by Lesley Kelly
‘He’ll go back to traffic accidents and meningitis, I suppose.’
Bernard’s mind came back to the present and he pulled away. His wife didn’t notice, and got to her feet. She stumbled a little as she stepped past him, and he put out a hand to steady her. She took his hand, put it to her lips and kissed it, then walked on through to the kitchen. He followed, hovering in the doorway while she rooted around in the cupboards until she found a vase. Carrie arranged the flowers to her satisfaction, and placed them on the window ledge.
‘So, how was work?’ she asked.
‘Oh, same as always. Eight hours spent in the company of people who hate me.’ He hesitated. ‘And you . . .what did you do with your day?’
Carrie shrugged. ‘Not much. Met Mum for lunch,’ she turned back to the sink, ‘then went to the cemetery.’
Bernard looked at her back. It was her birthday, maybe he should let it go. He grappled with his conscience for a minute and decided he couldn’t. ‘I thought we’d agreed . . .’
‘Agreed what?’
She spun round, and he was subjected to his second lot of female wrath of the day.
‘That I wouldn’t go there because it upsets me too much? Well, tough. It’s my birthday and if I want to spend it with my dead son I think that’s up to me.’
‘OK, OK.’ Bernard put his hands up in surrender and did his best to change the subject. ‘So, are we eating out tonight? What do you fancy? Mexican?’
It was too late, and Carrie’s tears were already in full flow.
‘We could eat in?’
‘Oh, forget the food. Thirty-eight, Bernard, I’m thirty-eight years old.’
He stared at his feet. They’d had this discussion so many times it wasn’t even an argument now, it was a ritual.
Carrie stood in front of him and put her hands on his chest. ‘I want us to have another baby, and we’re running out of time.’
He took her hands in his, and kissed them. ‘We talked about this . . .’
She pulled her hands away. ‘No – you talked. The only thing that could make this whole situation bearable is the thought of another child.’ She sobbed. ‘It’s the only thing that could make things better.’
‘Better?’ Bernard felt an uncontrollable wave of anger rising from his chest, anger that he knew should be directed at anyone other than his wife. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. ‘You want us to bring a tiny, helpless creature into this world to take its chances with the Virus? And what if this baby dies?’
His wife stood crying, her shoulders shaking with the vast unrestrained sorrow of a child, or a drunk. Once her weeping would have destroyed him, but these days it just seemed to make him angrier.
‘Carrie, remember what we went through when Jamie died?’ His own memories of the time were blurred, a montage of hospitals, and cemeteries, and support groups full of other bereaved parents. His tone was gentler. ‘I’m scared what would happen if we had another child.’
He went to touch her but she pushed him away, and ran from the room. He followed her into the hall, and was horrified to see her putting on her coat.
‘Carrie, don’t go out.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay. We can talk about this, as much as you want.’
She shook his hand off. ‘What’s the point? You’ve made your mind up.’
He noticed she had her car keys in her hand. ‘Carrie, you can’t drive. You’ve been drinking.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Give them to me, Carrie.’ He made a grab for the keys and they fell to the floor. Carrie lifted her hand and slapped him as hard as she could, then clasped her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
The two of them stared at each other for a moment, then Carrie wrenched open the door and fled.
Bernard picked up the keys and put them in his pocket. He stood still for a moment, grateful for the silence. Dr Sutherland had told them that anger was good, that anger was a sign of moving on, of healing. It didn’t feel like that from where Bernard was standing. He touched his cheek. This felt like war. This felt like fighting a battle day after day with the one person he should be caring for. Was it like this for the traffic accident parents, or the meningitis-bereaved? Or was this hell just for those robbed by the Virus? Or worse still, was it just for them?
Bernard kicked off his shoes, and placed them neatly under the hall table. The first time Carrie had hit him, he’d been devastated; the second time, he’d been furious. Now he just felt numb. He wandered slowly through to the kitchen. He contemplated looking in the fridge, then changed his mind and reached for a takeaway menu.
