Death at the Plague Museum

by Lesley Kelly

  Morningside Library was an oasis of calm after the stress of her day. The librarian, a well-heeled woman in her late fifties, had been delighted to assist with her request for a library card. It was very important, she’d said, that people continued to use the library, as funding for the service was always under threat. Mona had nodded a little guiltily. The only time she’d been in a library recently was when they’d tracked an elderly male Health Defaulter down to Blackhall Library, where he’d been sound asleep under a copy of the Scottish Daily Express.

  Her temporary library card secured, she relocated to a computer terminal. The paranoia she’d experienced over the past few days was still in full flow; she gave a furtive look round to make sure that no one had followed her here. There were two teenage boys huddled round a computer on the other side of the table from her, and three older ladies who were browsing the stacks. Unless she was being pursued by a master of disguise who could carry off a convincing Morningside matron, she could probably assume that nobody was interested in her and her Internet surfing.

  After all the preamble, she had an answer to her question in only a couple of Internet searches. She needed a phone number, and the power of Google had presented her with three possible options. Now all she had to do was locate a payphone. She considered asking the librarian, but given the high level of customer service she’d experienced so far there was a danger she’d be offered the use of a phone, and what would she say then? No thanks, I’m trying to contact someone without leaving a trace?

  Picking up her printout, she headed out on to Morningside Road. Payphones were few and far between. Should she start walking in the hope she stumbled across one, or should she ask a passer-by? The most likely place would be at Morningside Station, she guessed, unless . . . something on the other side of the road caught her eye. Unless there was one very close by indeed.

  She stood on the kerb to allow a bus to pass, then ran over the road to confirm her suspicions that this was a phone box. With one hand she pulled the door open; her other hand had its fingers firmly crossed in the hope that this one contained a fully functioning phone. A deeply unpleasant smell hit her nose. Looking down she could see a large puddle, the origins of which she decided not to dwell on. Placing a foot on each shore, she pulled out the list of numbers and dialled the first one. It returned a dead tone, which was unhelpful but at least conclusive. She could strike it off the list. The second number put her in touch with an elderly and apparently quite deaf man who couldn’t make sense of her request. He got a question mark next to his number. She sighed and dialled for the last time. A woman answered.

  ‘Is that Theresa Kilsyth?’

  There were a few seconds of silence. ‘Who is this?’ The voice was imperious, posh Edinburgh and unmistakeably Mrs Kilsyth.

  ‘This is Mona Whyte.’

  Another silence followed.

  ‘From the Health Enforcement Team.’

  ‘I know who you are.’ Theresa’s voice dripped with irritation. ‘I don’t know why you are ringing me.’

  ‘I rang the university but they said neither you nor the Professor was working there now.’

  ‘So you thought you’d harass me at home instead. I’m hanging up now.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Mona realised she’d have to dive right in. ‘Did the Professor really have a heart attack, or did someone get to him?’

  ‘Well, you would know more about that than me, Mona. I left him with your people. I trusted you all to take care of him.’

  ‘Believe me, Mrs Kilsyth, they are not my people. I don’t trust any of them, and I don’t think Professor Bircham-Fowler did either.’

  ‘A bit late in the day, Mona, for these discussions. Good . . .’

  ‘Don’t hang up! They’re asking me about the Professor. They want to know what he told me when we were in London.’

  The phone sighed. ‘Where are you phoning from? Are you on a mobile?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your landline? Your office landline?’

  ‘I’m at the call box on Morningside High Street.’

  There was a dry laugh. ‘Well, at least you’ve learned something. If you want to come round here immediately, I’ll talk to you. I assume you know where I live.’

  The phone went dead.

  Theresa placed an unasked-for cup of coffee in front of Mona. ‘I don’t have any milk, I’m afraid. I don’t take it myself.’

  ‘Black is fine.’ After only a couple of sips she felt her heart racing. Mrs Kilsyth liked her coffee strong. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea.’ Theresa sat down opposite her. She looked as small and trim as Mona remembered, but the events of the last couple of months had taken their toll. She seemed to have lost some of her energy, and now looked like a woman on the verge of retirement, which, Mona supposed, she actually was. ‘I very much doubt I’m going to give you whatever it is you want.’

  ‘What I want to know more than anything is that the Professor is OK. Is he?’

  ‘Is Sandy OK?’ She seemed to mull this over. ‘Well, he’s still alive, still breathing, which he could very well not be. There were a few scary moments in the hospital where we nearly lost him.’

  ‘I tried phoning lots of times, but I could never get anyone to answer his mobile.’

  Theresa waved this away. ‘Yes, yes, everyone and their dog was phoning to speak to him. Colleagues, students, journalists, well-wishers of all kinds. I turned the phone off and stuck it in a drawer. He’d didn’t need that kind of nonsense in his condition. Oh, and thank your boss, Cameron Stuttle, for the lovely bunch of flowers he sent. That was a very nice touch.’ She glared at her.

  ‘Theresa, I . . .’

  She held up her hand. ‘Before you go on, I think there are a few things you need to know. The first thing is that I haven’t actually seen Sandy since he was released from hospital. Since he came home he hasn’t answered my calls and he won’t come to the door when I attempt to visit.’

