Songs by Dead Girls

by Lesley Kelly

  ‘No, not legitimate ones, and it wouldn’t be easy for them to arrest on some made-up charge, what with me being a serving MET officer, on official business . . . but like I say, all they need to do is hold us up for a good long while.’

  ‘And what if they’re not police?’

  ‘I think we have to assume that it wouldn’t end well.’

  They drove in silence for a few seconds, each thinking about the possibilities. Mona’s mind was coming up with scenario after scenario. They could be driven off the road. They could be forced to a halt, and the professor kidnapped. They could all be detained, by persons unknown. She wished again that she’d had some sleep, to help her sort out the likely from the fantasy.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Paterson was fully engaged in staring at the headlights of the car behind them.

  ‘We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. Maybe you should phone your boss and ask for instructions. I know you don’t want to use your phone in case it’s being hacked, so why don’t you use mine.’ He handed it to him. ‘Less chance that anyone has messed around with that.’

  Paterson sighed. ‘Fair enough. After all, Stuttle got us into this, so he can tell us what to do next. If we’re really lucky he might even tell us what’s actually going on here.’

  Mona and Greg listened to the one-sided phone conversation. The monosyllables used by Paterson gave little away about the content of the conversation. When he hung up, Mona was surprised to see a broad grin on his face.

  ‘These cars are incredibly easy to hack, according to Stuttle. They’ve all got a chip in them to allow them to be traced if they’re stolen, and apparently if you are a technology geek who knows what you are doing you can hack into that. And Stuttle said, and I quote, he knew the MET idiots would be stupid enough to use a pool car, so he’s prepared for this eventuality.’

  ‘Has he prepared for the eventuality of this MET idiot dumping you all on the hard shoulder and leaving you to it?’

  Mona leapt in. ‘How exactly has he prepared?’

  ‘He’s got a couple of guys driving south, even as we speak.’

  ‘Where are we meeting them?’

  ‘Locksbridge Services. Says it does a great full English.’

  ‘So we ditch the car and drive on with them?’

  ‘Even better, we deliver the professor into their tender care and they do the rest.’ He grinned. ‘Sorted.’

  ‘And did Mr Stuttle deign to tell us who is pursuing us up the M1, or give any indication why?’

  ‘You heard me ask those very questions, but all I got in return was an “all in good time, John”. But, as I said, our part in all this is coming to an end, thank Christ.’

  ‘We’re not there yet, Guv. These clowns following us could try something. And how are we even going to know who Stuttle’s people are? There’s lots that could—’

  Her concerns were interrupted by a burst of flatulence from the back seat. She turned to see the professor staring at her wide-eyed.

  ‘It’s OK, Professor Bircham-Fowler, you are quite safe.’

  Recognition came into his eyes, followed immediately by panic. He looked round the car. ‘Tess? Where is she?’

  ‘On her way back to Edinburgh, Professor,’ said Paterson. ‘Travelling in considerably more style than we are.’

  ‘And my daughter, please tell me she hasn’t come to any harm?’

  ‘She’s fine, Professor,’ said Greg. ‘Some of my MET colleagues are keeping an eye on her house.’

  The professor sighed, and rubbed his temples with the palm of his hand.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘My head hurts. What happened to me?’

  ‘We think you were injected with a sedative.’

  ‘Poisoned? Oh, dear Lord. Dear, dear Lord.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve made a terrible mess of everything, haven’t I? I should never have taken off like this.’

  ‘I think you’ve been rather manipulated, Professor,’ said Paterson. ‘Anyone would have reacted the same way when they got that photograph. Your family has to come first.’

  Greg snorted.

  Mona jumped in before Patersons senior and junior started fighting again. ‘The events of the last few days indicate that you’ve upset someone. Any idea who that might be?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ said the professor, and sighed. ‘But I do agree that my reputation is under attack. O tempora! O mores!’

  She looked at Greg, who shrugged. For the first time in their journey she wished Bernard was there. He would have got on with the prof like a house on fire, and his translation skills would have been useful.

