Songs by Dead Girls

by Lesley Kelly

  ‘ . . .am I boring you, Mona?’

  She realised that Theresa had been talking to her. ‘No, I’m sorry, it’s just I thought I saw . . . No, it’s nothing.’ She was relieved to see the neon sign for the Exceptionnel appear. ‘Look, here we are. See you downstairs at eight for breakfast?’

  Theresa nodded. ‘Good luck with your surfing.’

  ‘And, Theresa?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lock your door tonight, OK?’

  8

  The bus was crowded, hot and heaving with commuters making the journey from city centre to suburb. Bernard was squeezed into a double seat on the upper deck, trapped against the window by a large besuited man with a great many belongings. His laptop bag was wedged into the side of Bernard’s thigh, and despite his best attempts at discreet wriggling, he couldn’t shift it.

  He resigned himself to the pain, and began replaying the events of the day. Whichever way you looked at it, an attempted Health Check fraud and a colleague with a boot in the face wasn’t what you’d call a good result. He wondered if Mona or Maitland would have done things differently. Was there some finely honed police intuition that would have alerted them that they’d got the wrong person? Some experience gained the hard way that made them better placed to spot when they were being lied to?

  And Maitland was right, there was bound to be a vast amount of paperwork attached to this: incident reporting, witness statements, liaison with Police Scotland. To say nothing of someone having to explain all this to Mr Paterson when he got back . . . Bernard realised with a start he was approaching the stop for his new flat.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The man sharing his seat gathered up his bags to let him past, but by the time he’d squeezed out his stop was long gone. He alighted on an unfamiliar street, and set off in what he hoped was the direction of his new home. On a day like today, he’d give anything to be back at his old flat, with his wife. Well, almost anything. He’d give Carrie anything in the world apart from the one thing that she really wanted from him.

  He turned the corner and was delighted to find himself back on a street that he knew, Park Road, which was named after the small public green space that ran the length of it. The other side of the street was taken up with shops, all of which were closed for the night. Assuming no further wrong turns he’d be at his new flat in five minutes. Would Megan be in the kitchen, whipping up something delightful for tea? Would she extend her hospitality again, and offer him some food? If so, he’d really have to repay the favour, and cook her something in return. Although his attempts at cooking tended to be functional at best. Maybe he should take her out for a meal; he’d noticed a couple of local restaurants that looked quite passable. Though that might be drifting into dangerous territory, because it might look suspiciously like a date.

  Although . . .

  He shook himself and focused on the present. In case he did get the offer of a home-cooked meal as soon as he got in, he’d better get the evening’s phone calls out of the way. He perched on the wall of the park, and leaned back against the metal railings. Who to phone first? Carole, to check if she was OK? Mona, to see how things were going in London? Carrie, to see . . . well, for no very good reason at all.

  He opted for Carole first. Her number was answered almost immediately by a man, which gave him a moment of anxiety. This was probably Carole’s husband, who was, no doubt, furious about the day’s events. Bernard couldn’t begin to imagine how angry he would have been if anyone had hurt Carrie. Would Carole’s husband consider him responsible for not protecting Carole? Because that would make two of them. He took a deep breath. ‘Hi, this is Bernard from the HET.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rather than angry, he sounded disappointed. Bernard felt relief, as well as a slight confusion at the unexpected response.

  ‘I expect you want to speak to Carole.’

  ‘Yes, if she’s . . .’

  He heard the sound of a conversation in the background, which seemed to consist of Carole being urged to keep the call short.

  ‘Hi, Bernard.’ Her voice was thick and unfamiliar, as if she was talking through a mouthful of tar.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Sore.’ She sighed. ‘An ’orried.’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘’ichael didn’t go to ’hool today, an’ he’s ’ot answerin’ his ’one.’

  Bernard mulled this over. A likely translation was ‘Michael didn’t go to school today, and he’s not answering his phone.’ It explained the response he’d had when he rung. ‘Oh, that’s not good.’ Bernard’s mind went back to their earlier conversation. ‘Probably just him trying to assert his independence?’

