The Health of Strangers

by Lesley Kelly

  Bernard picked up the paper. ‘The Church of the Lord Arisen?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s on Persevere Street.’ Paterson smiled. ‘You may remember it from the TV coverage.’

  Maitland snatched the memo from Bernard’s hand, folded it in four, and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. Bernard tried to remember what the story was with the Church. He vaguely remembered there being a scandal – was it drugs?

  ‘Can’t blame the Press, I suppose. Three God-fearing teenagers trying to kill themselves in the space of a week is always going to be news. But you never know what you’re getting with these Evangelical types, so tread lightly, OK? Don’t want their lawyers on the phone.’ Paterson’s hand made a sweeping movement in the direction of the door.

  Bernard started walking. His colleague didn’t move.

  Paterson made a further shooing motion with his hand. ‘Goodbye, Maitland, don’t let the door hit your pasty arse on the way out.’

  Bernard waited for his colleague to follow him. Maitland was stepping from foot to foot, as if some burning hot coals had been placed beneath him. Bernard wasn’t sure what was causing his discomfort, but he was definitely enjoying watching it.

  ‘Thing is, Guv, I’m not sure I’m the best person to be dealing with this . . .?’

  Paterson picked a file off the top of his in tray, and shook the contents out onto his desk. ‘Neither am I, Maitland, particularly in light of your Internet habits, but you and Genius here are all I’ve got.’

  The reluctant HET officer still didn’t move.

  ‘What?’ said Paterson, flicking through the papers in front of him. ‘Are you scared of clergymen or something? Were you felt up by a naughty vicar when you were a kid?’

  Maitland gave up. ‘We’re on our way, Guv.’

  Bernard looked at the memo and back at the door. It was a perfectly serviceable office door, the last in a row of similar entrances on a 1930s block on the fringes of Leith. Therein lay Bernard’s concern. There was nothing on it that identified the building as a church; in fact there was nothing that identified it as anything. But it did have a large 2 and 9 screwed to the woodwork, and this was Persevere Street, so unless the memo was wrong this was where they were supposed to be.

  Bernard wandered back up the street, and peered in the window of number 27. From what he could see through the dusty panes, it appeared to be empty. He walked in the other direction, and stared back at the side of the building. A billboard advised people of the importance of hand-washing. True to form, someone had spray-painted ‘health fascists’ across it in silver. Nowhere did it mention the Almighty.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bernard, this must be it,’ Maitland shouted over to him.

  He took one last look round, hoping to see someone local who could advise them. It was, he knew, unlikely. There was no such thing as an amenable passer-by these days, no old men or young mums who were happy to stop and chat. You got up in the morning, you went to work, went home, and at every stage of the day, you kept interactions with strangers to an absolute minimum.

  ‘Right, I’m knocking.’ Maitland took matters into his own hands. He hammered loudly on the door, and cursed when there was no immediate answer.

  ‘Word-of-mouth must be working well for the Church of the Lord Arisen,’ said Bernard.

  ‘What?’ snapped Maitland.

  ‘Because they certainly aren’t feeling the need to advertise.’ He gestured to the nameplate-free entrance.

  His colleague grunted. ‘I don’t think this is their church. It’s probably just an office.’

  Bernard couldn’t resist doing a bit of digging. ‘So, what is your problem about coming here?’

  Maitland sighed. ‘I don’t have an issue about this job, other than being partnered by a midget who never shuts up.’

  ‘Five foot seven does not make me a midget, and yes, you do – I saw the way you were carrying on in Paterson’s office.’ Bernard did an impersonation of his teammate hopping from foot to foot. ‘You were all over the place trying to get out of this.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Maitland hammered on the door again. ‘My girlfriend goes to this church, the minister’s a twat, I’ve met him a couple of times, I hope he doesn’t remember me, end of story. Happy now?’

  For Bernard, this statement raised more questions than it answered. ‘So your girlfriend’s religious. Are you . . .?’