Her mother was looking old.
She seemed to have lost even more weight in the past couple of weeks. The skin across her nose was stretched tight, and her cheekbones jutted out, overshadowing her cheeks. Mona thought how easy it was, when your whole life revolved around the Virus, to forget the millions of other diseases there were out there, mutating, and replicating, and seeking out weakness. She wondered if her mother was getting the correct care. Had she seen the oncologist again? With the Virus consuming hospital resources, you needed to fight for treatment for any other illness.
‘Come through.’
Her mother waved her past and she wandered down the narrow hall into the living room. It looked the same as always; the cream sofa was immaculate and everything was hoovered and dusted to perfection. The room felt cold, though, and Mona wondered if her mother was economising.
‘I’ve not heard from you for a while.’
Mona heard the accusation under the mild tone. ‘It’s only been a couple of weeks, Mum.’ She wondered how often other people visited their mothers – was two weeks a long time? Bernard, she knew from his endless chatter, spoke to his mother two or three times a week on the phone. Maitland – Christ, Maitland was probably round his mother’s every night looking for a free meal and his washing done.
‘I’m just saying.’ Her mother hovered by the living room door. ‘Shall I stick the kettle on?’
‘No, don’t bother. I actually popped round to have a look at some of my old stuff.’
Her mother nodded, knowingly. That explains it, her expression read. It’s not like my daughter to drop in just to chat.
Feeling guilty, Mona was about to change her mind on the offer of tea, but her mother had vanished into the dark of the kitchen.
‘Well, you know where your room is.’
Mona sat on the floor of her old room and reached under the bed. She pulled out a suitcase, and noted the lack of dust on top of it. Her mother’s cleaning reached everywhere. The case was locked with a numerical padlock. After a minute or two’s contemplation she put the correct combination in. 2-8-0-6. Her father’s birthday. She smiled. How predictable.
Two years and three months since her father had passed away. She wondered what he would make of her work at the HET; the Virus had barely been an issue when he died. There’d been discussion of a new strain of influenza. European flu they’d called it at first in the UK papers, due to the ongoing inability of Fleet Street to recognise that Britain was, in fact, located in Europe. There had been the usual talk of epidemics, and pictures of teenagers in Barcelona wearing facemasks, but no-one had really thought much of it, desensitised by the threats of Avian flu and SARS epidemics that never materialised. She was glad her dad had been spared the panics of the past few years.
She lifted the lid of the suitcase and stared at the ephemera of her teenage years: a bundle of letters, a couple of Valentine cards, and six hardback notebooks with varied covers. Her diaries. She picked one up at random and started to read.
Dance practice. Good rehearsal for end of term show.
Hockey. League game against St Christy’s. Scored two goals but still lost 6-3.
Terse. Limited. As if written by a girl with a secret.
TUESDAY
FINDING RELIGION
1
‘You’re in early.’
Mona looked up to see Bernard
standing in the office doorway. She gave him a wave and tried to force her features into some shape that didn’t reveal her deep irritation. She’d been relying on some quiet time in the office to have another attempt at Heidi’s journal. It was her own fault, she supposed, for bawling him out last night. He’d suddenly developed a work ethic.
‘I don’t think my wife is speaking to me.’
He wandered toward her, sighed loudly, and loitered by her chair, playing idly with the pink fluff of the diary. She was wrong. He wasn’t here because he was worried about the case; he was just avoiding his other half. And was that a black eye? She’d enquire later, once she’d got these diaries cracked.
Her partner continued to hover around her desk, raising the awful possibility in Mona’s mind that he wanted to have a heart-to-heart with her about his marital troubles. Really, Bernard? I’m the best you can do? Lived alone since I left my parents, not even a cat; I’m your surest bet? Poor bastard.
She edged the diary away from his fingers. ‘Oh well, I’m sure she’ll get over it.’