  ‘Prob’ly, but we’re still ’orried.’

  ‘Are you going to contact the police?’

  There was a pause. ‘Maybe.’

  He understood Carole’s dilemma. Better to know what Michael had been doing with his day before drawing the attention of the law to it. ‘OK, I better let you go. Call me if I can do anything.’

  He scrolled through his address book until he found Mona’s number. A wave of doubt hit him as he looked at the screen. She hadn’t felt it necessary to phone him, and if they did speak she might ask how the search for Alessandra Barr was going. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that particular conversation, especially if Mr Paterson was listening in to the call. He quickly returned to the address book and pressed the number of his former home. The phone rang and rang, until the answering machine kicked in. Bernard felt a sudden sense of loss. There was no reason why Carrie should be sitting at home, waiting for the phone to ring. He tried her mobile, and counted the rings from one to twelve until he got the voicemail.

  ‘It’s Bernard. Just wanted to see, you know, how you were. Anyway . . . speak to you soon. Bye.’

  Why hadn’t she picked up? A range of possibilities crowded into Bernard’s head. She could be in the bath. Carrie liked a long, hot soak, and she probably wouldn’t leap out of the suds just to answer the phone. She might even have taken the precaution of turning her phone to silent, to make sure she wasn’t disturbed. That would be it. Not any kind of illness, or accident, or her not wanting to speak to him ever again. It would just be a bath thing. He stared at the phone for a few seconds, then redialled the number, and counted the rings again.

  ‘Maybe just let me know if you are OK once you get this? Just a quick call. I know you wanted some space, but now I’m worried . . . Anyway, call me. Thanks.’

  If she wasn’t pissed off with him already, she would be now. He checked the time. He should head back to his digs, and see what Megan was doing. But the streets were quiet and he was enjoying the solitude. The absence of Carrie had unsettled him, and, lovely as his new flatmate was, he wasn’t sure he was up to making small talk. He tipped his head back against the railings, and enjoyed the evening sun on his face for a moment, before getting to his feet. He couldn’t sit there forever. And maybe Megan would have opened another bottle of wine, although he didn’t really approve of drinking two nights running.

  He walked slowly, hearing the echo of his footsteps on the deserted street. After a few steps he realised he could hear two sets of footsteps. He speeded up. The other set of steps, though irregular, kept pace with him. He stopped and turned, in time to see a figure disappear into the park. Bernard stared after him, but didn’t get a good enough view to make an impression. Jeans, brown leather jacket perhaps? Either way, the person didn’t seem intent on doing him harm. Probably wasn’t interested in him at all. He shook his head. He was getting paranoid.

  He arrived at the new flat and put his key into the lock of the front door.

  ‘Bernard, is that you?’ His new flatmate’s voice echoed through the flat.

  He stuck his head into the kitchen. There was a pot bubbling away on the stove, curry if the smell was to be believed, but no sign of a cook.

  ‘I’m in the living room.’

  He pushed open the door. Megan was sitting on the sofa, a glass of wine
in her hand. In the two weeks Bernard had lived there he’d only ever seen her in jeans, or the white uniform that she wore to work. Today she had on a green dress, with a pattern of a bird repeated over it. It ended at the knee and he couldn’t help but notice a pair of shapely legs tucked underneath her.

  Megan picked up the remote control. Her long bright pink fingernails made a clicking sound as she turned the TV off. ‘I’ve made enough curry for two, if you fancy some.’

  ‘That sounds great. And it smells great as well.’

  ‘There’s a bottle of Rioja on the go, as well, if you’d like a glass.’

  His phone buzzed. ‘Sorry, I just need to . . .’

  Megan nodded, and started pouring him a large glass.

  He was delighted to see a text message from Carrie, proving she was alive and still speaking to him. He pressed the screen to open it.

  Stop calling me. WE NEED TO MOVE ON.

  Bernard realised that despite the health impact of drinking continuously without a rest day, he really, really would like a large amount of wine. And if it meant he went over the recommended weekly units for a man, he really didn’t care. He dropped his rucksack on the floor and sat down, rather heavily, on the sofa next to Megan.