  Mona was shocked. ‘But you two were so close.’

  ‘We both worked sixty-hour weeks at the university. We shared an office. We went on holiday together. There is nothing I do not know about that man. Which is why I can say I am not surprised that he has cut off contact.’

  Mona frowned, trying to take this in. ‘You might understand that, Theresa, but I don’t. Surely he needs you now more than ever?’

  ‘Sandy has never been one to put his own needs first. But we’ll come to that. The second thing you need to know, as the events of the past few months have made crystal clear, is that Sandy has made some pretty powerful enemies in the course of his work.’

  ‘Like Carlotta Carmichael?’

  Theresa snorted. ‘That self-important little trollop? She was the least of his worries. She’s very much a sideshow, the real circus is elsewhere.’ She shook her head at the thought. ‘And the third thing you need to know is that the jaunt that Sandy was sent on to London worked a treat.’

  ‘Really? I thought the whole thing was a disaster for both SHEP and Police Scotland.’

  ‘Oh yes, it was a cock-up from start to finish for them. But the darker forces that were out there got exactly what they wanted. Overnight Sandy went from being a fusty old workaholic professor, without wife or children or grandchildren, to a happy family man.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘He went from being a man with nothing, or at least very little, to lose, to a man who was susceptible to pressure. He became a person who could be manipulated, leaned on to not discuss certain unfortunate topics.’

  Mona’s face must still have been portraying her inner confusion because Theresa leaned forward and started speaking very slowly, as if she was spelling out a difficult lesson to a child.

  ‘He would have done anything for his daughter. He’d spent years looking for her. My guess is after his “heart attack” certain people suggested to him that they know where his daughter lives, they know she is pregnant, and that
if they can give the Professor a cardiac episode, think what they could do to an expectant mother.’

  ‘Do you know who these people are?’

  ‘I have my suspicions.’

  ‘We need to help the Professor.’

  ‘How, dear? Do you have a plan?’ There was an air of sarcasm to her tone.

  ‘No, but, well . . .’ She stopped, flustered. ‘But I think the Professor wants me to help him. He gave me a hug when I left him with the Police Scotland guys, if that’s who they really are . . .’

  ‘I doubt it very much.’

  ‘And in the course of the hug he slipped a business card into my pocket which he’d written something on.’

  ‘What did it say?’ Theresa contemplated her fingernails, feigning indifference.

  ‘“Follow the orders of Mrs Hilda Milwood”, all in capitals. I don’t know what it means but . . .’ She tailed off as she caught the expression on Theresa’s face. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Theresa, are you Hilda Milwood? Is it a name that Professor Bircham-Fowler uses for you? I thought perhaps he was trying to get me to speak to you.’

  ‘It is absolutely nothing to do with me,’ she snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just . . .’

  ‘Mona,’ Theresa reached over and took hold of her hand, ‘listen to me and take the advice of an old woman. Leave all this alone. Messing around with this will get you and yours into all kinds of trouble.’

  ‘My only relative is my mother, Theresa, and she’s lucky if she’s got six months left. I’ve got no partner, and no children. I’m not sure I’ve got anything to lose either.’

  ‘You stupid girl!’ She dropped her hand. ‘The Professor is extremely high profile, which makes him difficult to kill. You, on the other hand, are a junior functionary. You can have an accident any time they want, and they won’t even have to worry about your grieving widower.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Forget about Sandy. Forget about whatever nonsense he has told you and get on with living your life.’ She stood up. ‘And please don’t come here again.’

  WEDNESDAY

  CHIMPS

  1

  Bernard had awoken, refreshed and rejuvenated, after a good night’s sleep in his new flat. The only thing that had prevented him getting his full eight hours was the fact that he’d woken just before six, and Bryce’s comments about Marcus had started playing over and over in his head. It was hard to imagine his friend being so idiotic, but then Marcus did possess the particular brand of stupidity that came from continually being the cleverest person in the room. It was the kind of stupidity that made him immune to sarcasm, rendered him incapable of recognising signs of boredom on other people’s faces and prevented him from realising that you were never, ever, going to get one over on a website that was probably run by the Russian mafia.

  At five past six he’d got out of bed. Bernard knew from bitter experience that lying awake imagining the worst that could happen was generally more unpleasant than getting up and actually facing the music, so he’d decided to steal a march on the day and get into work early. A peaceful walk through deserted streets, followed by an hour of clearing his emails before everyone else turned up would be a pretty good start to his morning. Marcus notwithstanding, he had a good feeling about the day. Today could be the day that they found Helen Sopel, alive and well, and escorted her to her Health Check. And he would have a perfect excuse to nip round to the Museum and thank Lucy for her help.

  The streets around his flat were as quiet as he’d hoped, although the nearer he got to the town centre, the more other early birds he encountered. There were a surprising number of people on the streets near his work. For some reason everyone seemed to have decided to come in early. The little park opposite their offices was full of people, students from the look of them. He wondered if this was the remnants of some outdoor party that had taken place overnight. There were at least twenty of them, which was clearly breaking the prohibition on meeting up in large groups. They’d be attracting the attention of his colleagues at SHEP if they didn’t move on soon.

