Songs by Dead Girls

by Lesley Kelly

  7

  ‘We can’t stay here, Guv. Sooner or later someone is going to want to use the facilities.’

  They were closeted in a disabled toilet on the top floor of the store, a cramped and airless space that was not designed to accommodate three people.

  Paterson contemplated their dilemma. ‘Have you got any paper in that bag?’

  Mona dug in and pulled out a notebook.

  ‘That’ll have to do.’ He wrote ‘Out of Order’ on it, and stuck his head out of the door to attach it.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be OK, Guv?’

  The professor was propped up on the toilet, leaning against the wall and snoring softly. He looked relaxed and at peace, the polar opposite of how she currently felt.

  ‘He looks OK to me, based on the fact that he’s breathing normally and not throwing up or fitting or anything. My guess is that bloke has pumped him full of sleepy-juice, but I don’t particularly want to risk his health, whatever else is at stake. I’m thinking we need to call an ambulance.’

  ‘And say what? How do we explain what’s happened?’

  Paterson opened his mouth to speak, but stood there without saying anything. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

  ‘Guv, what is going on? Whoever is tailing us had ample time to drug the professor, kill him even, if they wanted to, while we were inside Maria’s flat. Why wait for us to appear?’

  ‘I don’t think they want him dead; a suspicious death risks turning him into some kind of martyr, sets off all kinds of conspiracy theories. My guess is that they want to discredit him.’

  ‘How does pumping him full of sedative discredit him?’

  ‘My guess, and it is just a guess, is that they want some shots of him apparently drunk, dishevelled and sleeping it off in a doorway. On top of him taking off, and missing a Health Check, they’ve got a great story to rubbish him if they’ve got a tame newspaper to do it for them.’ He ran his hand in the air as if spelling out a headline. ‘Top Boffin Cracks Under Pressure. Professor Ga Ga. Bircham-Fowler Fowls Up . . .’

  ‘I get the picture, Guv. But why wait for us to appear on the scene?’

  There was a silence. In the mirror, Mona watched her boss think. ‘I can only assume that they, whoever they are, want us discredited as well. The professor’s been a big supporter of the HETs. His research is the main academic underpinning of our work. If the press decides he’s a fruitcake, it’ll be guilt by association. And a picture of us aiding and abetting an apparently incapacitated prof would implicate us nicely in all this.’

  ‘They’ve already got a story just by us being in London.’

  ‘I’m sure Stuttle can concoct something to explain that away.’

  Mona caught his reflection’s eye. ‘Unless he’s planning to hang us out to dry. Two HET officers gone rogue. After all, we’re officially on leave.’

  His reflection quickly looked away. ‘I’m sure it’s not that.’

  Mona took the professor’s pulse. ‘For what it’s worth, Guv, I don’t think they’ve poisoned him either. His pulse is normal and he doesn’t have a temperature. Would your son have a friendly medical contact that could have a look at him?’

  Paterson looked at her, and at the door, obviously torn between the different courses of action. Eventually he nodded and pulled out his phone. ‘No signal. Damn. OK, I’m going out to call him.’ He paused by the door and after listening for noise for a second or two, decided that the coast was clear and headed out.

  The heat was becoming unbearable, and her lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with her. Mona inspected the floor and wondered if it was clean enough to sit on. She decided she was already so sticky and disgusting that ten minutes sat on the floor of a toilet couldn’t make her much worse. Crouching down, she leaned back against the wall and watched the professor breathing deeply in and out. He looked entirely peaceful, and there was something very restful about watching him, like the sensation of watching goldfish swim round and round. Her eyes were just beginning to close when there was the sound of feet outside the door.

  ‘Oh, it’s out of order. That’s ridiculous. We should complain to the manager.’

  Mona held her breath, and hoped that the professor didn’t choose this particular moment to start snoring loudly. She didn’t fancy explaining the situation to an outraged store manager if he opened up to find a noted academic and his friend had just popped into their disabled loo to have a nap.

  ‘No, Mum, just leave it. There’s one on the ground floor, we’ll go there.’

