by Lesley Kelly
He shrugged. ‘Cash-in-hand economy.’
‘But you need a Green Card for everything – shopping even.’
‘Maybe she got busted, and that’s what made her get a card.’
‘Or maybe she’s only been in the country six months.’
Maitland finally looked interested in the discussion. ‘You’re thinking trafficking?’
‘I think it’s a possibility. I just got Marcus to check to see if the death of an Alessandra Barr had been registered. There was the death of a six-year-old girl registered in 2001, with exactly the same birth date as our Alessandra. They could have used her birth certificate to get the Green Card.’
‘And you think the Barrs did this?’ Maitland yawned and scratched his chest while he thought. ‘A bit callous recycling their dead child’s name for one of their tarts.’
‘And it still doesn’t explain why she’s working in Edinburgh, and not on their home turf. But I think there’s definitely something in it.’
‘Right. Tomorrow, we deal with the old bag Carmichael, get in touch with that Police Scotland liaison bloke, then you get hold of Marcus again. See if he can find anything else out about her on the system.’
‘OK.’
‘Now get out, close the door behind you, and no sneaking back in for another look at my perfect physique.’ He turned off the light and plunged them both into darkness.
3
Mona was developing a crick in her neck from twisting round to watch the headlights of the car behind them. The car had been keeping pace with them for nearly an hour, speeding up as they accelerated, slowing down when required, and always keeping an even couple of car lengths behind them.
‘It’ll be hilarious if it turns out to be a couple of tourists in the car behind us,’ said Paterson, ‘just tailing us for a bit of company.’
‘Well, let’s hope that’s the case, but either way we’ll know soon enough,’ said Greg. ‘It’s the next exit. Locksbridge Services.’
‘Oh,’ said the professor. ‘Are we stopping?’
‘Yes,’ said Paterson, but before he could update the professor on their plans, Greg’s mobile rang. ‘It’s Stuttle. Two seconds while I get this.’
‘Am I still pulling off at this exit?’
Paterson ignored him and listened intently to the phone.
‘Dad?!’
‘Yes, yes, go for it!’
Greg swerved sharply off the motorway, hitting the accelerator hard as he did so. The car behind them, as they anticipated, continued to follow them, speeding up a little to maintain its usual distance.
‘I can’t tell if they are tailing us, or if they already know where we are going,’ said Mona. ‘They didn’t seem particularly panicked when you swerved off the motorway like that.’
‘If they’re locked on to our tracker chip they might not be too worried about losing us. They know they can find us again.’
‘Right, troops.’ Paterson’s head appeared between the two front seats. ‘Stuttle’s guys are about twenty minutes to half an hour away. They suggest that we get the prof into the service station, in the hope that there are other people around that will force everyone to be a bit civilised. Nice of them to phone up to tell us that because obviously we wouldn’t have thought of it ourselves. Anyway, I suggest that Mona and the prof nip inside and have a nice bacon roll or two . . .’
‘Actually I’d very much like to go to the toilet . . .’
‘Mona can supervise that arrangement, sir. Greg and I will wait outside to see exactly what clowns emerge from that car once it finally stops. Is that OK with you, son – I mean, Greg?’
‘Fine by me, Dad.’
‘I’m a little bit unclear who you all are,’ said the professor. ‘I thought you all worked for the HET, yet you two appear to be related?’
‘I’ll explain when we get inside, Professor. Are you ready to move quite swiftly once we get out?’
‘I’ll do my best, but I’m not that fast at the best of times, I’m afraid.’
Greg turned into the forecourt of the service station. ‘Best of luck, guys.’
Mona had her door open before the car even stopped. She yanked open the back door, and pulled the professor upright, with, she suspected, some help from Paterson pushing him. Holding him firmly by the arm, she navigated the professor toward the building. Her pace was obviously faster than he would have liked and he stumbled several times.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Not too steady on my pins yet.’
‘Understandable, sir, after what’s happened to you.’ They made it into the brightly lit foyer, just as the car that had been tailing them pulled into the car park. ‘Toilets, Professor. I’ll be right here – shout if you need me.’
The professor nodded, and she hoped he intended to be quick. With all due sympathy to recent events and the professor’s age, this would not be a good time for any prostate difficulties. The bright lights of the services behind her made it difficult to see what was going on in the car park. It was like looking from a brightly lit stage down into the stalls. From what she could make out, the car that had been following them had parked up and turned its lights off. As yet no one had emerged, and she was too far away to see how many of them there were inside it. What were they waiting for? Further orders? Reinforcements? Greg and Paterson loitered by the side of their car, poised for action.
‘That’s better.’ The professor emerged from the Gents. ‘Much better.’
‘Let’s go order some food.’
Mona pushed open the door to the café and surveyed the room to identify the most populous section. It didn’t take long – the food hall was completely empty, without a single table of customers.
‘Damn.’
‘Is something the matter?’
‘No, no, Professor, everything is fine. Let’s get you some food.’
She peered over the counter. There didn’t appear to be any staff either. Welcome to the Mary Celeste Service Station.
‘Hello?’
