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of various musical styles as an aid to relaxation.
    So far the biggest success had been a tape of Gregorian chant, recorded by French monks in an alpine monastery. The sonorous tolling of bells and echoing prayer chants had induced a marked improvement in his driving demeanour with their constant allusion to human mortality. The ironic drawback was that Stella found the ecclesiastical aura in the car almost as irritating as his bad temper. She had insisted on him finding something else. It had been Mozart’s turn last week, which had only moderate success; now it was Vivaldi’s big chance with The Four Seasons.
    The traffic started to move but again ground to a halt less than fifty yards further on. Bannerman slipped the gear stick into neutral and sighed in frustration. Winter wasn’t doing too well. It took a further thirty-five minutes to reach the turn off for his apartment block. A few twists and turns through quiet back streets and he was safely through the gates and into the haven of Redholm Court.
    As he got out and locked the car he suddenly remembered that he had yet to get some wine to take over to Stella’s. He toyed with getting it on his way there but decided that if he did that it would be warm. There was an off-licence a quarter of a mile down the road so he pulled up his collar and hurried along to it. He was back within fifteen minutes.
    With the wine safely in the kitchen fridge Bannerman took off his coat and poured himself a large gin from a bottle which stood on a tray beside the window. He closed the curtains and switched on the television to catch what was left of the early evening news on Channel Four.
    Bannerman lived on the third floor. It was a pleasant two-bedroomed flat rented at a price which included all services. He had stayed there for the last two years and had no intention of moving unless he had to. It was quiet, warm in winter and pleasant in summer because of the south-facing balcony and roof garden. The building itself was surrounded by private gardens which included several mature beech trees and a series of well-kept flower beds which the gardeners stocked according to the season. There was also a garage for his car although he seldom used it, preferring instead to leave it on the tarmac apron facing the row of lock-ups.
    There was little in the way of furniture in the apartment, something which owed nothing to ‘mini malist’ fashion but much to Bannerman’s lack of interest in matters domestic. Most of what there was designed to hold books although even these pieces were insufficient to cope with his collection and several volumes lived permanently on the floor, something his cleaner was at pains to point out at frequent intervals. She maintained that it interfered with her ‘Hoover’.
    Unknown to her, this fact gave Bannerman per verse pleasure. Anything that impeded the progress of that monstrous machine was to be applauded. He had an almost irrational loathing of the ‘Hoover’. It was a hated enemy, the ultimate symbol of domestic drudgery. On the odd occasion he found himself in the flat when the dreaded noise started up he would be into a track suit and off running round the grounds before the cleaner had finished saying, ‘I hope this won’t disturb you too much Doctor …’
    Bannerman finished his drink, kicked off his shoes and padded off to the bathroom to shower. He noticed a message on the hall table and stopped to read it. It was from the cleaner and said that one of his shirts had gone missing in the laundry. She had ‘told them off about it and, ‘by the way’ he needed some more shirts anyway. Several were looking ‘weary’. Bannerman had to admit that that was fair criticism. He was probably one of the laundry company’s best customers.
    As a medical student he had discovered that pathologists carried the smell of their profession about with them. Even on social occasions he had noticed the sweet tang of formaldehyde or some other tissue fixative