Songs by Dead Girls

by Lesley Kelly

  ‘So we need to get ourselves on to the other side of the Thames, then according to the notes Greg gave us, if we walk along as far as the National Theatre, we should encounter some rough sleepers.’

  Paterson sighed. ‘Lead on then.’

  Mona walked along the narrow pedestrian walkway at the side of Hungerford Bridge. She had to shield her eyes from the sun, and cursed herself for not bringing sunglasses. One of the downsides of a Scottish upbringing was you forgot the possibility that somewhere else in the world the sun might be shining brightly. Squinting aside, it was fun looking out at London. Maybe she’d come back for a holiday, see the place properly. Make her mother proud by going to a gay bar.

  From the look on Paterson’s face, he was less enamoured with the sightseeing. He was pulling at his collar in a manner that suggested that the weather had been added to the list of things he was furious about. They reached the end of the bridge and turned onto the South Bank. Mona’s eyes flicked between her surroundings and the directions she’d been given. ‘This looks similar to where the photograph was taken, Guv.’

  ‘It does. They really like their concrete down here, don’t they?’

  The sharp corners of the National Theatre appeared. ‘I think they call the architectural style “brutalism”.’

  ‘Don’t get all Bernard on me, for God’s sake.’

  A couple of men were sitting at the side of the walkway, with signs in front of them that outlined the circumstances that had brought them here. A couple of tourists stopped for a moment, conversed with the men, then threw coins into the hats in front of them. Mona guessed the tourists must either be immune to the Virus, or have an adventurous approach to risk, to get so close to two people with unknown health status. Maybe they were superstitiously repaying their good fortune by giving alms to every beggar they encountered.

  Time to start asking questions. She stopped to put her phone away, and as she did so, some activity further along the walkway caught her eye.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘What?’ He stood next to her, squinting as she had been to protect his eyes.

  ‘Look!’ She pointed. ‘I think we’ve been beaten to it.’

  2

  ‘I still don’t see why Mr Paterson left you in charge.’

  Maitland was installed behind Paterson’s desk, with a layer of paperwork spread across it. He stretched both his arms wide, and folded them behind his head. ‘Because the boss and I are on the same wavelength. Him and me, we share a vision for this place. We know who the bad guys are, we know what the difficulties are, and he knows that, unlike you, I’ll rise to the challenge. ’

  This was an annoyingly good description of Paterson’s assessment of the situation. It was, to Bernard’s mind, also highly unfair. He had risen to many challenges in his time. And as the challenge in question was the efficient and timely filing of paperwork he knew he was more than man enough for the job. ‘You’ve got no understanding of administration. How are you going to prioritise this lot?’

  Maitland swept the papers up into a pile. Bernard caught a glimpse of something that looked important.

  ‘There was a memo in there marked “Urgent”.’

  ‘Everything in here is marked urgent,’ said Maitland. ‘If a memo went out marked anything less than murderously crucial it wouldn’t get read.’

  ‘Yeah, but it said something about drugs.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of a pandemic! Almost every memo mentions them. I know what I am doing here, Bernard.’ Maitland sighed. ‘Every bit of paper is important, and I will read it all when I get some peace. That’s after I’ve read the ton of papers for the Parliamentary Committee.’ He poked a large pile of papers.

  ‘The Parliamentary Committee?’ Bernard’s jaw began a slow, involuntary movement toward the ground. ‘You’re representing the HETs at the Parliamentary Committee?’

  ‘Yeah, it’ll be fine.’ He flashed Bernard a happy, confident smile.

  ‘You are going to stand up in front of a group of politicians and talk about the work of the HET?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A group of politicians, half of whom are making a career out of savaging the HET’s role in Virus prevention?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maitland was starting to sound defensive. ‘The Guv manages it, and he’s not exactly a public speaker.’

  ‘Except Mr Paterson messed it up so badly last time Stuttle had to step in to stop him getting sacked. The politicians are going to eat you alive!’

