Songs by Dead Girls

by Lesley Kelly

  Stuttle smiled, the kind of tooth-baring grin that a lion might give before it ate its prey. ‘I’d be eternally grateful, John. Nice to see you again, Mona.’

  The Guv took off at such a rate that Mona had to run to catch up with him. His pace slowed as he walked along the High Street. She kept a couple of paces behind him, and nearly crashed into him when he stopped abruptly.

  ‘Are you spying on me for SHEP?’

  ‘Guv! Of course not!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ His eyes narrowed, and he stepped slightly closer to her than she would have liked. She had an overwhelming urge to push him away, but settled for edging her bag in between them. ‘This isn’t your attempt to get a promotion fast-tracked, reporting back on me to Stuttle?’

  ‘Absolutely not! I can’t believe that you’d think that.’

  Paterson stared at her for a moment, then turned on his heel and marched off in the direction of the car. She watched him go. ‘For one thing, Guv,’ she said quietly to herself, ‘you’re not that important.’

  4

  The HET’s IT section was located in the basement of Police Scotland HQ, known to everyone as Fettes. It was next door to the famous public school of the same name, but was at the opposite end of the architectural spectrum. While the school had so many turrets and ramparts it wouldn’t have appeared out of place in a Disney theme park, the police HQ looked as if the architect had delivered on a one-line brief: keep it functional.

  Bernard pushed open the door to the IT lab, and was met with a silence so complete that he wondered if anyone was in. After a second of lingering in the doorway he saw that the two technicians were bent silently over their screens, each with a huge pile of files next to them.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Bernard!’ Marcus leapt up, his hand outstretched and a wide grin on his face. The thing that Bernard liked the most about the senior IT officer was that he was his only colleague who could be reliably depended upon to be pleased to see him. He gave Bernard a firm, if slightly sweaty handshake. ‘How are you?’

  Bryce, the other technician, gave him a wave. In nearly a year of acquaintance, Bernard had never actually heard him speak. He assumed that he could speak, but just chose not to. Or at least opted not to express himself when there was anyone other than Marcus around to hear him. Perhaps he chattered non-stop when there were no outsiders in the room. Then again, left to their own devices, perhaps the IT section communicated entirely by semaphore.

  ‘I’m good. You two look busy.’

  ‘We are. SHEP appears to have confused us with data entry clerks and sent us an entire box room of files for digital archiving. I have never been more pleased to see a HET officer needing assistance.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘And I know what you are going to say, Bryce—’

  Bernard wondered how.

  ‘—but it’s definitely my turn for a break, so I’m claiming this one. What can I do to help?’

  ‘We have a Health Check Defaulter with a possible false address, and a hostile Defaulter witness. I’d like you to do some background checks on both of them.’

  ‘And you have the appropriate paperwork, signed by someone far more important than you?’

  Bernard produced a sheet of paper from his bag, and held it aloft. ‘I have a printout decorated with the finest electronic signature I could download for my team leader?’

  ‘Close enough.’ Marcus returned to his computer. ‘OK, give me names, and what you want to know.’

  ‘Alessandra Valentina Barr, date of birth, etc. as per the paperwork. Can you tell me any addresses you have for her?’

  ‘I assume you’ve checked the phone book and census already?’

  ‘Actually, no.’

  Marcus tutted. ‘I expect that slipshod approach from your colleagues, but . . .’ He tapped the keyboard rapidly, then looked up. ‘Nope, no sign of her.’

  ‘National Insurance records?’

  Tap, tap, tap on the keyboard again. ‘No, nothing there either. Are you absolutely sure about the date of birth, spelling of her name, etc.?’

  ‘It’s all from her Green Card info.’

  He snorted. ‘So all of it is open to question then. Right, let’s start at the beginning. We’ll check the register of births.’

  Further tapping. ‘Got her! Alessandra Valentina Barr, born 12th of April 1991, Glasgow.’

  ‘So, she does exist. What about bank accounts?’