  Mona breathed out, wishing Paterson would hurry up. Eventually someone was going to discover them, or possibly their bodies if they didn’t get some additional oxygen soon.

  There was a knock on the door, which made her jump. ‘Mona.’ Paterson’s voice, low and urgent.

  She unlocked the door and Paterson’s hand appeared, clutching a bag. ‘Get him into these.’

  It contained a large sun hat, and a pair of sunglasses. ‘Really?’

  ‘We can stop them getting a decent photo of him at least.’

  ‘Do you think there’s still someone hanging around?’

  ‘Well, there were a pretty limited number of places that we could have disappeared to with the prof in this state. If you were in their position what would you be doing?’

  ‘I’d be methodically checking the shops.’

  ‘Yup. And if our optimistic thinking is right, all they’re after is a photograph, but let’s not push our luck. Come on, give me a hand getting him upright.’

  ‘We’re leaving?’

  ‘Yup. Greg’s bringing a car and meeting us at the back door. I’ve had a recce of the shop, and I didn’t see any familiar faces, so it looks like now’s our chance to make a, well, I was going to say run for it, but the prof’s not looking too athletic.’

  ‘He’s over six foot tall, Guv, and he weighs a ton. There’s no way we’re getting him out of here discreetly.’

  ‘Well, we can’t stay here much longer, not without suffocating.’ He handed Mona her bag. ‘Oh, and turn your mobile phone off. I don’t want anyone tracing where we are going.’

  ‘Phone hacking? Who exactly do you think is looking for us?’

  ‘That, Mona,’ said Paterson, as he hooked his hands under the unconscious professor’s arms, ‘I really don’t know.’

  8

  ‘When did we last tidy up in here?’ Maitland lifted a pile of files from Carole’s desk and looked round for somewhere to put them. ‘This place is a disaster area.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by “last tidied up”,’ Bernard said. I don’t think we’ve ever tidied up. We’ve just accumulated more and more files with every case we’ve undertaken, and we’ve left them lying about in the hope that someone is going to eventually establish a filing system.’

  ‘Do you think that there is any chance the admin department could establish that filing system before tomorrow morning?’

  ‘No. I think we would still be arguing with them tomorrow morning about whether it was their responsibility or not to do our filing. Anyway, Marguerite has been helpful. She’s lent us this from the admin department.’

  ‘A room divider?’

  ‘Yeah, I thought we could place it strategically in a corner, and pile all this junk behind it.’

  Maitland nodded appreciatively. ‘One of your better ideas, Bernie. Although productivity in the admin department has probably slowed to zero now nothing can get in the way of their gossiping.’

  ‘The admin assistant that was sitting on the other side of it from Marguerite didn’t look too pleased.’

  ‘Yeah, it probably had certain sound-absorbing qualities that you’d appreciate if you were sat next to Marg. Anyway, her loss is our gain. Stick it over there.’

  Maitland dumped the files behind it, and looked in disgust at the layer of black dust covering his hands. ‘This place is never going to be tidy by tomorrow.’

  ‘And we don’t know what time she’s popping in?’r />
  ‘No, for the third time I don’t know what time her broomstick will be landing. Maybe we’ll be forewarned by the swarm of bats.’

  Bernard considered whether to respond to this, and decided that he must. ‘Likening a woman in authority to a witch-like figure is a little bit on the sexist side.’

  ‘Oh, for . . .’

  Bernard’s phone rang. ‘Hold that thought.’

  Maitland looked exasperated, but headed back into his office, stopping only to wipe his dusty hands down Bernard’s sleeve.

  It was an unfamiliar number. There was a moment or two of what sounded like sobbing. ‘Bernard?’

  A woman’s voice. It didn’t sound like Carrie, even allowing for the fact the woman was obviously in distress, and it definitely wasn’t Mona. He couldn’t think of any other women who would phone him in extremis, unless . . . ‘Megan?’

  There was another choking sob. ‘You need to come home. There’s been a man here . . .’

  ‘A man? What man?’

