by Lesley Kelly
‘Maitland?’
‘What?’ The voice came from inside Paterson’s cave. Bernard did his best to assess the tone, and decided it was resting somewhere between irritation and fury. He decided that he better brave his wrath and walked into the office.
Maitland was surrounded by even more piles of paper than he had been before they left. The paperwork currently covered not only the desk, but most of the floor as well. Perhaps Maitland had some kind of organisational system that wasn’t immediately apparent to anyone else, but to Bernard’s eye it looked like chaos.
‘The Parliamentary Committee papers,’ said Maitland, by way of explanation. ‘Didn’t realise there would be quite so much to get through. How did you get on with the Defaulter?’
‘We found her and took her in for a Health Check . . .’
‘Great. Good work. Make sure you write it up fully.’ Maitland returned to leafing through the documents in front of him. After a few seconds he realised that Bernard hadn’t actually left and looked up again.
‘Except that it wasn’t actually Alessandra Barr.’
Maitland stared at him. ‘You took the wrong person for a Health Check? How is that even possible?’
‘Remember yesterday we went to Alessandra Barr’s Green Card address in Morningside, and she wasn’t there, but there was a man there called Stephen McNiven? Well, we went to Stephen McNiven’s house and—’
‘Can you just cut straight to the part where you cocked up without the half-hour preamble?’
‘I’m getting there! This woman answered the door and said she was Alessandra Barr and she had Alessandra’s Green Card, so we, ehm, believed her.’
‘But the photo?’
‘The photo on the Green Card is terrible. It could be almost anyone.’
‘And you didn’t think it was a bit convenient, her answering the door and agreeing to come for a Health Check?’
‘No, why would I? There was obviously a connection between McNiven and our Defaulter, and she had the Green Card. Honestly, if the HET can’t provide us with good quality photographs . . .’
‘OK, OK, I take your point. I assume this fake Barr woman is now under arrest for impersonating a Health Defaulter?’
‘Actually, no.’ He paused, while he tried to figure out the most concise way to describe the second disaster of the day. ‘There was a bit of an altercation at the Health Check clinic, and unfortunately she kicked Carole in the face and ran off.’
‘Kicked Carole . . .’ Maitland looked horrified. ‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s black and blue from here to here.’ He pointed to the top and bottom of his face. ‘I took her to Casualty and they said her jaw wasn’t broken, just badly bruised. The doctor suggested that she went home immediately for a couple of days’ rest. She was pretty shaken up, as you can imagine.’
‘What am I . . .? I mean, what should we . . .? Ugh.’ Maitland plonked his elbows on top of two of the piles of paper and rested his head in his hands. ‘I’m not sure how we’re supposed to respond to this.’ He looked up at Bernard. ‘Go on, then. You’ve memorised the entire procedures manual – what do we need to do?’
‘I haven’t memorised the whole manual, I only memorised the bit about disciplinary procedure in case Mr Paterson decided to throw the book at me one day. But, for what it’s worth, I think all today’s activities are now the problem of Police Scotland . . .’
‘We should call them . . .’
‘I spoke to them already when we were at A&E. They’ve had a statement from Carole and me, and they were going to talk to the Health Check clinic staff. We’ve given them the address that we found her at, and they’re going to follow that up. So I think we’re OK.’
‘OK?’ Maitland looked incredulous. ‘We’re now down to a team of two people and you call that OK?’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
Bernard waited for Maitland to start shouting, but he seemed preoccupied. ‘Well, you’d better come with me to this Parliamentary thing tomorrow. You obviously can’t be trusted on your own.’
‘But . . .’ A million worries were competing for space in Bernard’s brain.
‘What?’
‘I’m concerned about Alessandra Barr, and by that I meant the real Alessandra Barr. She’s missing, but somebody else has her Green Card. How much can you do without a Green Card? I mean, you can’t buy food, you can’t get on a bus, you can’t access any kind of services. And yet we still haven’t heard of her being picked up by the police or anyone.’