  ‘No, I am not. And neither was she until she started freaking out about being non-immune. In my opinion, places like this just prey on . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  The door had opened, and in its frame stood a man in his late twenties, wearing jeans and a hoodie. His hair was long and loose, the dark tresses reaching down to his shoulders. He had the air of an indie musician, the kind of anonymous guitar player that backed up a good-looking female singer. However, he also looked exactly like the picture in the Defaulter File, which had been cut out of one of the recent newspaper articles about the church, so Bernard assumed he was in the right place.

  ‘I thought I heard something,’ said the man. ‘Can I help you?’

  Bernard held his ID up. ‘Pastor Mackenzie, we need to talk to you about one of your members.’

  The clergyman glanced at the card, then looked him up and down. ‘You don’t look like an agent of law enforcement.’

  You don’t look like a minister, thought Bernard. He preferred his clergymen elderly, dressed in black, and with hair, if they had any, that was cut in a nice short-back-and-sides. He forced a smile. ‘We’re Health Enforcement, not law enforcement. I’m from the Health Enforcement Team.’

  The Pastor surveyed him again, and smiled politely. ‘You’d better come in then, Mr eh . . .?’

  ‘Bernard. Just Bernard, I mean, not Mr. And this is Maitland Stevenson.’

  Pastor Mackenzie glanced in Maitland’s direction, then turned back into the building. ‘If you and your colleague would like to follow me?’

  Bernard looked up at his teammate, who shrugged. If the clergyman recognised Maitland, he certainly hadn’t shown it.

  ‘You can . . .’ the minister pointed at a dispenser of alcohol gel attached to the wall. ‘If you want.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Bernard plunged some of the liquid onto his hands, and made a show of rubbing them thoroughly. One of the best things about being immune was no longer feeling the need to wash his hands twenty times a day. When the Virus had been building to its second peak he’d almost taken the skin off them. Now, the gel was more a matter of politeness, an outward show of consideration.

  They followed the cleric along a narrow corridor and down a flight of stairs.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I was at the right place,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look like a church.’

  The Pastor laughed. ‘It’s our head office, I suppose you would call it. We don’t actually hold our services here. We use a hall on Great Junction Street.’He pushed open a door and ushered them into his office. Bernard’s eyes flitted over the desk and the walls. There was nothing he could see that indicated that this was the office of a cleric – not a cross or a Church magazine in sight. There was, however, a red electric guitar propped up against one wall. Bernard gave an inward groan at the thought of hymns played in a rock-and-roll style, then immediately felt bad. Just because his Church of Scotland upbringing had left him nostalgic for the swirling bass of the organ didn’t mean it was for everyone. And it was probably good at attracting in a younger congregation . . .

  ‘Pastor Mackenzie . . .’ His colleague was taking charge.

  The minister laid a hand on Maitland’s arm. ‘We don’t hold with these kinds of formalities here. Malcolm will do nicely.’

  Bernard stifled a smile watching his teammate fight the urge to shake the Pastor’s hand off his sleeve. His colleague opted instead to step back and lower himself onto an ancient sofa that took up most of one of the walls. Bernard joined him. The Pastor walked slowly to the other side of the desk, sat, and laid both his arms on the desktop, with his hands clas
ped together.

  Maitland carried on. ‘We’re trying to trace a young woman who has missed her Health Check.’

  The Pastor looked surprised. ‘Are missing people not the remit of the Police anymore?’

  Bernard sighed inwardly. Despite the near-constant adverts on TV, still nobody understood what the HET did.

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Maitland. ‘But if someone has defaulted on a Health Check without being registered as missing, we step in.’

  The Pastor raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Because of your specialist abilities?’

  ‘Because if someone has been reported missing by their loved ones, there’s usually a variety of reasons why they’ve gone AWOL. But if someone has defaulted on a Health Check without anyone missing them, nine times out of ten it’s because they are suffering from the Virus.’ Maitland reached into his pocket and passed a crumpled information leaflet over the desk. ‘The Health Enforcement Team are all immune. Your average Bobby isn’t.’

