to him, she says he looked at her as if he didn’t know her, sometimes as if he hated her. They’ve always been such a loving couple; she’s taking it very badly.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Bannerman.
‘In view of what happened with Andrew Bell, I didn’t think I could risk leaving Turnbull at home, even with sedation. That’s why I had him moved to the cottage hospital.’
‘Did you say “Turnbull”?’ asked Bannerman.
‘Colin Turnbull,’ said MacLeod.
‘Hell and damnation,’ said Bannerman.
‘You know him?’
‘He was a regular in the bar of the hotel when I was up there, I liked him.’
‘A bright chap,’ said MacLeod. ‘He was doing a degree part-time.’
‘I remember,’ said Bannerman.
‘His wife, Julie, is the primary school teacher in Stobmor.’
Bannerman recalled the paintings in the windows of the school. He asked, ‘Who knows about Turnbull’s condition?’
‘You can’t keep secrets in a place this size,’ replied MacLeod. ‘Stories of another meningitis case will be all over town by now.’
‘Damn,’ said Bannerman.
‘You can’t keep this sort of thing under wraps for ever,’ said MacLeod.
‘That isn’t what was worrying me,’ said Bannerman.
‘Then what?’
‘I think it would be an excellent idea if some kind of guard were placed on Colin Turnbull.’
‘He’s heavily sedated. I don’t think he’s a danger to anyone,’ said MacLeod.
‘It’s the danger to him I was thinking about,’ said Bannerman.
‘I don’t understand,’ said MacLeod.
‘Not everyone wants us to get to the bottom of this outbreak Doctor.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’