  ‘Carole!’ Maitland leaned sideways and looked past Bernard, out into the main office.

  ‘Yeah?’ She appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Can you get Bernard out of my office and doing something useful?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Help him find his Defaulter. Or in fact, help him do anything that doesn’t involve him being here.’

  ‘Right, fine.’ Bernard turned on his heel. ‘Come on, Carole.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Bernard realised with a start that his colleague was speaking to him. Since he’d left the office he’d been replaying the conversation with Maitland continuously in his head, and each time he thought it over he became more convinced that Paterson had had a temporary bout of insanity when he’d left the Paperwork Clown in charge. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘I said, where are we going?’ Carole was smiling at him. ‘I’m totally happy to help out, but, you know, some vague idea of what we’re up to would be useful?’

  ‘Sorry, I should have said.’ Bernard slowed the car down. It wasn’t Carole’s fault that Maitland was an idiot. ‘We’re heading to Colinton. I want to check out the address that Stephen McNiven’s Green Card is registered to.’

  She nodded. ‘OK, good plan. Just one question.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Who is Stephen McNiven?’

  ‘The guy who vomited on me yesterday.’

  ‘Ah, him.’ Carole smiled, and stared out the window. ‘And are we tracking him down to deliver some vigilante-style justice?’

  ‘Yes, I’m about to deliver a dry-cleaning bill that will have him quaking in his boots.’ Bernard smiled. He liked the occasions when he worked with Carole. She radiated good-natured calmness, and he inevitably found himself cheered up in her company. Her only fault that he could see was the fact that she got on well with Maitland. ‘He claimed that he didn’t know our Defaulter but I don’t believe him. We think our Defaulter might be working as a prostitute, and I’d like to know more about Mr McNiven’s line of work.’

  ‘You think he’s living off her immoral earnings?’

  ‘He was pretty evasive about what he did for a living, so in short, yes.’

  They drove on in silence for a few minutes, until Bernard found his rage bubbling up again. ‘I can’t believe Mr Paterson left Maitland in charge. You know he’s got to do the Parliamentary Committee?’

  There was no response.

  ‘There’s no way he’s not going to mess that up.’ He glanced over at her. She was still staring out of the window. ‘Carole?’ He tried again, more loudly. ‘Carole?’

  ‘What?’ She jumped. ‘Sorry, Bernard, I was miles away.’

  ‘Am I ranting too much about Maitland?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘Well, maybe a little. Maitland will probably be fine.’

  He was absolutely delighted to hear the note of uncertainty in her defence of her partner. ‘When you say “probably” . . .’

  She cut across him. ‘Bernard, can I talk to you about something? Something private?’

  ‘Of course.’ He slowed down even further to look at her, and was loudly honked by the car behind. He gave a hasty wave over his shoulder and speeded up again. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Things aren’t going so well at home.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Marriage trouble? He’d only met Carole’s husband once when he’d picked her up from work. He remembered him being very thin, very amiable, and with a handshake so strong it had taken a couple of hou
rs for Bernard to regain feeling in his fingers. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You know how my eldest was ill a couple of months ago?’

  Bernard reached deep into his brain for a name. ‘Michael, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She lapsed back into silence, staring out of the window. ‘It was absolutely terrifying when he caught the Virus.’

  Young people were the most in danger of dying from the disease; it was one of the Virus’s most terrifying quirks. The Virus played havoc with the immune system of those it infected, stimulating them to the point where the body just couldn’t cope. Those with the strongest immune systems – the young and fit – were most at risk, as their bodies turned in on themselves, killing them in an attempt to fight the viral threat. There wasn’t a parent of teenagers in the country who hadn’t lost sleep to that particular fact.

  ‘But now . . .’ Carole sighed. ‘Michael’s immune, of course, except he thinks that “immune” actually means bloody immortal. He’s gone completely off the rails. Coming in at all hours, smelling of alcohol and weed.’

