With a sigh of resignation, he crossed to the window where he drew open the curtains to look out on deserted, wind-swept streets. The sky was ominously dark and threatening. Rain wasn’t far away. ‘Bonnie Scotland,’ he whispered, ‘you’re an absolute joy …’
Bannerman pondered on what he should do next. He felt frustrated and angry at having been beaten yet again by the factions determined to prevent investigation of the outbreak but he knew that he mustn’t allow these feelings to dictate his actions. He must be practical. He felt sure that Turnbull’s body would be kept hidden until a cremation took place. Alerting the police might force the handing over of the body but access would still be nigh impossible. He would still not be able to get the specimens he needed for lab investigation.
He still had the option of forcing the issue with court involvement and Angus MacLeod’s collusion but he’d ruled this out because of what it would do to relationships within the community. He decided on a conservative course of action. Despite the terms of the deal with Allison, which allowed him to call for a full-scale investigation if another case arose within the four week period, there was no point in doing so if there was nothing there to investigate! There were, however, a couple of other things he could do until he had decided what to tell the MRC. One was to talk to Gordon Buchan’s widow.
The last time he had been in the area May Buchan had been recuperating on holiday. Presumably she was back now and perhaps she could throw some light on how her father had contracted the disease. First he would have to find out where she was staying.
He remembered that Sproat, the farmer at Inverladdie, had said she would be moving back in with her parents when she returned, but of course, they were now both dead and the family house in Stobmor had been burned to the ground. Would she still be staying in the tied cottage on the farm? he wondered. The girl who served him breakfast confirmed, between sidelong glances at the state of his face, that she was. When it seemed that she might have plucked up enough courage to ask what had happened, Bannerman said quickly, ‘Don’t ask.’
Wearing a pair of dark glasses which he purchased from MacPhail’s in the High Street, as recommended by Angus MacLeod, Bannerman got into the car to drive up to Inverladdie Farm. There hadn’t been a mirror in the dark, dusty general store so he looked at himself as best he could in the rear view mirror of the car. ‘Very Jack Nicholson,’ he murmured at the sight. He hoped he wouldn’t alarm May Buchan.
The rain that had been threatening for the last two hours finally arrived as Bannerman nursed the car up the track to Inverladdie Farm. One moment he was driving up a clearly defined farm road, the next he was moving slowly up the bed of a fast flowing river.
When he eventually reached the cottage he was pleased to see that someone was at home. There was a light on in the kitchen. He made a run for the shelter of the porch and knocked on the door. It was answered by a very tanned woman in her thirties; her hair had been bleached almost blonde by recent exposure to the sun. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a white sweater with a small gold crucifix dangling over it. Her feet were bare.
‘Mrs Buchan? I’m Ian Bannerman. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?’
May Buchan looked as if she might have argued the point had the weather been kinder but rain and wind were funnelling in through the open door. She said, ‘You’d better come in.’
Bannerman explained who he was and expressed his sympathy at the death of her husband and parents.
May thanked him automatically and stared at his glasses. ‘It’s not exactly sunny,’ she said.
Bannerman touched the glasses self-consciously and said, ‘I have a slight eye problem.’ He thought it rather rude of May Buchan to have made the comment, but at least it told him what kind of person she was. On the other hand, maybe the loss of three close relations in quick succession had simply stripped the veneer of social nicety from her?
‘I see,’ she said, still staring.
Bannerman tried to establish some kind of rapport with her. ‘You have a wonderful tan,’ he said. ‘You didn’t get that in Bonnie Scotland.’
‘Nassau.’
‘The Bahamas?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
‘The Sproats have been very kind. They paid for the trip. They thought it would help me get over Gordon’s death.’
‘That was very nice of them,’ said Bannerman, thinking that he had misjudged John Sproat.
‘It was a surprise,’ said May. ‘Unfortunately while I was away my father … well, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’m trying to establish a connection between your husband’s death and your father’s and I’d like you to help me find it.’
May looked uncertain. ‘But Gordon died of meningitis. Dad wasn’t ill. Something just snapped inside him and he went on the rampage. What sort of connection could there be?’ she asked.
‘I think they were both suffering from the same illness,’ said Bannerman. ‘Your husband was working with the infected sheep on the farm before he fell ill wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he and the others were burying them in the lime pit.’
‘Was your father involved in this at all?’ asked Bannerman.
‘My father?’ exclaimed May Buchan as if it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. ‘No, of course not. He never came near the farm at the best of times. Apart from that he and Gordon didn’t exactly see eye to eye.’
‘So they didn’t see each other socially?’
May shook her head. ‘Once a year at most.’
‘But you saw your mother and father?’
‘I visited them in the town, usually once a week.’
‘Can you think of any way your father could have come into contact with the infected sheep on Inverladdie Farm?’
‘No,’ said May shaking her head in annoyance. ‘What’s all this about sheep? Why do you keep going on about sheep? Gordon died of meningitis.’
‘The truth is that we’re not quite sure what your husband and the others died of. It is just possible that infected sheep were involved,’ said Bannerman.
May looked as if she had been struck. Despite her tan, Bannerman saw her pale visibly. ‘What the hell do you mean, “involved”?’ she rasped. ‘The sheep died of Scrapie; the vet said so.’
Bannerman proceeded carefully. He said, ‘It is possible that it wasn’t an ordinary strain of Scrapie but something that could be transmitted to man.’
‘Oh my God,’ said May.
The air was electric. Bannerman knew he was on the verge of finding out something important. He mustn’t push May Buchan too hard. He let the silence put pressure on her.
‘Oh Christ!’ said May, burying her head in her hands.
Bannerman remained silent.
‘I can give you your connection,’ said May between sobs. ‘Gordon and the two others … and my father … ate meat from one of the sheep.’
‘They ate it?’ exclaimed Bannerman.
May nodded. ‘In the past when there’s been a Scrapie outbreak old man Sproat has got the beasts off to market as quickly as possible.’
‘But surely that’s illegal?’ said Bannerman.
‘Everyone knows that Scrapie doesn’t affect human beings so where’s the harm? If the farmers declare the disease, government compensation isn’t anything like market value so what can you expect?’
‘But Sproat didn’t send them to market this time,’ said Bannerman.
‘It all happened too quickly for him,’ said May. ‘The sheep were dropping like flies. He called in the vet and after a lot of discussion old man Sproat and the vet told Gordon and the others it was Scrapie. They were to bury the carcasses in a lime pit.’ May had to pause for a moment to compose herself before going on. ‘Gordon thought this was a bit of a waste so he and the others kept one of the sheep and brought it here. They butchered it and I put it in the freezer.’