Songs by Dead Girls

by Lesley Kelly

  ‘No.’ Mona pulled up Google and started typing. ‘That leaves a pretty big digital footprint – they log everyone who accesses a file. Seeing as we’re trying to stay below the radar I’m going to start with the electoral roll.’

  ‘Can you do that on your phone?’

  ‘Hope so.’ Mona scrolled through the government website. After a couple of minutes’ searching, she found what she was looking for. ‘Got her!’

  ‘Really? All this time she was a couple of clicks away on a website?’

  ‘Yup. All it took was the correct name.’ She reached into her bag for her phone. ‘Let’s work out how to get to her house from here.’

  Maria’s address led them to a row of terraced townhouses in Clapham, on a tree-lined street which once must have been a highly desirable location for Victorian families and their servants. Now, Mona assumed, the sub-divided buildings were highly desirable starter flats for London’s army of young professionals. Their particular interest was in number 75, which currently had the door to its communal stair propped open. Builders in blue boilers suits were carrying items out of a van marked m&k plumbing and into the building.

  ‘I don’t see why we can’t just go in.’ Theresa peered round the side of the tree. One of the plumbers caught sight of her and gave a cheery wave.

  ‘Could we be a little bit discreet? The Guv said to wait for him.’

  Theresa snorted. ‘I’m not sure what exactly he’s going to bring to our meeting. He’s been singularly unsuccessful in finding out what happened to Sandy at King’s Cross.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true. We do know that from what Greg could establish, nobody meeting the professor’s description was either arrested or found in a distressed state last night.’

  ‘I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘No news is good news.’

  A taxi turned into the street, and Mona caught sight of her boss’s unsmiling face on the back seat. ‘I think this is the Guv now.’

  He climbed out, shoving his wallet back into his coat pocket. ‘There’s going to be an expenses claim and a half after this trip. So, have you definitely found her?’

  ‘Well, we’ve found the home residence of Maria Sánchez-Lewandowska. So unless there are two Maria Sánchez-Lewandowskas in the Greater London area, I think we’ve found her. And fair play, we were due a break.’

  ‘It’ll be a break if the professor is sitting in her living room drinking tea. Otherwise, it might be just another dead end.’

  ‘Thanks for the positive frame of mind, Guv. So, what are we going to tell her when we go in there?’

  ‘The truth,’ said Theresa.

  Paterson glared at her. ‘I believe Mona was asking me?’

  ‘I don’t care who she was asking. We should tell the poor girl the truth.’

  ‘And what exactly is your interpretation of “the truth”?’

  It was a good question. Mona wasn’t certain that she could explain the actual reason for their mission, beyond the fact that Cameron Stuttle was up to something, he wasn’t going to get his own hands dirty and Paterson hadn’t had the balls to tell him to get stuffed.

  ‘The truth, Mr Paterson, is that I am a colleague of her father’s, and I’m worried about him.’ She sighed. ‘Desperately worried.’

  Paterson thought for a minute. ‘Actually, that’s probably the best angle we can go for. But perhaps, as a novelty, you could let Mona and me actually do the talking this time?’

  Theresa rolled her eyes but she led the way across the street. They waited at the gate as two men navigated an olive-green plastic bath out of the doorway, down the path, and into a skip.

  ‘Can see why she’s getting rid of that, Guv.’

  ‘Had one like that when we were growing up. It was the height of fashion, I seem to remember; my mother was very proud of it. Anyway, which number do we want?’

  ‘75b. Just follow the dust and plumbing professionals.’

  The flat’s front door was propped open with a large earthenware vase. Paterson knocked loudly. ‘Hello?’

  A young woman appeared in the hall, a cardboard box in her hands. She was tall and slender, with long dark hair that fell to just below her shoulders. Mona wasn’t sure, but she thought she could spy a bit of a bump in her stomach area. Was the imminent arrival of a baby the reason for all this renovation?

  The woman put the box down, and smiled. ‘Oh, I thought you were the builders. Are you looking for me?’