‘You think she’s dead?’
‘It’s possible. Equally, if she is working as a prostitute, she could probably survive for a while without linking into the formal economy. But leaving without her Green Card suggests she had a hurried exit, and I didn’t much like that McNiven character. I’d really like to be out there looking for her.’
Maitland sighed. ‘We get this Committee thing out of the way, then we’ll both concentrate on finding her.’
‘I’ve never been to a Parliamentary Virus Committee before.’
‘Neither have I.’ He looked slightly doubtfully at the papers spread in front of him. ‘Bernard?’
He looked up at him, and for a moment Bernard thought he was going to ask for help. ‘What?’
The moment passed. Maitland shook himself. ‘Nothing. Go home.’
7
Tap, tap, tap.
She stared at the door, trying to work out if someone was knocking, or if it was just another of the hotel room’s quirks. In the two hours she’d been searching the Internet, she’d become familiar with the clank-clank of the plumbing system, the excessively loud creaking of floorboards in the room above her, and the general reverberation caused by anyone in the hotel closing their door. It was just as well she was going to be working through the night, because she didn’t fancy her chances of sweet dreams.
Paterson hadn’t been joking when he’d stressed the ‘budget’ in ‘budget hotel’. As time was of the essence, he’d been keen not to move too far from the city centre. Cross-referencing price, location and the availability of three rooms had left them with just one choice: the Hotel Exceptionnel. The hotel was located in an old mansion block; she suspected every room in the original house had been subdivided several times to create accommodation that housed a double bed with a sliver of space around it. The level of customer service they’d encountered when checking in suggested that it wouldn’t be worth complaining. In fact, the level of English spoken at the reception desk made it unlikely any complaints would be understood, far less acted upon.
Tap, tap, tap.
‘Mona?’
She shut down the lid of the laptop, and opened the door. ‘Guv? What’s up?’
‘Nothing’s up.’ There was a certain hunch to Paterson’s shoulders that contradicted this. ‘I just wanted to tell you I’ve booked a table for us in half an hour.’
‘A table? I was just going to get some room service and carry on with my Internet searching.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Not so great.’ She opened up the laptop again. ‘I tried lots of Google search combinations. You know – “Maria” plus “charity” plus “homeless”, etc., but didn’t turn up anything. So now I’m going through the pages of individual organisations registered with the Charity Commission as having a London base, and looking at their staff teams. But it’s going to take a while . . .’ She waited for Paterson to nod, and tell her to get on with it.
‘Yeah, but you need to eat, and a break would do you good.’
She was confused by the sudden interest in her well-being. The Guv wasn’t usually supportive of the idea of meal breaks, despite Bernard’s many attempts to outline their Health and Safety benefits. And given his current frame of mind toward her his concern was all the more baffling. ‘But . . .’
‘Mona, you’re coming with me and so is Theresa.’ His hunched shoulders righted themselves into his usual assertive posture. ‘We’re meeting up with my son again and I�
��m not sitting in a restaurant for an hour with him either slagging me off or saying nothing.’
She resisted the temptation to point out how annoying it was when someone was sulking and giving you the cold shoulder, and opted for some nosiness instead. ‘Why’s he so upset with you, Guv?’
‘You know, the divorce and everything.’
‘I thought Greg was grown up by the time you split up from his mum?’
‘Yeah, but he took it hard, and . . .’ Paterson played with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the door handle, ‘there was a bit of an overlap between the marriage officially ending and me meeting Mrs Paterson Two.’ He stared at her as if some kind of response was required.
‘Oh.’
‘I mean it was over in all but name of course . . .’
‘Of course.’ Seeing as Paterson had only just started speaking to her again, she wasn’t going to blow it by some sarcastic remark along the lines of, ‘And your wife just didn’t understand you, did she?’ Unlike the new, and considerably younger, Mrs P. She wondered how much older than Greg his stepmother was. Perhaps it would come up over dinner.
‘But he’s only heard his mother’s side, and there are two sides to every marriage.’