A tired-looking teenager appeared from the kitchen, bringing a waft of marijuana with him. ‘Yeah?’
‘Can we have a couple of bacon rolls and two coffees, please?’
He yawned and nodded. ‘It’ll be about five minutes for the rolls, is that OK? And the coffee machine is over there.’
He handed them two mugs and disappeared into the kitchen. So much for the safety of other people. It wouldn’t take long for the men in the car park to suss all they had to worry about in the way of witnesses was one teenage stoner with a frying pan. She gave the room the once-over. There were no obvious exits other than the way they had come in. If they needed to leave, it was either retrace their steps, or head for the kitchen.
‘Take a seat, Professor.’ She filled up the coffee cups, all the time trying to see out into the darkness of the car park. There didn’t appear to be any sign of movement.
‘I really am most terribly sorry about all this.’
‘Hardly your fault, Professor. You were manipulated into going to London.’
‘And I let myself be manipulated. I’m long enough in the tooth to know how all this works. I’ve been in academia for over forty years, for goodness’ sake! It’s not like it’s the first time my research has upset people. But whoever sent me that photograph hit on the one area of my life where I can’t be entirely rational, though I should have stopped and thought it through. With a little bit of reflection I might have seen it for what it was. I should have told Tess; she’d have known what to do. And you know, she’s going to kill me when we get back.’
‘Quite probably, sir,’ said Mona, smiling. ‘Out of interest, how many people knew you had a daughter?’
‘Very few. I made no great secret of the fact, but it wasn’t really something that came up in conversation. It’s ancient history, really. Most of the people that I worked with then have moved on or retired. Except for Tess, of course. We’ve worked together for most of my academic life.’
‘Apart from your stint in New Yor
k.’
The professor looked blank.
‘You know, your time at university there in the 1980s?’
‘I’ve never been to New York in my life. The whole place seems terrifying . . . Why are you laughing?’
‘I’m sorry, I was just thinking about how vigorously Mrs Kilsyth protects your reputation.’
He looked confused.
‘Anyway . . . back to today. I don’t know what you’re planning to say to Parliament, Professor, but some people seem very keen to stop you saying it.’
‘I’ll be saying publicly what I’ve been saying privately for quite some time. I’m planning to recommend a two-week nationwide quarantine. People confined to their own homes. I want everything shut: workplaces, schools, shops. Everything except emergency services.’
‘Quarantines have been discussed before.’
‘Not by me. And I have a certain,’ he paused, as if uncertain how to phrase something. ‘I have a certain credibility which means that I will be listened to by the press and the public. Voters, if you want to call them that.’
‘Why haven’t you raised the issue of quarantine before?’
‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure not to. It’s an incredibly unpopular policy. The government is worried about the loss of productivity. The retailers hate it, because we are already in recession, without taking away a whole two weeks of buying opportunities. Women’s charities hate it because they predict, probably correctly, a rise in domestic violence. The police are ambivalent about it. They’d have a quiet couple of weeks but they’re concerned about child protection and policing the lock-down. And the usual suspects are going mad about the civil liberties issues. In fact, the only people who like the idea are the health services.’
‘So why suggest it now?’
‘Because the Virus isn’t behaving as it should. By now we should see the numbers of new infections tailing off. The rate of infection has been falling, but in recent weeks we’ve seen it beginning to rise again. I’m worried that this indicates . . .’
‘A third wave?’
They were interrupted by the sound of shouting from the car park.
‘I think that’s our cue to run, Professor.’
‘Oh dear. Not again.’
Mona lifted the counter hatch and bundled the professor through. Holding him firmly by the arm, she booted open the kitchen door. The sole kitchen operative appeared to have fallen asleep next to a frying pan with rapidly cremating bacon, but woke up with a guilty start as the door opened.
‘You can’t be back here!’
‘We’re not staying.’ She found the emergency exit and hit the bar to open it with her bottom. ‘Through you go, Prof.’
The burning bacon finally hit the smoke detector, which began to emit a shrill beeping, and distracted the cook from any further discussions with them.
‘Where are we going?’ asked the professor.
‘We’re just going to get ourselves out of the way while my colleagues deal with the situation.’ She pulled the door shut behind her and peered into the darkness. After a second or two her eyes adapted to the gloom and she saw what she needed. ‘Can we head in the direction of those trees?’
‘It’s very dark.’
‘To our advantage in hiding.’
With a firm grip of the professor’s arm, she pushed her way into the foliage. It was hard to tell how far back the trees went, but she could hear the sound of animals in the next field. If she could get them as far into the darkness as possible, they might be able to hide. She wished they could move faster, but she could hear the professor’s breathing becoming increasingly laboured.
‘Mona,’ he panted. ‘I’m afraid I need to stop.’
‘A little further, sir.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’
This would have to do. She propped him up against a tree. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Just need to,’ he took a deep gulp of air, ‘catch my breath.’
She peered back toward the service station. Even now that her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light it was difficult to discern anything in the darkness.
‘Mona,’ the professor whispered, ‘who are these people?’
‘I don’t know, sir. As you yourself said your speech tomorrow upsets just about everyone. For all we know it’s the militant wing of the small shop owners’ association who don’t fancy closing their doors for a couple of weeks.’