  There was a loud sniff on the other end of the phone, followed by some gulping for air. ‘I’ve called the police. Please, Bernard, can you come here immediately?’

  ‘Of course.’ He was about to ask her for more information about what was going on when he realised she had hung up. He turned round to find Maitland, only to see that he was standing behind him.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Now?’ Maitland’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding me. Look at this place – there’s a good few hours’ work left.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. But that was my flatmate on the phone in floods of tears – I think she’s been attacked or burgled or something.’

  ‘Attacked?’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know quite what’s happened; she was saying something about a man being in the house. Anyway, she’s just called the police and wants me to go home.’

  Maitland looked at his watch. ‘Jeez, it’s after seven. I need to go as well.’

  ‘Are you seeing Kate tonight?’

  ‘Probably not as much of her as I’d like to see, but yes. Can we both get in for seven tomorrow, give this place another going over?’

  ‘Good plan. See you then.’

  Bernard hailed the first taxi he saw, and sat back trying to work out what had happened. It was possible that Megan had been attacked by a stranger in her own home, but statistically, of course, this was unlikely. Women were always far more likely to be attacked by someone they already knew: boyfriends, husbands and family members were all first in the frame when violence had occurred. But Megan hadn’t given him any indication that she’d felt threatened. And Megan didn’t seem the type to let a man . . . What was he saying? There was no such thing as a type – abuse could happen to any woman, he knew that.

  So, was there some ex-boyfriend she hadn’t mentioned? He felt an unaccustomed pang of jealousy; he’d been with Carrie so long that the last time he’d had to deal with love rivals was when he was a teenager. Though, of course, a sensitive soul like himself would look great in comparison to some loutish brute who was free with his fists. Unless, that is, Megan was anticipating that he was going to avenge her wrong, in which case he’d have to admit he probably wouldn’t come out of it well.

  He got the taxi to drop him off at the end of the street, so he could scope out whether there was anyone still hanging around. It proved to be an unnecessary precaution, as there was already a Police Scotland car sat opposite the flat’s gate. As he approached the front door he spotted broken glass on the path, and saw that the small window at the side of the door had been shattered. He supposed this would allow someone to reach in and open the door. Poor Megan. Had she been burgled?

  ‘Hello, I’m back.’ He pushed open the door to the living room. At one end of the couch sat a large middle-aged policeman; he seemed strangely familiar. He’d taken off his high-vis jacket and draped it across his knee, and his notebook was resting on top of this. The notebook seemed to have a great deal of writing in it. Megan was curled up at the other end of the sofa, red of eye and nose, with a large hanky in her hand. She leapt up when she saw him, and for a moment he thought that she was rushing toward him for a comforting hug.

  She wasn’t.

  ‘He was looking for you, you know.’ Both her tone and her pointing finger were accusatory.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man.’ She started to cry.

  Bernard reached out to her but she batted his hand away.

  ‘Might be better if you sat down, sir.’ The policeman gave him a smile that was twice as polite as it was warm. ‘I’m PC McGovern.’

  ‘OK.’ He lowered himself a little distractedly into an armchair. ‘Megan, what happened?’

  She gave a loud sniff. ‘He asked was I Bernard’s tart, and said if so I’d better watch myself. He said you were in trouble with some pretty bad people.’

  ‘What people?’ He wasn’t aware he knew any bad people, far less was in trouble with them.

  ‘He said you should mind your own business. Then . . .’ She stopped for a cry. ‘Then he grabbed me by the throat.’

  ‘Oh, Megan . . .’ He went to stand up again, caught the policeman’s eye, and lowered himself slowly back down.

  ‘So, Mr . . .’ PC McGovern stopped to check his notes, ‘McDonald. Have you been keeping some bad company?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Are you a user of illegal drugs, Mr McDonald?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m a—’

  ‘Any debts? Gambling perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! None of the above. I’m a HET officer.’

  PC McGovern sat back in his seat and stared at him for longer than felt comfortable. ‘Oh, you’re one of that mob.’ He turned back to Megan, and patted her arm. ‘Now in light of the shock you’ve had I’m going to suggest that we all have a cup of tea. Mr McDonald can help me.’