  There was a lone student sitting on the bottom step of the small stone flight that led up to the front door of the Cathcart Building.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t open for another hour.’ He smiled, apologetically.

  The young man just stared back at him.

  Bernard was still mulling over this silent visitor as he pulled the door carefully shut behind him. He heard footsteps clattering down the stairs and wondered which of his colleagues had also made it into work for 7.30. As the footsteps drew nearer he realised it wasn’t anyone from the HET. A tall dark-haired man was heading toward him at some speed. Bernard was about to challenge him when he realised that he looked familiar, although he couldn’t immediately place him.

  ‘Ehm, hello?’

  The man ignored him, and rather than going out the front door headed down the corridor to the fire exit.

  ‘Don’t open that, you’ll trigger the alarm!’

  His warning was ignored. The man pushed the emergency bar and left without looking back. Bernard braced himself for a high-pitched electronic wail, but nothing happened. The door slammed shut, the noise echoing round the empty stairwell, leaving Bernard staring at it in confusion.

  His confusion deepened when he made it to the HET office. Paterson was already there, locked in conversation with Stuttle. The sight of the Head of SHEP jogged his memory and he realised where he’d seen the mystery man before.

  ‘I just saw Paul Shore leaving.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said Stuttle.

  ‘No, I really did, he . . .’ Bernard stopped. He realised from the expression on his boss’s, and his boss’s boss’s face that he’d got it wrong. This was one of the times when HET reality was at odds with actual reality as he perceived it, and he hadn’t just seen Carlotta Carmichael’s parliamentary secretary leaving their offices after a secret meeting.

  ‘Well, whoever it was he left via the Emergency Exit.’

  ‘Tut, tut,’ said Stuttle, grinning to himself. ‘A visitor leaving via the tradesman’s entrance. Better check the silverware’s all still there, John.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Bernard,’ said Paterson.

  ‘I am worried. The alarm didn’t go off when he opened the door. Should I phone the Facilities Manager and get him to check it?’

  Stuttle’s face, unlike the Emergency Exit, registered alarm. Bernard realised, with slight embarrassment, that the SHEP boss had been responsible for the security breach, no doubt so that Paul Shore could sneak into the building. The door system forced you to present your Green Card on entry, providing a neat register of everyone who had been in the building. No doubt this would have interfered with Stuttle’s intention to pretend the meeting had never happened.

  ‘No, don’t go doing that. John, er, you’ll get that sorted out?’

  ‘Of course. What are you doing in so early anyway, Bernard?’

  Wishing I’d stayed in bed, he thought. ‘Work. Finding Helen Sopel.’

  ‘Good, good. Dedicated team you’ve got here, John. Perhaps we can continue our discussion in the cafeteria and give Bernard here some peace?’

  A welcome silence filled the room. As soon as Paterson and Stuttle were out of sight he hurried to Maitland’s desk and retrieved the key to the office cupboard. With a glance over his shoulder in case his bosses had returned, he opened it. To his relief, the box with Helen Sopel’s emergency information was still there. Although he remembered putting it on the second shelf, it seemed to have migrated overnight to the third. Almost like someone around 5’8” tall had put it away last night, only for someone taller to put it back this morning. Paterson, Stuttle and Paul Shore were all, by his estimation, at least six foot tall.

  Bernard pulled the box out and leafed through it, and had a second burst of relief when he found all the contents were still there. He quickly repacked it,
then paused for a moment deciding which shelf to put it back on. He opted for the second. He leaned against the cupboard and tried to work out what Shore had been doing there. Was he there so he could go back and warn Ms Carmichael about its contents, or there so that he could help identify the significance of the items? If they were significant, would anyone even bother to tell them?

  The sound of voices drifted in from outside. He walked over to the window and saw that the number of people in the park seemed to have increased. This ruined his theory that it was the remnants of a student party; this wasn’t the dying embers of an event, this looked like something just about to start. A few of the ‘students’ were wearing scarves over their faces. What was going on?

  ‘Hello.’ Marcus was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hi! Have you seen what’s going on out there?’

  ‘I certainly have. I actually came to warn you that there were plans on the Twittersphere for a demonstration outside your office, but I appear to be a little late.’

  ‘So it’s a demonstration. I thought it was some kind of student party.’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  Marcus gave his usual goofy grin, and Bernard’s thoughts turned from the demo to his conversation with Bryce. This opportunity to talk to Marcus had been unexpected but the empty office did make this the perfect time to offer some support.

  ‘So, how are you?’ Bernard smiled at his friend. To be honest, he didn’t look like a man deep in debt and doing dirty deeds. He could, of course, also be deep in denial.

  ‘Fine, fine. Missing my house guest, of course, and our cosy late-night chats.’

  ‘Oh, right. Yes, I’m missing you too,’ he lied. ‘But you’re OK? Not worrying about anything?’

  ‘Actually, right now I’m mainly worrying that Mr Stuttle will somehow see the demonstration outside as my fault. He has a worrying tendency to blame whoever tells him bad news for actually causing it.’