  She handed him a glass. ‘Sláinte!’

  WEDNESDAY

  DROWSINESS

  1

  Mona woke with a start as some part of the hotel’s plumbing bang, bang, banged its way into life. She checked her watch and groaned. Her brain held a vague memory of lying back on the bed, somewhere around 2am, aiming to close her eyes for a minute while her body summoned the energy to get changed and go to bed. Now, six hours later, she was waking up still in her clothes from the day before.

  Stretching, she wandered over to the mirror to see exactly what the damage was. Crumpled trousers. Creased top, with a couple of sweat stains under each armpit for good measure. Stick a couple of twigs in her hair, and she’d have the whole through-a-hedge-backwards chic thing sewn up.

  She wished she’d had the nerve to pack a full change of clothes, but she’d worried about incurring Paterson’s wrath if she brought a decent-sized bag. She showered, brushed her teeth, and sprayed half a can of Impulse all over. She put a new top on, and cursed her stupidity when she couldn’t find her hairbrush. Smoothing her hair with her hands, she returned to the mirror. It wasn’t great, but it was going to have to do until she could buy a comb.

  Arriving downstairs, she found there was a limited range of options on the laminated breakfast menu that was pinned to the wall of the dining room. Anything more complicated than a bowl of cornflakes seemed to incur an additional cost, and she wasn’t sure if Paterson’s limited budget would spring for bacon and eggs. She turned to see an unsmiling woman with a notepad standing behind her.

  ‘Full English, please.’ Paterson would just have to lump it. She couldn’t walk the streets of the capital without a half-decent breakfast inside her. It was bad enough that she had to spend the day looking like a tramp, without spending it going hungry as well.

  ‘Please take a seat.’ The woman gave a wave in the general direction of the tables, and retreated to the kitchen.

  ‘Over here,’ Paterson shouted to her from a seat by the window. She was glad to see that he looked as crumpled as she was. ‘What did you order?’

  ‘The works.’

  ‘Good choice.’ Paterson pointed at his empty plate.

  ‘Can we afford two London breakfasts?’

  ‘Cameron Bloody Stuttle can reach into his personal slush fund and pay for them.’

  She smiled, and yawned again.

  ‘Were you up all night on the Internet?’

  ‘Until the early hours.’

  ‘Any joy?’ asked Paterson.

  Before she could answer, she heard the familiar sound of heels clicking in her direction. She turned to see Theresa bearing down on their table. In contrast to their dishevelment, Theresa looked as fresh as a daisy. Her hair was maintaining its Mrs Thatcher wave, her skirt was completely uncreased, and if Mona wasn’t mistaken, she had a fresh blouse on. Her handbag must have Tardis-like properties.

  ‘How is everyone?’ Without giving them time to answer, she moved on to her real area of concern. ‘Any word of Sandy?’

  ‘Sorry.’ The Guv shook his head. ‘I was out for a good few hours with Greg last night, seeing if anyone on the Embankment had spotted him. No luck, I’m afraid. I think he might have moved on.’

  Theresa’s face fell. ‘Well, that’s really very disappointing.’

  ‘I may have a lead.’ At around 1.45 that morning, just as her eyes were beginning to feel like sandpaper every time she blinked, she’d come across the website of the Youth Today charity. Hidden within its fundraising pages she’d found an entreaty to ‘contact Maria’ if you wanted to get involved in raising money, next to a picture of what was unmistakeably the woman they were looking for. ‘I think I’ve found where Professor Bircham-Fowler’s daughter is working.’

  ‘What’s her surname?’

  ‘Didn’t get a surname, but there’s a picture of a Maria and I’m pretty sure it’s her. And I’m not too worried about the lack of name because either she’ll be at work or we can get it from her colleagues and . . . oh.’ Mona stopped as a large plate with a greasy selection of sausages and bacon was shoved in front of her. ‘Ehm, thanks,’ she said, to the retreating back of the waitress.

  Paterson’s phone started to vibrate, bouncing around the table top.

  ‘Don’t recognise the number,’ he said, staring at the screen. ‘Hello? Yeah, Elijah. Hi.’