  ‘Are you Maria Sánchez-Lewandowska?’ Paterson made a brave attempt at the correct pronunciation.

  ‘Yes.’ She looked a little cautious.

  ‘I’m sorry to just appear on your doorstep like this, but we need to speak to you about your father.’

  Her face immediately scrunched with worry. ‘Xavi? Has something happened? Is he OK?’

  ‘Sorry, I should have been clearer. Not your stepfather, Ms Sánchez-Lewandowska, I meant your biological father, Alexander Bircham-Fowler.’

  Her face continued to betray her emotions, with a look of surprise being quickly followed by a grimace of annoyance. ‘I really don’t want to discuss him. I haven’t seen him since I was a child.’

  Mona worried that Theresa would leap in at this point to defend the professor, with a potted history of his attempts to look for her followed by a list of his many good points, but silence reigned. Theresa had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout all of Paterson’s attempts to win Maria’s trust. Mona had half-expected her to elbow her way past them and throw her arms round the professor’s long-lost child. She turned to look at her, and noticed that she was using a small white handkerchief to dab her eyes.

  Maria seemed to be getting increasingly irritated by their presence. She held on to the door and Mona could see her attempt to edge away the vase that was holding it open. Any second now the door was going to be slammed in Paterson’s face and he would have to wedge his size twelve brogue into the gap before it closed. She assumed that he was ready to do so; he had a face that brought out people’s inner door-slamming instinct.

  ‘Anyway, who are you people?’

  ‘We, ehm, work with Professor Bircham-Fowler in Edinburgh.’ Paterson leaned casually but effectively against the door, to hinder any attempts at closing it. ‘Unfortunately your father has been missing for two days now. Our last reported sighting of him was here in London.’

  Her face was becoming less readable, possibly as she became less certain of how she felt. ‘I’m sure it will be something to do with his work. My mother always said he was a workaholic. I’m sorry but I don’t see what that has to do with me. If it wasn’t for his continual appearance on the news I wouldn’t even know what he looked like.’

  ‘We thought he might be trying to find you.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him in the best part of two decades.’ Irritation was returning to her voice. ‘Why would he suddenly be looking for me?’

  ‘Because someone sent him this picture.’ Mona pulled the photocopy out of her bag and handed it to her.

  She stared at it for a few seconds. ‘That was on a sleepout to raise funds to tackle homelessness. I used to work for the charity that organised it.’

  ‘We know that, but we don’t think your father does. He’s dropped everything to come to London to try to find you because he thinks you’re homeless and sleeping on the streets. We know he has been searching for you on the Embankment. No one has heard from him since he left for London and we’re worried that he has come to harm.’

  Maria leaned her head against the door and her hair fell across her face, obscuring her expression. Mona thought she could sense that her previous irritation was turning into distress. It couldn’t be easy, having three strangers appear on your doorstep, dredging up memories of your childhood. And that possible baby bump – should they try and ease off on the stress, get her sitting down, nice cup of tea perhaps?

  She felt a rustle at her back as Theresa pushed past her. ‘Seven years old!’ She reached for Maria’s hand, and held it between her o
wn. Maria looked up in confusion, flicking her long hair back over her shoulder.

  ‘You used to be in and out of your dad’s office all the time. And here you are, all grown up . . .’

  Maria pulled away. There was no ambiguity about her distress now, and Mona could see tears starting to streak her face. Maria pushed the photocopy back toward them. ‘You need to go. Now.’

  A builder appeared at the top of the stairs. He stood there looking them over, obviously trying to figure out what was going on.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Please, just leave!’ Her voice was getting louder.

  The builder took a step forward. ‘Everything OK, Mrs S?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Please carry on.’

  With a stern glance at the three of them he disappeared into the flat.

  Maria bent down and moved the vase away from the door. ‘My father hasn’t been here and I’ve no interest in seeing him.’

  ‘I’ll leave my card in case you do hear from him.’ Mona held the closing door, and pressed the card into Maria’s hand. ‘I know this is difficult for you but we absolutely do need to hear from him if he makes contact with you.’

