Songs by Dead Girls

by Lesley Kelly

  Her hand went to her throat and she started playing nervously with her necklace. Bernard noticed that it was a St Christopher. He pointed at it.

  ‘Elijah is a Christian, just like you. He’s not like the men you met in Edinburgh. He has somewhere for you to stay, and he will help you to find a job. And a friend of ours in the local police will make sure that you are safe. You’ll be able to wire money home so that they can pay the debts. You just can’t tell them where you are, and they can’t tell them that the money is really from you.’

  Alessandra looked desperately undecided. ‘Annamaria, what I do?’

  Annemarie took her arm and stood up, coughing as she did so. ‘You, me and Sheba here are getting on a train.’ She picked up the Green Card. ‘I’ll give this Elijah bloke the once-over. And if I’m not happy, we’re coming straight back.’ She winked at Bernard behind Alessandra’s back.

  ‘And we’ve got friends in London that’ll come and check on you,’ said the Geordie woman. ‘You won’t be all alone.’

  Bernard had a vision of an international sisterhood of squat, grey-haired women who dedicated their lives to helping women like Alessandra escape the clutches of men like Kerr. He was both cheered, and slightly scared, at the thought.

  ‘Come on, doll. You can’t stay here, and you can’t go back. The only way to go is forward. Let’s get our tickets.’

  Annemarie shepherded Alessandra away from them and into the glass-fronted ticket booth. After a minute’s conversation with the man behind the counter, Annemarie turned and gave them a thumbs-up, which he took to mean that the dog wasn’t coming back to Edinburgh. Alessandra stopped and gave them a shy wave, before the two of them disappeared through the ticket barriers.

  ‘Right, that’s me done.’ The Geordie woman gave them a curt nod. ‘Safe journey back.’

  ‘We’d better get back to Marcus,’ said Mona.

  ‘Do you think she’s going to be OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Hard to say. She’s starting over in a new city, with pretty limited English. We can’t guarantee that Kerr is going to believe our story and stop looking for her. And she’s probably right to worry about her folks back home. But given the limited number of options open to her, I think we’ve given her the best possible chance. And she’s going to have some good people looking out for her in London.’ She gave him a gentle nudge. ‘You did well, Bernard. Really well.’

  He smiled. This was the first time he could remember Mona giving him praise that wasn’t qualified by a statement like, ‘for a civilian’, or ‘for someone who doesn’t actually know what he’s doing’. ‘Are we going to tell Mr Paterson about any of this?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Mona thought this over. ‘Probably best not to worry him. We’ll have to tell him that Stuttle agreed some time off for Carole, but otherwise let’s keep quiet. He’ll have enough on his plate with Carlotta Carmichael’s plan.’

  ‘Yup, I’m looking forward to Maitland updating him on all that.’ He knocked on the car window, and Marcus grinned back at him. ‘But right now, let’s just go home.’

  ‘Yup. And on the way, you can tell us how a health Nazi like yourself came to be buying cigarettes for a woman who’s only just got out of hospital.’

  FRIDAY

  SHOCK

  1

  ‘Good morning, all!’

  Paterson swept into the office carrying a huge bunch of flowers.

  ‘Guv, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘They’re not from me. They are addressed to the North Edinburgh HET, and I had the pleasure of plucking them out of Marguerite’s clutches before she could bring them up here herself. Her nose was very out of joint.’

  Mona grabbed the envelope attached to the flowers and opened it. ‘“With our most grateful thanks, Tess and Sandy.”’ She grinned. ‘How nice.’

  ‘Is that a bruise, Guv?’ asked Maitland.

  ‘This little thing?’

  Mona regarded Paterson’s visage. Her bet would be on a swift right hook in a darkened service station car park.

  ‘A minor shaving cut. And,’ he held up his right hand, which had two of his fingers bandaged and splinted together, ‘shut my hand in a drawer.’ He winked at Maitland, who looked annoyed something was going on that no one was sharing with him. ‘Mona, a word in my office.’