  ‘You think he’s going to illegal meet-ups?’

  ‘I think so. I mean, I’m not entirely unsympathetic to his point of view. When I was his age I was going to discos along with hundreds of other people my own age. Then in amongst all that emergency legislation the government rammed through there’s the thing about no more than twenty non-immune people in any social gathering – I mean, can you imagine being a teenager and not meeting up with a big group of friends?’

  Bernard considered this. His youth had been spent almost entirely on the badminton court. He doubted that his entire teenage network extended to twenty people. ‘Well, yes, but I’m probably not typical.’

  ‘He’s going to get himself into trouble.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation I think the country’s entire teenage population sees that particular statute as largely advisory. You know who you should talk to?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marcus. He told me at great length one day all the code words and emojis that the UK’s youth are using on social media to denote when and where meet-ups are taking place. Frankly, Carole, the digital natives are running rings around us oldies.’

  ‘I know. And it’s great that I don’t have to worry about him catching the Virus, but not all his friends are immune, so now I’ve got irate parents phoning me up complaining he’s a bad influence.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I . . .’ He stopped, unable to think of the right thing to say. He’d no experience of the challenges of parenting a teenager. ‘If there’s anything I can do?’

  ‘Thanks. It was good just to talk to someone and get it off my chest. Jimmy and I can’t seem to speak about it without fighting.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘Anyway, enough of me moaning . . .’

  ‘You weren’t moaning, you were talking something through.’

  ‘Either way, let’s talk about something else. What do we know about this McNiven guy?’

  ‘To be honest, we don’t really know much about him at all, apart from the fact that he was at the house that our Defaulter was supposed to be living in. And he used to work at McDonald’s.’

  ‘We know one other thing about him. On the basis of your previous meeting with him, he appears to have a delicate stomach.’

  ‘Yup, that is certainly true.’

  ‘You’ll be standing well back this time.’

  ‘I’m not too bothered.’ Bernard shrugged. ‘I’ve borrowed Maitland’s vest.’

  ‘Bernard!’

  He grinned. ‘We’re here.’ He pulled the car over to the side of the road. ‘This is the address his Green Card is registered to.’

  They were stopped outside the gates of a grey-stone detached house. Set well back from the road, it was surrounded on all sides by a sturdy six-foot-high wall. In common with McNiven’s residence from the day before, the expensive villa had a large and untidy garden to the fore.

  ‘It’s a nice house,’ said Carole. ‘In fact, a very nice house.’

  ‘I’d go as far as to say it’s a prime piece of real estate. And so was the house where we encountered McNiven yesterday. Both Colinton and Morningside are considerably nicer than our usual stomping grounds, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘There’s someone in.’ She leaned forward. ‘Upstairs window. A woman I think.’

  A figure was watching them from the upstairs bay window, half hidden by the curtain. Bernard saw a glimpse of long dark hair.

  ‘Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s the man that we’re looking for. Let’s see if he lets us in.’

  They walked up the driveway to the house, the gravel crunching under their feet.

  ‘What a waste of a garden,’ said Carole. ‘I’d kill for a plot this size! And look at the state of that poor rose bush.’

  Bernard was only half-listening, worrying about the kind of reception they could expect. McNiven had been asleep when they had disturbed him before, naked and vulnerable. Now he was forewarned of their approach, he might not be so willing to play along with the HET. There could be violence, violence that neither he nor Carole were ideally placed to manage.

  ‘Right, OK. Here we are.’ He paused on the doorstep, and found himself reluctant to knock.

  Carole seemed to sense, and share, his discomfort. ‘What do we do if he doesn’t open up?’

  Right now, he was viewing an abortive attempt at entry as the best possible option. ‘I’m pretty sure if Mona was here she’d be checking out the back door in case he’s making a break for it.’

  ‘Yeah, Maitland would be too.’