‘Of course.’ Mona stifled a smile. Two months with barely a word in her direction from Paterson, and suddenly she couldn’t shut him up. In fact, her boss was so keen for company that he appeared to have invited Theresa to dinner as well, and she could hardly be described as a fan of his. Mind you, if Greg was anywhere near as good as his father at sulking, Paterson was right to look for all the backup he could muster.
‘Foyer in twenty-five, Guv?’
‘Where is she?’ Paterson looked at his watch, irritated at Theresa’s non-arrival.
Mona looked round the tiny reception area in case they had missed her. The two chairs and the pot plant didn’t appear to be hiding anyone. ‘Maybe she fell asleep . . . oh, look, here she is now.’
Theresa’s heels came clattering down the stairwell. She appeared to have somehow managed to produce an entirely new outfit from the small bag she’d been carrying all day, and also refreshed her make-up. ‘Quite some establishment you’ve booked us into here, Mr Paterson.’
Theresa’s voice carried across the whole of the room. Mona glanced over at the reception desk, but the clerk didn’t look up from the magazine he was reading.
‘The HET’s budget doesn’t go far in Central London,’ muttered Paterson. ‘Consider yourself lucky we found anywhere round here that had three rooms available at such short notice.’
‘I will “consider myself lucky”,’ Theresa’s voice grew even louder, ‘if I get out of this place without acquiring fleas.’
The front desk clerk looked up this time, and slowly lowered his copy of Cycling Weekly.
‘Shall we go?’ asked Mona, hoping that he didn’t do something disgusting in Theresa’s room while they were out. She had the overwhelming desire to scratch her neck, which she sincerely prayed was down to the power of suggestion, rather than their beds actually containing bugs. She shoved her hands in her jeans and tried to concentrate on her surroundings.
It was still warm, the air dry and baking in a way that it hardly ever was back in Scotland. Mona had forgotten what London felt like, the airless evenings with crowds of people standing outside pubs, glasses in hand. In spite of everything, she found herself quite enjoying the atmosphere. She was definitely going to book a long weekend here when she got home. See the sights. Take in a West End show.
‘What kind of food does this restaurant serve, Mr Paterson?’ enquired Theresa.
‘My son recommended it. It’s called The Bamboo Garden, so I’m going to take a guess and say it’s not jellied eels.’
She nodded, evidently satisfied with this. ‘I do enjoy a nice Chinese meal. Is your son joining us?’
‘Yep – and there he is.’
Greg waved from the doorway of the restaurant, but didn’t smile. Mona hoped that Theresa was in a really, really talkative mood, because there was no way that she would be keeping the conversation going single-handed. She surreptitiously pulled out her phone to check the time. If she had her way, she’d be out of there in forty minutes, and back surfing the virtual presence of the charities of London.
‘Mona.’ Greg nodded to her, and stuck a hand out in Theresa’s direction. ‘You must be Mrs Kilsyth. Lovely to meet you.’
He ushered them through the door, and stepped in after them, leaving Paterson to follow his back into the restaurant.
‘Hello to you too, son.’
A Chinese woman in a green button-necked top came over to greet them. ‘Welcome to The Bamboo Garden.’ The look was Far East but the accent suggested that she’d been born within spitting distance of their current location. ‘Table for four?’
They ordered quickly, accepting all the suggestions made by their waitress. Mona sensed she wasn’t the only one who would be glad to have the meal over and done with. The only thing that would persuade her to linger here was the air conditioning. She was still adjusting to the southern temperature. Despite the cooling air from above, she still had to resist the temptation to use one of the menus as a fan.
Greg broke the silence. ‘So, Mona, how is the search going?’
‘Not so good, I’m afraid. Early days though, and I’m sure we’ll have more luck tomorrow, wouldn’t you say, Guv?’
‘It’s gone terribly so far.’ Theresa paused while their round of drinks arrived, and took a large swig from her glass of chilled white before continuing. ‘Terribly. Your father’s organisation has put no resources into this search at all.’