  ‘You seem in a very good mood, Guv.’ She shut the door firmly behind her, giving Maitland a cheery smile as she did so.

  ‘Yes, it turns out that the best way to get over several years of a dysfunctional father–son relationship is to have a really big rammy outside a service station. Absolutely nothing bonds you like the joint endeavour of attempting to beat the crap out of a couple of goons. Greg and I got on great after that. Laughed all the way to A&E. And, you were right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Him and Liz are an item. Thinks she might actually be “the one”.’

  ‘Fantastic, Guv.’

  ‘So.’ He indicated that she should sit down. ‘What happened on your side of things? Did the HET liaison folk get to you before anyone else did?’

  ‘Sort of. Ian Jacobsen found us, but not until after someone had tried to shoot us.’

  His eyes bulged. ‘Shoot you? As in men with guns?’

  ‘Yup. Well, one man, anyway. Shouted at us to come out, and when we didn’t he started firing.’ She wanted to go on, to tell him about the man calling her by name, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. If he didn’t believe her, or even worse, pretended not to, like the HET liaison guys had done, she didn’t think she could bear it.

  ‘That’s taking things to a whole new level. What was Stuttle thinking, sending us off into that kind of situation?’

  ‘Apparently the turn of events took him by surprise. He soon wised up though; Ian Jacobsen and his pal were both armed.’

  ‘And did they say who these guys were that were after the professor?’

  ‘Nope. I’m pretty sure they had their suspicions, but they definitely weren’t for sharing.’

  ‘Figures. Anyway, goes without saying that everything that happened over the past couple of days is top secret. Stuttle’s not going to want word of all this getting out.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, he made that crystal clear.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ Paterson looked surprised, and she kicked herself for her lack of discretion.

  ‘Yes, I had a debrief yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, right. I thought he’d wait until we were both back. Still, I suppose he wants to be on top of things. You know what the likes of Carlotta Carmichael are for ferreting out information. God knows we don’t want her finding out about our little jaunt down south.’

  ‘I think Maitland needs to update you . . .’

  ‘I’ll hear all about the Parliamentary Committee later. But the other thing I wanted to say to you is that I . . .’ He paused and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I may have overheard something that I wasn’t supposed to on our drive back. You know, when you and Greg were discussing your . . .’ He paused, looking for a word.

  ‘Sexuality, Guv?’

  ‘That would be the word, yes, thank you, Mona. I didn’t realise until that point that you are actually, ehm . . .’

  ‘Gay, Guv?’

  ‘Yes. Again, thank you. Were you planning to share this information with your colleagues at any point?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I can bear Carole and Bernard fawning over me, saying how proud they are. And Maitland will make endless jokes about me wearing dungarees.’

  ‘Mona – you underestimate your colleagues. The lesbian-wearing-dungarees thing is old hat. Maitland will be able to come up with some far more modern and cutting way to disparage your life choices.’

  She smiled. ‘You may be right.’

  ‘You could have told me, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv. I would have but, well . . . I’m glad you know now though.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Anyway, get out of my office while I find out what’s been happening while I
was gone.’ He flung open the door. ‘So, what did I miss?’

  Mona and Bernard looked expectantly at Maitland, who remained schtum.

  Bernard decided to help out. ‘Maitland has some news for you, Mr Paterson.’

  ‘Right, spit it out.’

  Maitland glared at Bernard. ‘Well, actually . . .’ There was a pause with the gestation period of an elephant. ‘I’m thinking of getting married.’

  Paterson looked surprised. ‘Fantastic news. Although I thought you’d only been going out five minutes. Anyway, that kind of news deserves bacon rolls all round, and I’m buying. Just let me do a quick check of my e-mails and we’ll head out.’

  They waited until the door closed again on Paterson.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell him sometime,’ said Bernard, in a whisper that was both fierce and not particularly quiet. ‘Preferably before Carlotta Carmichael’s office gets in touch.’