  The door closed behind them with a thud.

  ‘That went well, Guv.’

  Theresa missed the sarcasm in her voice. ‘It went dreadfully.’ She started scrabbling around in her handbag, and produced her handkerchief again. ‘She’s never going to speak to us again, or to Sandy. He was obviously trying to make things right with her, and we’ve just ruined any chance he had of a relationship with her.’

  Paterson sighed, and pointed over the bannister. ‘And to make matters worse, we’re trapped.’

  A middle-aged plumber and what looked like his apprentice were manoeuvring a bath up the stairs. It was a narrow space, and judging by the repeated cries of ‘easy there’ and ‘take it slow’ the older man was intent on getting it up the stairwell without scraping the wall. They stepped back to allow them space. Mona hoped that Maria wasn’t too upset to open the front door, otherwise the bath was going to have to remain precariously balanced on the landing, or even worse, return back to the bottom of the stairs before they could escape.

  To her surprise the door opened again, and Maria stood there. ‘Excuse me!’ She was looking at Theresa. ‘Are you Mrs Kilsyth?’

  Theresa stopped dabbing her eyes. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I remember you.’ Maria’s voice cracked. ‘You were always very kind to me as a child.’

  Theresa pushed Paterson out of the way, and reached out to Maria. ‘Your father was, and is, a workaholic. I’m sure he made a very bad husband, and possibly not a great dad. But I know that he did love you very much, and it broke his heart when he lost touch with you.’

  Maria’s face disappeared under her hair again, but her heaving shoulders left no doubt that she was upset. Tears were also streaming freely down Theresa’s cheeks. Mona looked over at Paterson, who rolled his eyes. He made a generalised hand movement indicating that she ought to do something, which she returned with a specific shrug of her shoulders, indicating that there was no way she was getting in the middle of that.

  A scraping sound followed by a mild oath alerted them that the bath had reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘All right to bring this in, Mrs S?’

  Maria fled into the flat without answering.

  The plumber looked at them in confusion.

  ‘I’d take that as a yes, chaps.’

  ‘Right you are. Easy there . . .’

  Their way now clear they walked slowly down the stairs, Theresa sniffing and dabbing as she went. ‘Do you think she’ll ring us if she does hear from Sandy?’

  ‘I don’t know, Theresa.’ Paterson held open the front door to let them both pass through. ‘But let’s hope so, because right now we’ve not got any other leads.’

  A figure on the other side of the road caught Mona’s eye. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Guv.’ She pointed at a man standing in the shady spot that they had recently vacated. ‘Isn’t that . . .’

  ‘Sandy!’

  4

  Maitland had been sitting in Paterson’s office with the door shut for over half an hour. There were a number of things that he could be doing in there: licking his wounds, e-mailing Stuttle to apologise, crying down the phone to Kate. Bernard’s favourite fantasy was that Maitland was busy writing a long and detailed e-mail explaining the reasons for his resignation, starting immediately. Although given the difficulties that the HET had in recruiting staff, it would take more than gross incompetence to get a resignation letter accepted. No, Bernard had to accept that neither he nor Maitland was going anywhere. They were stuck with each other, and had to work together. So if Maitland wasn’t going to come out and let Bernard gloat over him, he was going to have to go in.

  He knocked and without waiting for an invitation walked in. Maitland was sitting with his head in his hands.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wondered what you wanted me to do, what with you being in charge.’ He included an air quotes gesture in case Maitland hadn’t grasped his tone of voice.

  ‘How about you finding your Defaulter, what with you being a HET officer?’ Maitland returned the air quotes. ‘Then at least there’s one thing Carlotta bloody Carmichael can’t get annoyed about.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to, but Carole’s off sick, and we’re not supposed to wander round solo, which is probably a good precaution given the fact that the fake Defaulter was violent . . .’

  Maitland sighed. ‘I get it, Bernard. You’re scared of what might happen. After all, Carole was the muscle in your partnership and if she got beaten up, God alone knows what might happen to you.’