Paterson glared at her, over the top of a pint of Diet Coke with ice. ‘Apart from dedicating two of the HET’s finest to it, you mean.’
Theresa’s face reflected her doubts on that matter, and she reached for her wine glass again.
‘But I admit our search is going more slowly than I’d like. I was hoping you could help me do some asking around with the rough sleepers on the Embankment.’
‘Oh, we’re going back?’ asked Theresa.
‘We,’ Paterson pointed from himself to Greg and back, ‘are going to the Embankment. Mona is going to keep scouring the Internet for signs of the missing daughter’s current employment, and you,’ he said, using a digit to good effect in Theresa’s direction, ‘are going to get your beauty sleep.’
She looked offended. ‘I require no such thing. My time would be much better spent doing something useful to actually find Sandy.’
The arrival of the Chinese Banquet for Four interrupted the argument. Paterson took the opportunity to turn back to Greg. ‘So, are you able to help me search? You know the lie of the land far better than I do.’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. I can spare a couple of hours.’
The silence lengthened. Mona looked at her phone again. 20.05. Could she eat up and be out by quarter past?
‘So,’ Paterson turned to Greg again, ‘how are things with you?’
‘Fine.’ Greg’s eyes didn’t move from his plate.
‘And how’s your mother?’
Greg stopped eating, and did a world-class impression of finely controlled rage. It was like watching the Guv listen to Bernard lecture him on some aspect of political correctness, say, gender politics or the socio-demographic division of health inequalities. ‘I really don’t want to talk about Mum with you.’
Paterson tutted. ‘I’m only asking after her health.’
‘Her health stopped being your concern once you walked out on her.’
‘These spring rolls really are delicious, Mona, aren’t they?’ Theresa’s tone was sprightly, with a slight undercurrent of desperation.
‘Yeah, they’re great.’ She started chewing even faster.
‘I visited China once, you know . . .’ Theresa began a monologue about a university trip to Beijing, stopping only to drink her wine. It was a very long story, for which Mona was eternally grateful, and she told it well. Paterson and
Greg wolfed down their remaining food in aggressive silence and by the time Theresa had concluded her story, everyone had cleaned their plates.
‘I’ll get this.’ Paterson snatched the bill.
‘Let me at least pay half,’ said Greg.
‘Expenses,’ muttered Paterson, slapping a wad of notes on the table. ‘Come on then. Let’s get the professor found.’
Theresa and Mona watched them walk off in the direction of the Tube station, two very similar silhouettes, walking three feet apart and not speaking to each other.
‘Well, that was a fun experience.’
Theresa laughed. ‘If I’d wanted an evening of awkward silences I’d have phoned my daughter-in-law.’
‘You’ve got kids?’
‘Yes, one son. You sound surprised? He’s thirty-seven and has absolutely failed to settle down and give me grandchildren. Far too busy jetting off on holiday every five minutes. So, how do we get back to the hotel from here? I have to admit I wasn’t really paying attention, I was just following Mr Paterson.’
‘Me too. But we haven’t come far.’ Mona looked round to orientate herself. She remembered crossing the road to get to the restaurant, but did they turn up the first street or the second to get back? As she stared across the road something caught her eye. A man in sunglasses was leaning against the wall of a café, apparently engrossed in his phone. She stared at him. Something was wrong with his appearance, and it took her a second or two to work out what it was.
‘Has the temperature dropped, Theresa?’
‘Not so that I’ve noticed. I’m absolutely melting.’
The man across the street was wearing jeans and a bomber jacket, challenging clothing on a warm summer’s evening when everyone else was walking around in shorts and t-shirts. She took Theresa’s arm. ‘Let’s get back.’
She glanced over her shoulder as they left. The man didn’t look up or move, but she had the sensation that he knew they were on the move. Maybe she was being paranoid. Tourists came from countries far hotter than the UK, and dressed accordingly. Maybe she was looking for problems that just weren’t there. Or maybe . . .