The Health of Strangers

by Lesley Kelly

  There was no-one around so he drove on again and motored slowly until he started to see people. He stopped three teenage girls, all hair and short skirts, who giggled a lot at his enquiry but couldn’t shed any light on it. A woman pushing a buggy shrugged off his question impatiently, while her toddler leaned a chocolate-smeared face forward to have a better look at him. At his third attempt he got lucky. Two grey-haired women pulling trolley bags stopped.

  ‘Mitre House?’ The pair of them stared at him, then turned to look at each other. They were very alike, sisters probably, distinguished only by one having straight grey hair, and the other permed.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a holiday cottage. Possibly painted white? A statue of a bird in the garden?’

  ‘Possibly painted white? I think the landlord should have given you better directions, son.’ The pair of them laughed, a similar, sisterly laugh, then took pity on him.

  ‘Do you think he means the house up over the bridge?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bernard excitedly. ‘A bridge was definitely mentioned.’

  The curly-haired one nudged her sister. ‘That’ll be John MacDonald’s laddie’s cottage.’

  Her sister nodded solemnly. ‘The one that’s a doctor in Glasgow.’

  ‘Aye, he rents it out when he’s not using it.’

  Curly sister rested an elbow on the window ledge of the car and gave him directions. A whiff of perfume reminded him of his mother.

  ‘Straight through the town, son, then carry on for about a mile and you’ll see a wee stone bridge off to your left. Turn up there then follow the road round to the right and keep going for . . .’ She turned to her sister. ‘How long would you say?’

  There was much shaking of heads. ‘Oh, it’s a bit of a drive, son. Maybe twenty minutes?’

  ‘It’s quite isolated, then?’ asked Bernard, surreptitiously wiping the sweat from his palms again.

  ‘I wouldn’t live there, son.’ She laughed, stepped back from the car and took hold of her trolley bag again. ‘Hope you find it.’

  Bernard thanked them, and pulled away from the kerb. His palms were now so wet that he was in serious danger of losing control of the wheel. For a second he considered whether a small car crash would be preferable to actually locating Mitre House. He could say to Mona that he had done his best but circumstances had forced his hand.

  She’d kill him.

  He drove through Dunblane, as instructed, and turned off at a narrow stone bridge. This led on to a lane, lined on either side by hedgerows. The car bounced along an uneven track for half an hour without encountering a single car coming the other way. 5.40pm. The light would be fading soon, even on a beautiful April night like this, and his chances of achieving anything in the dark were remote.

  Sorry, Mona, I tried.

  He made a half-hearted attempt at a three-point turn, bumping hedgerows on every manoeuvre, then abandoned it in favour of driving on until a suitable spot to turn round presented itself.

  A drive appeared on the right of the road, about fifty metres ahead of him. His spirits rose as he nosed the bonnet back in the direction of Edinburgh. This good mood continued until the car completed its turn, and his passenger window drew level with a stone at the side of the road with ‘Myrtle House’ painted on it. Just to confirm that this was, in fact, his destination, a rusty sculpture of three little birds stared back at him.

  Bernard stopped the car, willing the sign to rearrange itself into something that couldn’t possibly be the Mitre/Martyr House that he was looking for. When the lettering remained stubbornly Myrtle-shaped, he pulled out his mobile, which immediately started to ring.

  ‘Bernard, it is Karl Toller here. I have an address for you . . .’

  ‘That’s OK, I . . .’

  ‘After we spoke I had a good idea. I thought, Heidi must have paid cash for this rental, as it is not on her bank or credit card statement, so I had my people ring all the agencies we could find with properties in Stirlingshire to see if anyone had paid in cash, and an agency based in Edinburgh said that a young woman . . .’

  ‘Karl, I’ve found it.’

  ‘Oh, you have?’ He sounded almost disappointed that his brainwave hadn’t saved the day. ‘Then I must let you go. Please, Bernard, take care of Heidi.’

  ‘I will.’

  He was annoyed to notice that his hands were trembling as he dialled Mona’s number. The phone rang a dozen times, then was redirected to her answering service.