  ‘I can do it.’ She half stood up.

  ‘No, no, miss, you relax.’ He caught Bernard’s eye and jerked his head in the direction of the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ PC McGovern closed the kitchen door firmly on the two of them. ‘What have your lot been up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Bernard realised why the policeman looked familiar. He had an undoubted similarity to Mr Paterson, particularly the expression on his face as he interrogated him. ‘Well, nothing out of the ordinary anyway. Just chasing up Defaulters, talking to potential witnesses. The usual.’

  ‘Really?’ The PC looked sceptical. ‘Because one of my colleagues was called out yesterday to deal with a HET officer who’d had a boot in the mouth, and here I am today talking to a HET officer who’s had a visitation.’ He pointed at the kettle. ‘Stick that on, we’re supposed to be making tea.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘So you lot are treading carefully aren’t you? It’s pretty grim out there at the moment.’

  ‘I know. There was a memo.’ Which he still hadn’t actually set eyes on.

  ‘I’ll need to report this to our HET liaison officer. Is John Paterson still in charge at your end?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Him and I go way back. Maybe I’ll give him a ring about this.’

  ‘He’s on annual leave,’ said Bernard, quickly. He couldn’t bear the thought of Paterson and his lookalike discussing his situation. He imagined they would be very much in agreement about his shortcomings.

  ‘Well, see that you report all this back to him. And chop chop, get the lassie her tea.’

  ‘What do I say to Megan about all this?’

  ‘As little as possible, until we work out what’s going on. Be a bit evasive, but reassuring, and make sure you keep an eye on her.’

  Bernard nodded, but wondered who was going to be keeping an eye on him. After all, he was the person this mysterious man was looking for. He couldn’t quite bring himself to ask PC McGovern this though; he had a mental image of the policeman and Paterson catching up with eac
h other in the pub. And then, Paterson, get this, the wee chap says, ‘Who’s going to look after me?’ Cue the pair of them laughing their heads off.

  Megan seemed a little calmer when they returned. ‘So, is this to do with your work?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Be evasive.

  ‘Am I in danger?’

  ‘I don’t know, Megan. I’ve really got no idea what is going on.’ He caught PC McGovern’s eye and realised this probably didn’t qualify as reassuring. ‘But I’m sure it’ll be OK.’

  ‘We’ll keep an eye out on the place, Ms Parker. And you’ll have Mr McDonald here for company.’

  ‘No.’

  Bernard and PC McGovern looked at each other. ‘No?’

  ‘If Bernard is responsible for bringing this trouble to my door, then I don’t want him here.’

  ‘But if I move out you’ll be here on your own.’

  ‘No, I won’t. There’s an, ehm, friend I can call.’

  Bernard focused on the pause before ‘friend’. So there was an ex. And not the thuggish sort, not the kind that pushed girls around, kicked kittens, laughed at old ladies. No, she had to have the kind of ex that you phone up in a crisis. The kind that was sensitive enough to listen to her distress, but manly enough to offer protection against a violent world. He hated this ‘ehm, friend’, whoever he was. ‘Fine. I’ll get out of here first thing in the morning.’

  ‘No, I want you out of here tonight.’

  He looked at PC McGovern, who raised his eyebrows sympathetically. ‘Best do what the lady says, son. I can drop you off somewhere.’

  ‘Fine.’ Bernard turned on his heel, and marched into his room. He threw a bag onto the bed, and started grabbing handfuls of his clothing and shoving it in. Was Megan’s insistence that he move out immediately because of the shock she’d just had or was it due to her desire to have her ‘ehm, friend’ all to herself? Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. If she wanted him out, he’d go. But the question was, where to?

  Not to his mother’s. He really didn’t want to bring any trouble in her direction. And he’d have to sleep on the sofa. He could go to a hotel, but that could be expensive. And, cowardly as it might be, he didn’t want to sit alone in a hotel room, waiting for a thug to find him.