  Bernard grabbed a chair, and sat watching Marcus type. After a good ten minutes of keyboard clattering, he looked up.

  ‘Nothing under that name.’

  ‘Is she a benefits claimant?’

  Marcus sighed. ‘This is going to take a while. Go, find coffee somewhere, and come back in quarter of an hour or so?’

  ‘Can you check out a Stephen McNiven, while you’re at it?’ He passed over McNiven’s details.

  ‘The hostile Defaulter witness, I assume?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Bernard did as he was told, and wandered off to the cafeteria. He returned exactly fifteen minutes later with three doughnuts and hope in his heart. ‘Any joy?’

  ‘Ooh, thanks.’ Marcus bit a chunk of doughnut, and threw one across the room to Bryce. ‘Nice.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘I did them both while you were gone. Mr McNiven has a Green Card, NI number, a bank account currently showing an overdraft, and a chequered employment history in the fast-food industry.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Bernard. Unless McDonald’s paid an awful lot more than he’d assumed, Stephen McNiven’s designer gear was obviously being funded by another source.

  ‘Now, Alessandra. Intriguing, this one. Birth certificate, Green Card, and Medical Card.’

  ‘Any medical conditions?’

  ‘Oh, no. Can’t tell you that. The powers invested in us by the hastily written Health Defaulters Act mean we can poke around at will in people’s employment and benefit history, their mobile phone records and their bank account, but stops short of letting us nose around in their medical files. Which is ironic, seeing as it is their health that we are particularly concerned about.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What we don’t have for Ms Barr is anything that indicates a work history, a claimant history, or a stake in the formal banking industry.’

  ‘So how is she supporting herself?’

  ‘Bernard! Are you really so innocent that you need a humble IT technician to spell it out?’

  He smiled at the look of mock horror on Marcus’s face. ‘She’s a prostitute?’

  ‘Or a member of any other profession that operates on an entirely paper money basis. Professional shoplifter, gambler, cash-in-hand plumber . . . but I’d go with your first thought.’

  ‘So why bother with a Green Card when she has none of the other things?’

  ‘Because people like yourself or Police Scotland have the right to stop and ask to see your Green Card. In her probable line of work, that’s a risk.’

  Bernard stood up to go.

  ‘And a couple of other odd things to consider. Couldn’t find any evidence of a passport, and she’s only had a Green Card for six months.’

  ‘Fits in with her not having an arrest record – yet.’

  ‘So you’ll be off to track down your missing prostitute now? I assume you’ll be starting with the red light district in Leith?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Will you be taking Mona for backup?’ Marcus’s tone was casual. Bernard tried not to smile; he’d never had a whole conversation with Marcus without him mentioning her.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Nice woman. Not slow to get you into trouble though.’

  Marcus had also suffered from the fallout of the Weber case, after he’d allowed himself to be bullied by Mona into assisting her access some e-mails she had no right to see. The severe dressing-down he’d received didn’t appear to have ended Marcus’s unrequited crush.

  ‘True. Thanks, guys.’

  5

  ‘Maybe we should have
phoned ahead to the university, found out the best way to get there?’

  As before, Paterson didn’t answer her, and, as before, this made her blood boil. It heightened the irritability she was already feeling due to the Guv’s Y chromosome rendering him incapable of asking for directions. For the last twenty minutes they seemed to have been driving round in circles, somewhere just outside the city bypass. The sun was out now, and Paterson seemed to have some objection to either turning on the air conditioning or opening a window. She fanned herself, and made one last attempt. ‘I’ve got a satnav thing on my phone we could use?’

  ‘Save it. We’re here.’

  He turned into what appeared to be an industrial estate. A substantial barrier prevented them entering. Paterson pulled up to it and spoke into the machine, and in reply a crackly voice promised to ‘be there in a minute’. While they waited, Mona read the large brown sign which mapped out the estate; the university seemed to use about half of the units, with the other occupants being largely scientific and technical firms.