  ‘Yes, but I was thinking of doing it somewhere public where he can’t kill me. And I need to speak to Kate, really soon.’

  Mona laughed. ‘Why? To tell her she’s getting married?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Paterson reappeared in the doorway. ‘Will Bircham-Fowler’s speech be on Parliament TV? It should be on any minute.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Bernard sat down at his PC and called up the Parliament site. ‘That’s odd – they’re just showing an empty chamber.’

  They gathered round his screen.

  ‘Flick over to the news, Bernard.’ He clicked on the live news feed.

  A presenter was speaking without making a sound. ‘Don’t you have speakers?’

  ‘It must be on mute.’ He tried to remember what button to press. ‘How do I get the sound to turn on?’

  ‘There’s an icon that you have to press.’

  ‘There’s Theresa in the background.’ Mona pointed at the screen. ‘What is she . . . Is she crying?’

  Bernard, at last, found the mute button and deselected it.

  ‘ . . .and Professor Bircham-Fowler’s heart attack has come as a great shock to his friends and colleagues.’

  ‘Heart attack?’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘How was he when you left him, Mona?’

  Their questions all came at once, everyone talking over everyone else as they tried to work out what was happening. ‘He was fine when I left him with Ian Jacobsen. He was tired, but he wasn’t complaining about feeling ill or anything. I suppose it was a pretty upsetting few days for him, and he is in his sixties . . . What’s going on, Guv?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Paterson was still staring at the screen with an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite place. ‘I thought they’d take him to a safe house . . .’

  ‘So you don’t think this was a heart attack? You think someone did this to him?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ said Paterson quickly. ‘People like the professor do have heart attacks, Mona. He was no spring chicken.’ He blinked and looked away, uncomfortable under her gaze. ‘I think, Mona, we have to accept that the professor was just put under too much stress.’

  Paterson was moving onto acceptance of this far too quickly for her liking. She was reminded of Bob’s overly soothing tones on the drive back to Edinburgh. She decided to try something. ‘When the professor and I were shot at, Guv . . .’

  ‘You were shot at?’ said Maitland. ‘When were you going to mention that?’

  She ignored him. ‘The gunman knew my name. I tried to tell the Police Scotland guys that, but they refused to believe me. Said I was over-tired, imagining things.’

  There was a silence, and Paterson’s face contorted through several expressions before he responded. ‘It was a difficult few days, Mona, you could have been—’

  ‘He knew my name!’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Bernard and Maitland exchanging glances.

  ‘Everyone get on with your work.’ Paterson turned on his heel, and retreated into his office, slamming the door behind him, hard.

  ‘What was . . .?’

  ‘Not now, Maitland.’

  She picked up her bag and walked out, a quieter but no less furious exit than Paterson’s. She was sure this wasn’t just a random event, a stress-induced heart attack. But the Guv was going to toe the party line on all this. Paterson’s first instinct was to think about his job, to think – as always – about keeping Stuttle happy.

  ‘Mona.’

  ‘Bernard, this isn’t a good time.’

  ‘I just thought you’d like to know that the professor is still alive. According to the BBC website he’s in a critical condition in hospital.’

  ‘Until someone else gets to him and finishes off the job.’

  What did this mean for her? The man who had pointed a gun at them last night knew her by name. Was she in danger?

  ‘Mona, wait.’

  She could hear Bernard hurrying after her.

  ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Because the professor isn’t your responsibility now. There are other people looking after him.’

  She thought about the events of the previous night. The professor had been quick to protect her, sheltering her body from the gunfire.

  ‘I think he is my responsibility. And I’m not sure that Stuttle and his pals can actually protect him.’

  ‘And you can?’

  ‘I can try.’

  He was looking at her with his usual annoying expression that was part doubt and part confusion.

  ‘Go back to the office, Bernard, and I’ll see you on Monday. I’ve just had a really shitty . . .’

