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want a full report for their survey.’
    ‘What survey?’
    They’re monitoring the incidence of brain disease in the UK to get an overall picture of the situation.’
    ‘Is this a routine survey or has something prompted it?’ asked Stella.
    They’re pretending it’s routine but it has a lot to do with the BSE scare we had last year. People suddenly realized that no one has a clear picture of what is going on because brain disease is so difficult to diagnose and classify. The tempta tion is always to use vague generalities like, “dementia”.’
    ‘Somehow I get the impression that things like Alzheimer’s disease are on the increase. Is that right?’
    ‘I fear so,’ said Bannerman, ‘but the survey should give us a clearer picture when it’s com plete.’
    Stella looked at her watch and said, ‘It’s late and if you’ve got to get up early …’
    Bannerman nodded and got to his feet. He thanked Stella for dinner and took hold of both her hands to say, Thank you for being my friend.’
    ‘Off with you,’ smiled Stella. ‘And …’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Don’t stay too long at the disco.’
    Bannerman woke at three in the morning with the sweat pouring off him. He had awoken from the nightmare just at the moment when the naked woman had raised the knife above her head to stab him. The act of stretching had caused the jagged surgical wounds on her chest, where her breasts should have been, to split open and weep blood over him.
    Bannerman sat bolt upright, breathing heavily and repeating an oath under his breath. After a few moments he swung his legs out from below the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed to light a cigarette. He took a deep lungful of smoke and let it out slowly while he massaged his forehead with his fingertips.
    The nightmare had been so vivid that there was no question of lying back down again and risking sleep. The woman with the knife would be waiting for him just below the brim of con sciousness. He pulled a dressing-gown round him and went through to the living-room to turn on the television. It didn’t seem very interesting - some American film from the sixties by the look of it - but it provided a distraction, and that was the main thing. The soundtrack was therapeutic as he shuffled into the kitchen to turn on the kettle to make tea.
    James Stewart and an actress he didn’t recognize were about to live happily ever after and there were two more cigarette stubs in the ashtray before Bannerman felt like risking sleep again.
    At ten-fifteen in the morning, Bannerman returned to his office from the post-mortem suite with the taped report he had compiled of the autopsy on Paul Bryant, aged nine. ‘I’ll need an MRC report form Olive,’ he said to his secretary on passing. ‘He had cancer of the brain.’
    ‘You aren’t forgetting the monthly Health Board meeting at ten-thirty are you?’ said Olive.
    ‘No,’ replied Bannerman without enthusiasm.
    Olive Meldrum smiled. She knew how much Bannerman hated routine meetings.
    Bannerman sat down behind his desk and picked up the telephone. The events of the previous day and night had been preying on his mind too much. He resolved to do something about it. He pressed a four digit code and waited for a reply.
    ‘Drysdale,’ said the voice.
    ‘Dave, it’s me, Ian Bannerman. Do you think we could have a talk sometime today?’
    ‘What about a drink at lunch-time?’
    ‘I meant a more professional talk,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘Oh I see. Well I think I should warn you that I suspect your “patients” are a bit beyond psychiatric help,’ said Drysdale.
    Bannerman did his best to respond to the joke but it was laboured and Drysdale sensed it. ‘How about two-thirty?’ he asked.
    ‘That suits me fine,’ said Bannerman. ‘Your place or mine?’
    ‘Come up,’ replied Drysdale.
    For Bannerman to arrange a meeting with a psy chiatrist it had been very much a case of the singer not the song because he had little time for psychiatry.