  The two of them looked at the side of the house. A metal gate was in place to stop anyone accessing the rear of the property. Unfortunately, the gate was wide open.

  ‘Bernard, this might make me a bad person, but I don’t think I get paid enough to risk getting beaten up.’

  He nodded, and felt a tiny wave of self-loathing wash over him. It was easier for Carole. No one really expected her to have the ability to deal with violent customers. But by the simple virtue of him being a man, his colleagues seemed to assume that he would be able to handle himself in a fight. In reality, nothing in his life had prepared him for that. Being a professional badminton player had given him agility, flexibility, and a turn of speed that occasionally came in useful. What it hadn’t given him were any skills he could realistically use in a fight.

  He braced his shoulders, and rang the bell. A faint electronic ‘Für Elise’ played inside the house. The music ended, and silence took its place. Bernard peered through the small glass window in the middle of the door. If he counted to ten and no one came, they could give up and go back to the office. Their heads might not be held high, but at least they would still be attached to their bodies. Mona would be back soon, and he could try accessing the house again with her. Although the occupants would be well warned by then . . . Self-loathing and self-preservation fought for supremacy in his mind, before being replaced by fear at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  To his surprise, it was a young woman who opened the door. She was what Bernard thought of as an identikit girl: skinny, wearing jeans and a vest top, she had long blonde hair with the roots showing her original darker colour, a tan which was verging toward orange, dark eye make-up, and a large and elaborate tattoo on her left arm. He’d see ten girls who looked similar on the bus home.

  ‘Can we speak to Stephen McNiven? We’re from the HET.’ He showed her his ID card.

  ‘He’s not in.’ There was a hint of aggression, or possibly defensiveness, in her voice. In Bernard’s experience the two were quite closely related.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Carole. ‘Because we’re certain we saw him at the window.’

  ‘I said, he’s not here.’ The back door – they should have had it covered. Maybe he wouldn’t tell Maitland about this. It would only give him another excuse to make his life hellish.

  ‘But Mr McNiven does live here?’

  She shrugged, and gave the tinie
st of nods.

  ‘And can I ask who you are?’

  She lifted her tattooed arm and rested it on the doorjamb, attitude dripping from every pore. ‘I’m Alessandra Barr.’

  Bernard and Carole exchanged a look of surprise. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘I know. Stevie told me.’ She kept her eyes fixed on Bernard. ‘Do I have to come to one of those check things?’

  ‘Yes, you do. Have you got your Green Card?’

  ‘Hang on.’ She turned back into the hallway, leaving the door open behind her. Bernard followed her in. Now they had actually found her, he was taking no chances. Although he was slightly apprehensive about walking into Stevie McNiven wielding a baseball bat. Alessandra reappeared almost immediately, and the two of them almost collided.

  ‘Watch it!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Here’s my card.’

  He took it from her, and looked from the card to her and back again. The picture on the card matched the one on the file, of a blonde girl with two black eyes. She caught his eye, and looked defensive. ‘I had a fight with my boyfriend the day before my picture was taken.’

  ‘Is Stephen McNiven your boyfriend?’

  She shook her head. He waited for her to elaborate, but she said nothing.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this Health Check over with.’

  She nodded, and stepped out of the house.

  3

  ‘Looking for someone?’

  The tiny figure pivoted slowly in the direction of Paterson’s voice. Mrs Kilsyth’s face registered surprise, then slight embarrassment. After a second her features regrouped into an expression of extreme irritation. She gave a cursory wave in their direction and turned back to the two old men with whom she’d been conversing.

  ‘What is she playing at?’ Paterson matched Mrs Kilsyth’s look of irritation, and raised it to furious.

  ‘The same as us I expect.’

  ‘And is she planning to just ignore us standing here?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Guv.’ She sincerely hoped that she wasn’t. She could do without a set-to between the two of them, watched by half the homeless people in London. To her relief, Mrs Kilsyth seemed to be saying her goodbyes to the men.