Bernard didn’t move. She resigned herself to a conversation but decided to move it on to safer ground.
‘What have you got there?’ She pointed to the Waterstones bag he had under his arm.
‘I thought this might be useful.’ He delved into the carrier and produced a book.
‘The Plague by Camus,’ she read. The cover was illustrated with the picture of a scythe. It looked a cheery read.
‘I thought it might give us an insight into what The Children of Camus were up to.’
‘Good idea. Best get on and start reading it.’
Bernard was still failing to take the hint when Maitland appeared and sat on her desk.
‘Morning, all.’
She elbowed him in the back. ‘Hoi, get your fat arse off my desk!’
‘Sorry,’ he grinned, but stayed put. ‘Didn’t mean to intrude on your discussion about literature, but I just wanted to tell you I heard from Carole.’
‘Oh, God – how is Michael?’ She hadn’t thought about her colleague since she left the hospital. A tiny tremor of guilt ran down her spine.
‘Apparently they had a big scare about 3am when his temperature spiked – you know, lights flashing, doctors appearing from nowhere. Michael got whisked off to intensive care, with Carole left sitting there on her own.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Bernard. ‘How is Michael now?’
‘Out of danger.’ Maitland rested his foot on the edge of Mona’s chair, who immediately slapped it back off. ‘Although the hospital will be keeping him in for a few days.’
‘Well, that’s good.’ Mona wondered how long she had to wait before turning the subject back to work. ‘Anyway . . .’
‘Do you think we should send her some flowers?’ asked Maitland.
‘Flowers?’ Mona was always amazed at how well Maitland and his partner got on. She seemed to find him considerably less annoying than the rest of the office did. Mona put it down to Carole consuming one too many of the herbal relaxation tablets her shop sold. Nobody could spend all day with Maitland and actually like him.
‘Not flowers,’ said Bernard. ‘They don’t let you take them into hospital these days.’
‘Anyway, about Morley’s . . .’
Bernard continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Though I suppose we could pop out and visit her later?’
‘Can I get a word in edgeways?’
The two of them stopped talking and turned toward her, two sets of eyebrows raised in surprise. She felt a little foolish.
‘I just wanted to draw your attention to the fact that Morley’s features in both the Heidi Weber and the Colette Greenwood investigations.’
‘Really?’ said Maitland. ‘How come?’ He rested his trainer back on Mona’s chair.
‘Seriously, put your foot there again and I’ll chop it off.’
He smirked but moved his lanky frame onto his own chair.
‘So, to recap, Colette Greenwood, student, missed her Health Check last week. Last known sightings were church on Sunday night followed by a night out with her Christian pals in Morley’s. Would you have Morley’s down as the kind of place three God-fearing girlies would go?’
‘No.’
‘Though Maitland’s better placed than us to know,’ said Bernard, smiling, ‘seeing as he is a regular at Pastor Mackenzie’s church.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Maitland glared at Bernard. ‘Are you having a go, shortass?’
Mona tried to work out if Bernard was joking. She guessed from Maitland’s irritation there was something of substance in her partner’s remark. ‘Really? I know you said your girlfriend was a churchgoer but I didn’t know you were.’
‘No, I just went a couple of times with Emma to keep her company.’
‘He thinks the Pastor’s an arsehole though.’
‘Shut up, Bernard.’ Maitland’s annoyance manifested itself in a half-hearted kick in Bernard’s direction.
Mona grinned. ‘Anyway, at the same time, Heidi Weber, also a student, with a German MP for a dad, is missing. According to her diary, she is also a regular at Morley’s. Would you have Morley’s down as the kind of place the daughter of a politician would hang out?’
‘I wouldn’t really have Morley’s down as the kind of place anyone would go if they weren’t actively looking for drugs, or a good rammy.’ Maitland’s bad mood appeared to be ebbing, being replaced by something more reflective. ‘Especially in this day and age. I can’t imagine anywhere you’d be more likely to catch something.’