  A man in a university-issued polo shirt jogged in the direction of the car. ‘Green Cards, please.’ He thrust a handheld device through Paterson’s open window, and each of them held their cards against it in turn. The machine beeped twice, satisfied that neither of them presented a public health risk. ‘Where are you looking for, pal?’

  ‘The Department of . . .?’ he stopped and looked at Mona, realising he didn’t actually know the correct name.

  ‘Two minutes, Guv.’ Mona searched the Internet on her phone. ‘The Virology and Pandemics Unit, please.’

  He nodded. ‘Turn to your left, and it’s about five minutes’ drive. It’s a blue, glass-fronted building. You can’t miss it.’

  They drove slowly in the direction the porter had indicated, passing building after building, all new combinations of metal and tinted glass. There was not a single person, student or otherwise, to be seen.

  ‘Not exactly dreaming spires, is it, Guv?’

  He grunted.

  ‘What are we going to say when we get there? Have you thought of a good reason for our visit?’

  ‘I’m going to say, “We’re from the HET, where’s Professor Bircham-Fowler?”’

  ‘But aren’t they just going to say, “He’s not here”?’

  He shrugged. ‘And that is what we will report back to SHEP, then we get on with doing the work that we legally have jurisdiction to do.’

  ‘Blue building, Guv.’ She pointed, and Paterson turned into the small car park.

  The door to the building was made largely of reinforced tinted glass. It was also firmly locked. Mona looked around for a buzzer or an intercom, but there didn’t appear to be either. ‘How do you think we get in?’

  ‘There must be something.’ Paterson held up a hand to block out the sun, and peered through the glass. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a reception.’

  Mona stepped back and looked up at the building. The opaque windows made it impossible to tell if anyone could see them. ‘I don’t think they get many visitors. Shall I see if I can find a phone number?’

  ‘Yes, but hurry up.’

  She resisted the temptation to snap at him. It wasn’t her fault that they were on this wild goose chase, although she was pretty sure he didn’t see it like that. She concentrated on the screen.

  ‘No phone number, Guv, only an e-mail address. Do you want me to send a message?’

  Paterson peered into the building again. ‘I think someone’s coming.’

  A young man in jeans and T-shirt appeared on the other side of the door. He waved to them through the glass. ‘I saw you from the window. This building is not open to the public.’

  Paterson held his ID up against the glass. ‘We’re here to see Professor Bircham-Fowler.’

  The student peered at the HET badge, and decided that their credentials passed muster. The door buzzed and he held it open for them. ‘I’ve not seen him today. I don’t think he’s in.’

  Mona stepped into the cool of the foyer; it felt great to be out of the heat. ‘In that case we want his secretary. Where would we find her?’

  The student burst out laughing. ‘Maggie? Best of luck!’ He pointed at a couple of leather chairs. ‘Take a seat and I’ll ask her to come down.’ He disappeared up a set of metal stairs, still chuckling to himself.

  ‘Well, that was weird, Guv, don’t you think?’

  Paterson didn’t respond, and she threw herself on to one of the chairs, with as loud a sigh of irritation as she dared. She didn’t have long to fume, as almost immediately they heard the sound of someone clattering down the stairs. A pair of legs in sensible shoes appeared at the top of the stairs. As the shoes descended, a royal blue A-line skirt appeared, followed by a blouse with a pussy-bow. Finally, a head appeared with light brown hair, combed into a side wave, and a face that looked extremely similar to a previous female prime minister of the UK. It occurred to Mona that it was very unlikely that this woman’s given name was actually going to be Margaret.

  ‘Guv!’

  It was too late. Paterson was already on his feet, with his right hand extended. ‘You must be Maggie.’

  She glared at him. ‘No, I must not. I am Theresa Kilsyth, assistant to Professor Bircham-Fowler. I believe you are looking for me?’