  ‘O what, Professor?’

  ‘It means, what times we live in.’

  Mona thought for a moment. ‘I’m still not quite sure what you mean.’

  ‘I mean, the world has gone mad. Since the Virus hit, all our values have been turned upside down. In the good old days you discredited academics by finding them with a rent boy. My entire career would have been over with a Daily Mail exclusive entitled “Top Boffin in Kinky Gay Sex Scandal”.’

  Paterson tutted. ‘Yup, read a few of those articles in my time.’

  ‘But nowadays, nobody would be either surprised or particularly bothered if I was homosexual. In fact, I would probably go up in the estimation of some of my students. No, in today’s Virus frenzy if you really want to ruin the career of a virologist the one thing that would guarantee it would be missing a Health Check.’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to happen, Professor,’ said Paterson, cheerfully. ‘We’re going to get you to that Health Check, and into the Parliament.’

  Mona looked over at Greg, who was staring into his mirror again.

  ‘They’re speeding up,’ he said quietly.

  2

  Someone was trying to get in. Bernard, who had not moved from his position in the hallway since Maitland left, listened to the sound of a key scraping round in the lock.

  ‘Maitland,’ he said quietly, ‘is that you?’

  ‘Who’s Maitland?’ asked a low, gruff voice that he did not recognise. His heart leapt somewhere in the direction of his tonsils, and he looked round the hallway in a frantic attempt to locate a weapon. Should he run through to the kitchen and find something, or would his time be better spent phoning the police? Did he still have PC McGovern’s number somewhere?

  There was a burst of laughter from the other side of the door, laughter that was childish, mocking, and annoyingly familiar. He peered through the spyhole and saw Maitland doubled over in hysterics.

  ‘Of course it’s me. Now take the bolt off the door, you tool.’

  Bernard closed his eyes. If he made it through the next week alive, he was going to dedicate the rest of his life to torturing Maitland. His starting point would be giving Kate a good talking-to about what she had got herself into, and how she could do so, so much better.

  ‘Hurry up, Bernie!’

  Bernard undid the bolts as quickly as he could, which wasn’t very quickly at all as his hands were still shaking. He pulled the lower bolt back too quickly and caught his finger in it, causing a little row of bloody dots to appear on his skin. Maitland ambled in, grinning.

  ‘That wasn’t funny.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’ His grin turned into a yawn, giving Bernard a view of his fillings and tonsils. He pulled open a door. ‘This is the spare room. And remember, you are here for one night, and one night only, so don’t get comfy.’

  Bernard peered in. Comfy was a danger he didn’t think he would be encountering. Given the dimensions of the ‘room’ he was looking at, claustrophobia or lack of oxygen might be a bigger threat.

  ‘Is this really your spare room? It barely meets the definition of the word room. It’s more like a closet.’

  ‘That’ll suit you perfectly then, won’t it?’ he smirked. ‘Being closeted?’

  ‘I’m not . . . oh never mind.’ There were more important issues to address than engaging with Maitland�
��s ever-present homophobia. ‘Maitland, I don’t see a bed.’

  ‘It’s in there. It’s just got a few things on top of it.’ He picked up a brown cardboard box marked ‘Uni Stuff’ in black marker pen, and dropped it in the hallway. ‘See.’

  A square foot of red and grey duvet cover was revealed.

  ‘Anyway, I’m having first shot at the bathroom. I’ll give you a knock about half-six, OK?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll just carry on excavating my bed, shall I?’ He turned round but Maitland had already disappeared into the bathroom. Bernard could hear him noisily relieving himself and singing at the same time. He manoeuvred another three boxes of ‘Uni Stuff’ out into the hallway, followed by two well-stuffed plastic bags of football memorabilia. Underneath this was a layer of shoe boxes and several bags of what looked like designer clothing. Once all of this was removed he was in a position to confirm Maitland’s theory that there was actually a bed in the room, albeit one with an extremely flat duvet. He pulled the cover off, and found a very large, very dead spider lying on the sheet. He picked it up by one of its legs and flung it after the other junk.