Personally, right at this moment she was less worried about who was pursuing them than what they were planning to do if they caught them.
There was a sudden burst of light. Someone had followed their route, opening the emergency exit. A lone figure was briefly silhouetted against the fluorescent glow from the kitchen. He stood there, and she could see the outline of his head looking one way then the other. To her horror, she saw him lift his arm.
‘Professor, he’s got a gun,’ she whispered.
The professor grabbed both her arms, and pushed her violently against a tree. Wrong-footed, she tried to work out what he was doing. She was sure that she could fight him off, but she wasn’t sure if she was being attacked. If she pushed him away, she risked creating a lot of noise, and drawing attention to where they were hiding.
She heard the muffled sound of gunfire. Was someone shooting at the Guv and Greg? The sound came again, and this time she heard the bullet explode into a branch near them. Not the stifled sound of distance gunfire, then, more the up-close sound of a gun with a suppressor. A gun which was currently being fired into the trees, probably at random, possibly in the hope that it would flush them out into the open. Whichever way you looked at it, though, the gunman was demonstrating a limited concern for their getting accidentally executed by a bullet.
The professor had the full weight of his body pressed against hers, and she realised what he was doing. He was trying to protect her from being shot. It was a well-meaning gesture, and confirmed her suspicion that the professor was possibly the last decent human being on earth. Unfortunately, his chivalry was likely to get them both killed as there was nothing she could do to protect them with her arms pinned down. She lifted her hands up and pulled at the professor’s arms.
‘Come out, please. We don’t want to hurt you.’
The voice was English. Neutral; it had no particular regional accent, but neither was it Eton-style posh.
‘Come out, please, Ms Whyte—’
The voice broke off suddenly. After a brief second of unnerving silence, there was the sound of a thud.
‘What’s happening?’ whispered the professor.
A bead of torchlight was making its way toward the trees. If the gunman got any closer they’d be cornered. The professor’s grip on her arms was weakening, and she took the opportunity to push him away. He fell to the ground with a loud thump, twigs and leaves snapping as he landed. Mona winced at the noise. ‘Stay there,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be right back, Professor.’
He didn’t answer. Mona moved in the direction of the torch light. Her only hope was to surprise the searcher, knock him off his feet before he found them. Unfortunately, every move she made crunched or crackled. The light stopped moving – had he heard her? After a second’s pause it moved on again, coming closer and closer to where she was. She waited until it was an arm’s length away and lashed out.
There was a yelp and she pushed forward, kicking and shoving as she went. The flashlight fell to the ground, briefly illuminating her face.
‘Mona Whyte?’
She grabbed the flashlight and shone it into the darkness. It lit up a familiar face, although she couldn’t quite put a name to it.
‘Ian Jacobsen, Police Scotland HET liaison.’ He laughed, softly. ‘I thought you would be more pleased to see me than this.’
4
‘What do you think? Does it look tidy?’
Bernard looked up from the pile of papers he was trying to cram into a lever arch file. It was 8.45am, and they’d been there since seven shifting bits of paper ar
ound. There was no definition of tidy that the room could reasonably be deemed to have met. It didn’t look tidy. It wasn’t going to look tidy. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t making it look worse.
‘I’d say it . . .’
‘Morning, chaps.’
They both turned round, surprised at the intrusion into their office before opening hours, and saw Stuttle standing in the office doorway. He looked exhausted, distinctly grey around the gills, with huge dark circles under his eyes. The tiredness was offset by a surprisingly jolly grin. Bernard wondered what events were causing Stuttle to be both weary and cheery at the same time. Had he been up all night worrying about Mrs Carmichael’s visit? He couldn’t imagine much that would keep Stuttle awake. And short of Mrs Carmichael’s immediate retiral from politics, he couldn’t imagine much that would currently make him happy.
‘Having a bit of a tidy up?’ He looked round the room. ‘Good work. Never hurts to polish the surroundings. After all, government ministers think the world smells of fresh paint and Mr Sheen. Anyway, did the minister give you an ETA for her visit?’
‘No, sir,’ said Maitland. ‘I’d imagine it could be anytime today?’
‘Ha! That’s typical of Mrs Carmichael.’ Stuttle smiled. ‘Keep everyone hanging around, awaiting her arrival. I took the precaution of checking her movements with her diary secretary. She’s got a breakfast meeting at the Royal College of Surgeons, then she’s caught up in meetings with the Scottish government from 11am onwards, so if she’s visiting it’s going to be . . .’
The office door opened, causing all three of their heads to swivel sharply in that direction, in the expectation of seeing the head of the Parliamentary Virus Committee enter the room. Instead, the decidedly bruised and battered face of Carole appeared.
Stuttle looked horrified, then recovered enough to speak. ‘You must be Carole.’ He leapt up to shake her hand. ‘I’m Cameron Stuttle. That’s one heck of a beating your face has taken.’
‘’Es. ’Allo.’
Stuttle pulled out a seat and shepherded her into it. ‘Though it might be no bad thing for Mrs Carmichael to see the realities that you folk are facing in the field.’