  The Pastor placed the leaflet in a drawer, unread. ‘Forgive my nosiness. I wasn’t sure how it all worked. But roles and responsibilities aside, I’m not sure how my church can help?’

  Maitland sat forward on the sofa. ‘One of the last verified sightings of the woman in question was at your church, at the Sunday evening service. We’d value any information that you could give us about the missing woman.’

  The minister stared at him. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Maitland, but it’s the policy of our church not to discuss any of our congregation with third parties.’

  Pastor Mackenzie got to his feet. The HET team didn’t.

  ‘You may not be aware of this, Sir,’ said Maitland, ‘but the Health Enforcement Team have powers of arrest similar to the Police, and can require anyone suspected of hindering our recovery of a Defaulter to immediately accompany them to the nearest Police Station for further investigation.’

  The Pastor’s lips formed a tight, thin, line. ‘Amazing how at the first sign of crisis civil liberties go out of the window.’

  ‘Amazing how at the first sign of crisis church attendance goes through the roof.’ Maitland paused for a moment. ‘Sir.’

  The two men stared at each other, the Pastor still poised at his desk and Maitland balanced on the edge of his chair. It reminded Bernard of every stand-off he’d ever seen in the playground at school, the rising tension before one participant snapped and lashed out at the other. Although, if he was honest, playground violence was exactly the kind of thing he’d spent thirteen years of education avoiding. He had no useful skills to bring to conflict resolution and before inspiration could hit him, Maitland spoke again.

  ‘You haven’t even asked the identity of the Health Defaulter. Not very caring for a clergyman.’

  The Pastor opened his mouth to speak then closed it again. He sighed, and sat down at his desk. ‘Of course I am concerned. I’m just a little sensitive since the Police involvement following our recent troubles.’

  Maitland snorted. ‘How outrageous of the Police to investigate the church after a mere three of your young, female, parishioners overdose on antidepressants. How many of them died? Two, was it?’

  ‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’ For the first time in the meeting the cleric looked annoyed. He picked an elastic band off his desk and used it to tie his hair back in a ponytail. Bernard found it an oddly intimate gesture, like a woman shaking loose her hair, but in reverse. Perhaps the Pastor was trying to reinstate the formality he’d been so eager to lose before. ‘As you are aware, two of our parishioners did commit suicide, a very unfortunate sign of the times we live in. Your colleagues in the Police made a thorough investigation into that incident, and nothing was found to link the overdoses to the church.’ He folded his arms. ‘Please tell me who you are looking for.’

  Bernard jumped in. ‘Colette Greenwood.’

  The Pastor nodded. ‘I know her. Nice girl. A regular attender.’

  ‘Last heard of heading out to your Sunday night service. Any idea where she would have gone after church?’

  ‘How would I know?’ The Pastor sighed. ‘I see the young people for a couple of hours a week, more if they want to come and talk to me. I assume, like any other woman of her age, she had a social life and went on to a pub? Clubbing?’

  ‘Rather unlikely, seeing as she is not immune.’ Maitland’s tone wasn’t any friendlier.

  ‘OK, then. Perhaps she went round to a boyfriend’s house? Maybe she caught a train and went to visit her parents?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Maitland. ‘Or maybe she bought some antidepressants and is lying dead somewhere?’

  ‘Maybe.’ The Pastor got to his feet, again. ‘But she didn’t buy them at this church. As your Police colleagues will tell you, one of the poor girls who died had a prescription for the drugs.’

  Bernard leaned forward, anticipating that the interview was over, when he realised that his colleague hadn’t moved.

  ‘When did you last speak to Colette?’

  The clergyman’s eyes flicked toward the door. After a second’s internal debate he seemed to realise his visitors weren’t going anywhere. ‘A few weeks ago, I think?’

  ‘And how was she?’

  Pastor Mackenzie sighed. ‘She seemed all right, I suppose. I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Did Colette come to church on her own, or with friends?’

  ‘Usually with a couple of other girls – Kate, and another girl, Louise I think her name is.’