  Bernard opened his mouth to say something witty, but, annoyingly, nothing came out.

  ‘So,’ Maitland folded his arms across his chest, ‘what do you know about this fake Defaulter?’

  ‘We’re not looking for the fake Defaulter – that’s Police Scotland’s job now.’

  ‘I get that, loser, but if someone was so keen for us not to pursue Alessandra Barr that they sent a ringer to take her Health Check, then there’s some kind of cover-up going on. And our fake Defaulter must know why. So, to repeat my question, what do we know about her?’

  Bernard grudgingly admitted to himself that Maitland had a point. ‘We know her blood type.’

  ‘Not hugely helpful in narrowing our search.’

  ‘And we found her at Stephen McNiven’s house.’

  ‘And you met Stephen McNiven at the house where Alessandra Barr was registered. I wonder who owns those houses?’

  ‘Land Registry search?’

  ‘At last you’re making a sensible suggestion. Close the door on your way out.’

  Bernard fumed back to his own computer, and logged on to the Registers of Scotland website. He was disappointed when the first house turned out to be owned by a company. He was less disappointed to find the second house also owned by the same company. He picked up the phone to IT and gave some instructions to Marcus.

  ‘Both owned by the same company, Maitland. I’ve got Marcus looking into it.’

  ‘Great.’

  Bernard waited for Maitland to issue some further instructions, but he just sat smiling smugly at him. Eventually Bernard gave in and asked, ‘OK. So what do we do?’

  ‘Well, you could go back to the two addresses that you’ve been to, but I’m guessing that they’ll be quiet as the grave just now . . .’

  Bernard’s phone beeped. ‘It’s Marcus.’ He read the screen. ‘The company only owns four houses.’

  ‘Any information on who owns the company?’

  ‘The company secretary is Scott Kerr, lives at Falcon Drive, which is also in the very nice bit of town called Morningside, and which just happens to be one of the company’s houses.’

  ‘Well, start there.’

  ‘On my own?’ His stomach was a lift shaft, hurtling toward his feet. ‘Why can’t you come?’

  ‘Because Stuttle
is coming over to yell at me some more.’ Maitland looked distinctly glum at the prospect, which failed to trigger any sympathetic response from Bernard. ‘Any minute now he’ll be here, breathing fire.’

  ‘Well Stuttle’s not going to be best pleased if he knows you are flouting HET regulations and sending officers to follow up Defaulters on their own . . .’

  ‘Oh, for . . .’ He drummed his fingers on the desk, then sat bolt upright. ‘I know. Take Marcus. He’s always keen to get out of the office.’

  ‘Marcus?’ Bernard shifted from foot to foot. ‘But he’s . . .’

  ‘Even more of a nancy boy than you are?’ Maitland grinned. ‘Man up, Bernard, and do your job.’

  ‘But the regulations say . . .’

  Maitland made a clucking sound.

  ‘I’m not chicken! Fine. I’ll go, and if I die in the line of duty we can add that to the list of things you’ve messed up since Paterson left.’ He flounced out.

  ‘What, like taking the wrong person to a Health Check? Believe that was your cock-up, Bernie.’

  Bernard grabbed his coat. He wondered if he was ever going to win an argument with Maitland.

  5

  ‘Professor, we’ve been looking for you.’

  Bircham-Fowler did not look hurt, or particularly distressed. A little dishevelled perhaps, but then Mona was not about to throw stones on that particular front, not after two days tramping the streets of London in the blazing sun. The professor appeared to be coping with the heat better than she was; how anyone could wear a tweed jacket when it was 28°C in the shade was beyond her. He did appear to have made the concession of removing his tie.

  ‘We’re with the HET.’ Paterson stuck a hand out for the academic to shake. He ignored him, and focused on Theresa.

  ‘Did you see her?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, Sandy, and she’s beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, Tess. Do you think she’ll talk to me?’

  Theresa patted his arm. ‘I think she will but not today. You’ve taken her by surprise. Give her a bit of time to get used to the idea.’