  Mona and Theresa stared at each other as they tried to work out if Elijah was bringing good news or bad.

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  Theresa let out a small sound, and gripped Mona’s arm. Mona could feel Theresa’s fingernails digging deeper into her skin, while Paterson uh-ed and yup-ed his way through the rest of the conversation.

  ‘OK, Elijah, many thanks for letting us know.’

  He put his phone down on the table.

  ‘What . . .?’ began Theresa.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ he said, holding a hand up in her direction, ‘but Elijah has some news. He’s been asking around for us, and one of his clients thinks he saw the professor in an altercation with some, ehm, “gentlemen” late last night, somewhere near King’s Cross station.’

  Theresa’s hands shot to her lips. ‘Oh, poor, poor Sandy. Was he hurt?’

  ‘Don’t think so. According to Elijah’s source, the professor was asking if anyone had seen a particular woman – Maria, obviously – and was paying for information. He got his wallet out to give cash to a couple of King’s Cross charmers, and the inevitable happened.’

  ‘They stole his wallet?’

  ‘Yup. Elijah’s contact didn’t think he was hurt, but he is now out there without any money.’

  ‘Time to call it in, do you think, Guv?’ Mona put down her knife and fork, her appetite suddenly gone.

  ‘What do you mean “call it in”?’ Theresa frowned. ‘Do you mean give up?’

  ‘No, I’m not thinking about giving up,’ said Paterson. ‘But I do think that we need to talk to my boss about involving the Met.’

  ‘And have it leaked all over the news by the end of the day?’ The waitress who had been heading toward their table heard Theresa’s tone, and made a quick retreat. ‘We might as well just kiss Sandy’s reputation goodbye right now.’

  ‘See sense, Theresa. Up until now we haven’t had any information that he’s in danger, but now we’re pretty sure he’s been involved in an altercation, probably been mugged. He’s an absent-minded professor, not a streetwise teenager, and now he’s wandering the streets of London without any money.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  They both looked at Theresa in surprise. ‘Sandy is not as much of an innocent abroad as you two seem to think.’

  ‘Really?’

  Theresa fixed a stern eye on Paterson. ‘Sandy was a visiting lect
urer in New York in the eighties, back at the height of its crime wave. I’m sure you can remember the stories about what it was like. In those days everyone had a tale about the time that they were mugged, or had a knife pulled on them. Sandy himself had several hair-raising encounters in the subway. But it taught him a thing or two about life, and since then he’s always carried a mugger’s purse, full of cash but nothing else. He’ll still have his cards on him.’

  Paterson looked sceptical. ‘Maybe, if they didn’t give him a good kicking and steal those too.’

  ‘And Sandy always has an emergency £20 note hidden where no muggers would ever look.’

  The Guv pulled a face. ‘I think that counts as too much information.’

  She tutted. ‘I was referring, Mr Paterson, to his sock.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, we need to find him.’

  Paterson didn’t move.

  ‘We could have a quick scout round King’s Cross before we phone, Guv?’

  He considered this. ‘OK, we’ll give it until lunchtime before I phone Stuttle. I’ll check in with Greg for any incidents at King’s Cross. You two follow up the daughter angle.’

  2

  Maitland was late.

  Bernard had been standing next to the pond outside the Scottish Parliament building – their agreed meeting place – for the best part of twenty minutes. As usual, he’d arrived early, and had spent the first ten minutes admiring the post-modern curves of the landscape. The Parliament building had been controversial when it was built, and even now, the best part of twenty years later, it still provoked a wide range of emotions from the inhabitants of Edinburgh.

  He, however, was a huge fan of modern architecture, and the appearance of the building brought him nothing but pleasure. He liked the way the structure curved like an upturned boat, particularly on a cloudless day like today, when the outline was silhouetted against a brilliant blue sky. He liked the contrast of the cold grey walls with the brown lattice woodwork. He liked the uplifting messages carved into the building’s walls. And that was only his feelings about the outside of the Parliament. When he considered the bright and airy interior of the building, he could really wax lyrical.