  ‘All settled in then?’

  ‘Do you have a lot of guests, Maitland?’

  ‘What were you expecting? Fluffy towels and a chocolate on the pillow?’

  ‘What is all this stuff anyway? Why do you need so many pairs of trainers?’

  Maitland shrugged.

  ‘And do you actually wear any of this stuff?’

  ‘What are you – my mother?’ Maitland pulled a tracksuit top out of a bag, examined it for a moment and shoved it back in. ‘Anyway, I can’t wear this stuff now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He sighed. ‘Bernard, let me explain how men’s fashion works, seeing as your dress sense suggests it’s not a concept you’ve ever come across. It all begins with some old lady brand that a hot-shot PR person decides is going to be the next big thing. Early adopters of fashion, such as myself, buy into this and spend a small fortune on the stuff. Then you start seeing the brand appearing on the football terraces, and suddenly every ned in Scotland is wearing the same overpriced gear as you.’ He dug into a bag and produced a distinctive fawn checked scarf. ‘A case in point. And you know it’s time to move on.’

  ‘But why not throw all this stuff out, or give it to charity?’

  ‘Well, I spent a lot of money on it, and it might come back into fashion.’

  ‘You are crazy, Maitland.’

  ‘Yup, but women love me, and you are supposedly back on the market looking for some lady-loving so watch and learn. Now shut up and go to sleep.’ He threw the bag he was holding into the far reaches of the closet, where it hit the wall and spread its contents across the floor.

  ‘Maitland, what do we do if someone does turn up here tonight?’

  ‘They won’t. And if they do, the door is securely locked and we’ll have plenty of notice. Go to sleep, Bernard.’

  Go to sleep, Bernard. As if it was just that easy. He stared at the ceiling of Maitland’s spare room, then sat bolt upright. He could hear footsteps on the stairs. It was probably nothing; after all, there were five other flats in the building, and they could be returning home to any one of them. The footsteps stopped, and so did Bernard’s breathing. Should he waken Maitland? Probably a false alarm but better to be prepared. He crept out into the hall. He was nearly at Maitland’s room when he heard the unmistakeable sound of girlish giggling. He slid over to the front door and looked through the spyhole at two young women opening the door opposite. Neighbours.

  He slunk back to his own room, immensely grateful that he hadn’t woken Maitland; he would never have heard the end of it. He climbed back into the dirty sheets of his temporary refuge, and wondered if tomorrow could get any worse than today had been. What could top the day that had started with him being shouted at by a politician and ended with him being threatened by people who sounded more than capable of carrying out their warning? And just to add to the joy of the day, this threat, as well as putting the fear of God into him, and limiting his ability to do his job, also seemed to have stomped all over his first chance at romance since his marriage broke up. Megan, lovely Megan, with the ex-boyfriend who was apparently so much handier than him in a crisis. He probably had better fashion sense too.

  And now he was here, stuck in the junk room of a man who spent every working day needling him about his lack of machismo. He really didn’t have to bother; over the past few months the universe had made plenty of assaults on his masculinity – he’d already got the message. He’d been beaten up so badly on the Weber case he’d ended up in hospital. Wouldn’t have happened to a real man. His wife had left him because he refused to get her pregnant. Real men impregnate anything with a pulse without a second thought. His female colleague had nearly had her jaw broken. Real men keep their team mates safe. And the worst bit, the part that really did make him feel like he had the testosterone levels of a teenage girl, was that he did feel safer with Maitland around.

  He sighed. Wallowing in self-pity was making him feel marginally better, but it certainly wasn’t making him feel any sleepier. Maybe counting his blessings would relax him enough to drop off. And there were plenty of people out there much worse off than him. Carole, for instance, with her sore jaw and her teenager troubles. Anyone that wasn’t yet immune was also much worse off than him. And poor Alessandra Barr, the woman with two black eyes. Or at least two black eyes six months ago when she’d got her Green Card.