  ‘Actually, we’re looking for the professor. Is he here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Mona winced at the Guv’s tone. He knew this was sensitive; he should be treading a bit more carefully. Theresa Kilsyth was looking even less impressed.

  ‘He is not here, as I have already stated. Now if you will excuse me . . .’

  ‘No, I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Miss Kilsyth . . .’

  ‘Mrs.’

  ‘Why is he not at work, Mrs Kilsyth?’

  ‘That is a personal issue.’

  ‘What kind of personal issue?’

  ‘The kind that is personal.’

  Mona stifled the urge to laugh at the look on her boss’s face. His tone and imposing physical presence tended to get people scurrying to do his bidding. Now he was being stonewalled by someone very small, and apparently unmoveable. She decided to jump in.

  ‘We’re very sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs Kilsyth, but we will need to see the professor’s office, and take a look at his computer.’

  Mrs Kilsyth raised two eyebrows at this. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘On HET business,’ said Paterson, irritably, showing his ID again.

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’

  Neither of them said anything.

  ‘I thought not. As Professor Bircham-Fowler has not missed a Health Check, you have no legal right of access to his office, his computer files, or anything else.’

  ‘You certainly know a lot about the law, Mrs Kilsyth.’

  ‘Working for the professor in the current climate, I’ve had to acquaint myself with a lot of rules and regulations.’

  There was a clattering of feet and a number of young people came thudding down the stairs. They looked curiously at the three of them.

  ‘Outside, everyone,’ said Mrs Kilsyth to the group. ‘This is not a student common room.’

  The students grinned but hovered watching them.

  ‘I have some more questions about Professor Bircham-Fowler,’ said Paterson, in a loud enough tone for everyone in the room to hear.

  There was a small ripple of interest in this from the group.

  Mrs Kilsyth looked furious. ‘Very well,’ she said, accepting defeat. ‘You’d better come upstairs.

  The professor’s office was surprisingly tidy. From what Mona had seen of him on TV she’d expected something more mad professor-ish, with piles of papers everywhere, and possibly a test tube or two bubbling away.

  ‘It looks very well organised in here,’ she said.

  ‘That’s my doing,’ said Mrs Kilsyth, gesturing that she should sit down. She conspicuously ignored the Guv. ‘The place would be a tip if it was l
eft up to Sandy.’

  There was a picture of a girl on the professor’s desk. She looked about seven or eight, with long brown hair tied up in pigtails.

  ‘Pretty girl,’ said Mona. ‘The professor’s granddaughter?’

  Mrs Kilsyth was looking in the opposite direction. ‘What does he think he is doing?’

  Paterson was attempting to turn on the professor’s computer. Mrs Kilsyth marched round to the other side of the desk, and Mona thought for a minute that she was going to slap the Guv’s hands out of the way.

  ‘As I said downstairs, you do not have the right to do this.’

  ‘Mrs Kilsyth, we are on the same side. It is in the interest of everyone in this room that Professor Bircham-Fowler makes his Health Check. Think what it would do to his reputation if he misses it.’

  She stared at him. Mona could see her struggling to decide what to do. After a second, she waved a hand dismissively in the direction of the computer. ‘You’ll not find anything on it. Anything important is password protected, and I take it upon myself to delete the browser history on it every evening.’

  ‘That’s very security conscious.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Mr Paterson. Unfortunately, I feel the need to take those kinds of measures.’

  ‘Why?’

  She gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘As I am sure you are both aware, there are people in this office spying on him.’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t know anything about that.’ Paterson didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t. Anyway, I think it’s time for you to go now.’ Mrs Kilsyth opened the office door. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  Paterson reluctantly stepped away from the computer, and they both allowed themselves to be shooed in the direction of the main entrance.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Kilsyth.’ Mona held out her business card. ‘If you think of anything we would be delighted to speak to you. We are concerned about the professor, truly.’

  She took the card. ‘Yes, well, I know where you are if I need you.’ She turned on her heel and they heard the clatter of her shoes retreating back up the stairs.