Mona looked from Bernard to Maitland, and back. ‘Coincidence?’
‘What are you lot jabbering about?’ Paterson walked into the room, opened his office door, and threw his briefcase in the direction of his desk.
Mona turned round in her seat. ‘We’re discussing the Edinburgh institution that is Morley’s.’
‘Morley’s?’ Paterson walked over to them. ‘Victor Thompson’s gaff?’
‘Yup.’
‘It’s a hole!’ said Paterson. ‘What’s our interest in it?’
‘Both our No Shows were regulars there,’ said Mona. ‘Neither of them what I’d call the usual clientele.’
‘Interesting.’ Paterson looked thoughtful. ‘Anyone paying him another visit?’
Mona raised a hand. ‘I was thinking about it.’
Paterson let out a long whistle. ‘Tough place, Morley’s.’ He folded his arms. ‘You know the only way to get in and out safely?’
Mona waited for the punchline.
‘Don’t eat a thing while you are in there. I had the shits for about two days after one of their bar lunches.’
Mona smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘So, let’s prioritise this Morley’s thing. Mona, you and Bernard head over there now, see if you can speak to Vic again.’
‘I can’t, Guv,’ she checked her watch, ‘I’m due at the University for 9.30, to see Heidi Weber’s Religious Studies tutor.’
‘Professor Withington?’ asked Maitland.
‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘How did . . .?’
‘He’s on my list of people to speak to about Colette Greenwood.’ Maitland drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Another connection between these cases. Can I tag along?’
‘Oh, God. I suppose so. Would be good to follow up the Morley’s angle soon, though.’ She shot a doubtful look at her partner. ‘I suppose Bernard could still go, Guv.’
‘Not keen for Brains here to venture into Morley’s solo.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what – I’ll go with him.’
‘Really, Mr Paterson?’ There was an edge of panic to Bernard’s voice.
‘Yeah. It’ll be educational.’
‘Who for?’ asked Mona, picking up her bag, and smiled.
The University of Edinburgh Faculty of Divinity was a near neighbour of the castle. Mona and Maitland stood staring at its twin-towered grandeur.
‘Is this the right place?’ Maitland peered suspiciously at their
destination.
‘Yes,’ said Mona, irritably. ‘I told you before that it was the building at the top of the Mound where lots of shit happened during the Festival, and here it is. Just picture it with a huge Fringe banner hanging on it.’
‘Hmm, actually that does kind of ring a bell. I think I saw some bloke doing stand-up there last year.’ Persuaded that they were in the right place, he began to walk.
‘Was he good?’
‘Nah. I think I heckled him.’
Of course you did, thought Mona.
Maitland nudged her. ‘It’s a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, you know.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘Did Bernard tell you that?’
‘Yup. And did you realise that the piece of ground under John Knox’s statue actually belongs to the Church of Scotland?’
‘Fantastic. Now I’ve got Maitland and Bernard all rolled into one, and twice as annoying.’
Maitland grinned and walked up to the courtyard gates. He held his card against the Health Card barrier, which gave a satisfied beep and let him through. When Mona caught up with Maitland he was pointing at something over her shoulder.
‘Say hi to John Knox.’
She turned to look at the statue of the preacher, one arm aloft and the Good Book tucked firmly under the other. She spun back to see Maitland bounding on ahead, up the wide stone stairs and into the building. She ran after him, muttering.
‘I don’t see any directions.’ Maitland frowned.
‘Let’s start walking. There’s sure to be a sign.’
They wandered the corridors of the Faculty looking for the correct office. The number of young women they passed surprised her. She’d expected the place to be full of serious young chaps with beards.
‘Shall we ask someone?’
A girl with dreadlocks and a floor-length skirt was reading a noticeboard. Maitland went up to her and asked where they could find the Professor. The student said nothing, just pointed over her shoulder at the door directly behind her. Professor Withington.