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Professor Bircham-Fowler says a lot of things that people don’t like, but I think he is honest and open, and makes a lot of sense. I don’t really understand what’s going on, but if you say he’s in danger I believe you. I want to help. We need the professor and people like him. Their voices need to be heard.’

  She stared at him, then a slow smile spread across her face. ‘That’s good. That’s really, really good, Bernard. Because I think I’ve got a plan . . .’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks are due to everyone at Sandstone Press for all their support in producing this book, particularly Moira Forsyth.

  I’m extremely grateful to everyone who has supported my books so far, whether that is turning up to launches and events, helping publicise it, or providing events to promote crime writing. A special thank you to the Murder and Mayhem folk – it’s been a blast!

  Thanks to friends, both old and new, for putting up with me.

  And finally, thanks to Gordon for his love and support. And to my sons; I remain convinced that one day they will finally put down the X-box controller and actually read something I’ve written.

  Keep reading for an exclusive first look at Death at the Plague Museum, the third book in the Health of Strangers series.

  1

  The man fell, his hands clutching wildly at the air, grabbing at imaginary handholds like a desperate climber reverse-mountaineering his way to the earth. The jacket of his suit flapped as he fell, an ineffective parachute that did nothing to slow his inexorable journey toward the ground.

  As he passed the second-floor balcony the screen went hazy for a second, before another shot of the body appeared.

  Cameron Stuttle, Chief Executive of the Scottish Health Enforcement Partnership, paused the recording. ‘The boys from IT edited the whole thing together. The museum’s got CCTV on each floor, apart from the very top one. We thought it would be useful if the four of you from the Health Enforcement Team saw his entire downward journey.’

  From this angle, the camera was pointing at the man’s face. Mona winced at his horrified expression, fear and confusion writ large. She’d be replaying that image in her head, she knew, probably just as she was falling off to sleep tonight. At least she’d be able to p
ut tonight’s insomnia down to work rather than her usual concerns about her love life, or her mother’s health.

  The screen went fuzzy again, and a third camera angle kicked in. This time, the screen was empty apart from a plastic model of something large and scientific. A foot appeared in the corner of the picture, rapidly followed by the rest of the body, which crashed at speed into the sculpture.

  ‘Ooh,’ said Maitland. ‘That’s got to hurt. What was the thing that he landed on?’

  ‘It’s a 3-D model of the H1N1 virus,’ said Bernard, his eyes tightly closed. ‘It’s part of their standing exhibition.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’

  ‘I’m a member.’ Still without fully opening his eyes, Bernard dug into his wallet and produced a small card. Mona took it from him and examined it, Maitland peering over her shoulder. It proclaimed the bearer of the card to be a full member of the Edinburgh Museum of Plagues and Pandemics. The flip side highlighted the benefits of this, which included free access to all the exhibitions, and a 10% discount in the café and shop.

  ‘Can we see it again?’ John Paterson, the HET team leader, was staring thoughtfully at the blank TV screen.

  ‘OK,’ Stuttle pressed a button and the recording started again. ‘Once more with feeling. You might want to look away now, Bernard.’

  Mona watched again as the man fell fearfully to his death through the central internal stairwell of the museum. Something about the whole recording unsettled her. ‘Is it just me, or does he look mighty panicked for a man that’s opted to end it all?’

  Paterson nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s flailing about a lot for a suicide. Don’t jumpers just let themselves fall?’ He frowned. ‘What makes you so sure this was intentional, Cameron? How do you know someone didn’t tip him over the top?’

  ‘A couple of things. First of all, as far as we can make out he was completely alone in the building. There’s no evidence on any of the CCTV cameras of any movement other than his, and, like everywhere else these days, this building has secure Green Card technology. Nobody gets into the building without entering their Green Card in the machine.’ He paused, as if waiting for someone to challenge him. Satisfied that they were all in agreement on this, he carried on. ‘And secondly, he left a note, of sorts.’