  ‘Boyfriends?’

  ‘None that I am aware of. I think we are done here.’ He walked to the door, opened it, and stood waiting for them to leave.

  ‘For the moment, perhaps,’ said Maitland. ‘We may need to talk to you again. And I must warn you that under the Health Enforcement and Recovery of Defaulters Act you are not allowed to inform anyone else that we are seeking Colette.’

  The Pastor shook his head, in a small pantomime of disbelief.

  Bernard was about to explain to the clergyman that this had actually been a strong concession on civil liberties within the Act, when he caught his colleague’s eye.

  ‘C’mon.’ Maitland walked through the door, and headed in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘How’s your girlfriend, Mr Stevenson?’

  His colleague stopped in his tracks.

  Bernard was impressed; Pastor Mackenzie could play poker with a bunch of Texan cowboys without giving his hand away. He would have sworn that the cleric hadn’t recognised his teammate.

  ‘Will you be accompanying Emma to any future services?’

  Maitland reached for the banister. As he climbed the stairs he said, ‘I think that’s unlikely.’

  The Pastor turned back to Bernard. ‘I trust that’s all you need from me?’

  Bernard thought it safest to echo his colleague. ‘For the moment.’ He stuck out his hand. After a slight delay the Pastor shook it.

  ‘Thanks for your help, eh, Malcolm.’

  ‘Planning to change gear anytime soon?’

  ‘Planning to get out and walk anytime soon?’ Chauffeuring Maitland was not fun, particularly in his current temper. Bernard wasn’t sure how he’d ended up driving; he suspected that it fitted into the list of dogsbody tasks that Maitland thought he was fit for. He slipped the car into fourth. ‘Stop taking your bad mood out on me.’

  Maitland stared out of the window. ‘You drive like a girl.’

  ‘Mackenzie will probably complain, you know, about the way that you spoke to him.’

  His colleague didn’t respond.

  ‘Maitland?’

  There was no answer, so Bernard gave up and switched on the radio. They made their way back to the HET office to the sound of a heated phone-in on whether home-schooling was an appropriate parental response to Virus fears.

  Bernard parked the car in one of the HET’s designated spaces, and hurried into the office, in the hope that Mona would be there and he could offload a range of emotions relating to Maitland onto her, befor
e Maitland told her his side of the story. He was delighted to see her standing by her desk.

  ‘Mona,’ he began, then stopped as she reached for her coat. ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Maitland appeared in the doorway. ‘Mona – are you going out somewhere?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, everyone, I am going out.’

  Bernard sighed. An afternoon alone in the office with Maitland might result in one or other of them being fired, or possibly murdered.

  Mona dropped her mobile into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder. ‘Bernard – I need backup.’ Bernard felt a sudden pain in his shoulder as Maitland elbowed him out of the way. ‘If you need muscle you’d be better off with me.’

  ‘If I need a constant stream of innuendo, bad jokes and borderline sexual harassment I’d be better off with you. C’mon, Bernard.’

  Bernard smiled smugly and waved to Maitland as he followed Mona out of the office.

  Maitland responded with a gesture that Mona probably wouldn’t have liked.

  3

  ‘This is it.’

  Mona pointed at the tenement. In common with many Edinburgh buildings it was set back from the pavement. Pedestrians were prevented from plunging into the basement yard by a spiked iron fence, and the gap between pavement and front door was bridged by a small set of steps.

  Her partner frowned. ‘It looks more like a laundrette.’

  ‘Not the Spinderella – there.’ Mona sighed and refined her gesturing by moving her finger along and down.

  Bernard adjusted his gaze ground-wards and finally noticed the flight of metal stairs. ‘A basement bar?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Bernard gave her one of his patented long-suffering glances. ‘Everything I say today seems to provoke an exasperated hiss. It’s like being on reconnaissance with a grumpy and slightly asthmatic snake.’

  ‘Ssssshut up.’

  They walked over to the stairs, which led down to a small concreted area, running the length of the laundrette. There was a black painted door, and a window with a matching shutter.