  Six months ago. Six months. That had to be unusual, right? The whole Green Card regime had been established over eighteen months ago, and even a year ago it would have been odd to come across someone without a card. The regime made it impossible to even get a cup of coffee without showing them your credentials. How had Alessandra survived without a Green Card? And why hadn’t anyone asked any questions about why she was only requesting one now? Unless . . .

  He dug his bag out from under the shower of designer clothes, and found his laptop. He logged in and opened up Alessandra’s file. He went over the facts again.

  Alessandra Valentina Barr

  Born: 23 April 1995

  Place of birth: Glasgow

  It didn’t make sense. If Alessandra was part of the Barr clan, why was she working in Edinburgh? Surely it wouldn’t be safe? And he didn’t know much about gangster families, beyond what he’d seen in films, but he was pretty sure that their womenfolk didn’t usually walk the streets touting for business.

  Six months. Six months with a Green Card. A thought occurred to him. He looked at the time, and decided that it was too late to phone Marcus. He stared at his laptop for a moment or two, then decided to phone anyway.

  To his relief the phone was answered on the first ring. ‘Bernard! What can I do you for?’

  ‘Sorry to ring so late.’ He heard a voice in the background. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No, that’s just Bryce. You caught us, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Really?’ He found himself wondering about his colleagues’ relationship – what exactly had he caught them doing? Oh God – one night in Maitland’s box room and he was turning into him.

  ‘Yes, we were in the middle of a guilty pleasure. We’ve spent the whole evening rewatching season two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Call me an old romantic but I do like the early episodes with Angel. Never quite took to her other boyfriends . . .’

  ‘Anyway,’ Bernard said, eager to head Marcus off from an episode by episode discussion, ‘sorry to intrude so late, but I was wondering if you could look something up for me?’

  ‘Sure,’ he sounded surprised. ‘Something that just couldn’t wait, eh? Must be important. Hang on a mo while I get my laptop on to my knee. OK, fire away.’

  ‘Can you search for Alessandra Barr’s death being registered?’

  ‘Her death?’ He laughed. ‘Do you now have so little faith in the HET’s admin system that you’re worried they’ve got you chasing after dead people?’

  ‘
Something like that.’

  He listened to the sound of Marcus typing.

  ‘Only finding one dead Alessandra Valentina, and I’m afraid that was a six-year-old girl back in 2001.’

  ‘Can you check the birth date of that Alessandra?’

  Marcus read the date to him. ‘Ooh, that’s a little bit interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly is. Thanks, and sorry again for disturbing you. Enjoy your remaining vampires.’

  Bernard returned to the hall, double-checked the view from the peep-hole, then dithered outside Maitland’s room. He would probably be furious at being disturbed, but right now he didn’t care. ‘Maitland.’

  He was answered by a snore. Apparently his colleague was not having the same difficulties falling asleep that he was. He pushed open the door and crept in. In a slightly louder voice he said, ‘Maitland.’

  This still failed to rouse him, so he knelt by the bed, and gave his colleague’s shoulder a shake. He woke up with a start, his arms flailing.

  ‘What?’ He switched on the bedside lamp. ‘Bernard, what the fuck? Is somebody here?’

  ‘No.’

  Maitland sat up, the duvet falling off him to reveal a lack of nightwear. ‘Then you better have a very good reason for waking me up.’

  ‘I need to tell you something.’

  Maitland smirked, and pulled his duvet back up to his neck. ‘Is it that you’ve been madly in love with me since the moment we met, and made this whole story up just to get access to my bedroom? Because, no offence, but I’m really not interested.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Maitland. I’m not gay, and even if I was and you were the last man on earth, it’d still be no.’

  ‘It’d be easier to believe you if you weren’t kneeling semi-naked at the side of my bed.’

  Bernard glared at him.

  ‘OK, I’m done. What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘Alessandra Barr.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘She’s only had a Green Card for six months.’

  ‘Uh-huh. So?’

  ‘So how was she surviving without one?’