  ‘Shit.’

  He dialled Maitland’s number. This time it did not even ring before going straight to the answer service. He left a message about his and Mona’s whereabouts, hoping that it wasn’t too garbled.

  There was nothing else for it. He gathered all the courage he could muster, and dialled Paterson’s number. The phone rang out.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Bernard ran his hands over his hair. ‘What do I do now?’

  He put his mobile on the seat next to him and restarted the engine. He reversed, bounced off another hedgerow, then pulled into the gravelled driveway. He winced at the noise; if anyone was inside they would definitely be well warned that he’d arrived.

  It looked as if he wasn’t alone. A hire car sat parked at a forty-five degree angle to the house. Whoever was here hadn’t taken the time to stop and park neatly. There was a moment’s deliberation where to park. Should he block the hire car in, or leave the house’s occupant the possibility of a quick getaway? He flipped a mental coin, and drove over to the far side of the house.

  Bernard dialled Mona’s number again and left a message on her answering service. ‘Mona, it’s me. I’ve found the place, it’s called Myrtle House. It looks like there is someone staying here. I’m going to knock on the door and see if anyone answers. Give me a ring as soon as you get this.’ He got out, throwing the phone in the direction of the passenger seat.

  The house wasn’t what he’d expected. Bernard had imagined some old, stone-built affair, but instead it was a 1970s creation, heavy on the stone cladding and sporting an asymmetric roof.

  Accepting that his phone was not about to ring, he climbed out and walked up to the front door. He rapped on the door, his stomach tightening as he waited for a response.

  There was no answer.

  He turned the handle, and to his surprise, the door opened.

  11

  Mona’s phone rang. She listened to the twelve rings with mounting frustration. It would be Bernard, she just knew it. Poor, useless, Bernard, who was in far too deep. Whom she’d got in far too deep, and left to drown so that she could check out the woman that she . . .

  That she what, exactly?

  She pulled gingerly at the ties around her hand, worried about making them even tighter. She suspected Amanda and her friend knew what they were doing when it came to tying people up.

  She reviewed her options.

  She could start shouting; sooner or later she would attract the attention of someone else in the building. She could yell through the door to them the nature of her predicament, and get them to call the Police. But she didn’t relish the thought of the local plod finding her in her current state. It would be bound to get back to the CID and she’d been the butt of enough jokes since the whole supposed adultery fiasco. Even worse, the Police might bring the HET with them. The thought of Maitland finding her like this was more than she could bear, especially given the second wave of embarrassment that would arrive if Amanda was found, and made good on her threat.

  Alternatively, she could manoeuvre herself until she found something sharp to cut through her ties. There was a big margin for error with this approach. The potential was there to accidentally slit her wrist and bleed to death. The end result would still involve being found tied to a chair by her former colleagues, the only advantage this time would be that the embarrassment would be posthumous.

  And then there was her final option. She could stay where she was and let Amanda make a clean getaway. She’d still have the short-term discomfiture of expl
aining how she ended up in this position, but in the long run it would save herself a lot of hassle and difficult questions.

  Her phone rang again.

  It would be Bernard. Poor, desperate, Bernard. She started looking round the room for sharp edges.

  Bernard stuck his head in to the hallway, and looked to the left and right. There was an expanse of brown carpet in each direction and a row of closed doors, none of which gave any indication of possible occupancy. At the foot of the stairs a large star-shaped wall clock was ticking noisily, which only served to reinforce the complete and utter silence elsewhere.

  He placed a foot tentatively into the house, then quickly withdrew it again.

  He didn’t know what to do. If Heidi was here alone, he needed to find her. A vision of the survival rates table he’d encountered in his HET training came into his mind. How much did the likelihood of death increase with every hour a sufferer was left untended? The figure wouldn’t come to him, but the pictures in the handbook crowded into his head, making the thought of getting Heidi to a nice, clean hospital seem the only possible plan. But, best case scenario, she could be fit and healthy, just scared to death of encountering K, which frankly, made two of them. Either way, he needed to find her and get them both to safety.

  He stepped back into the house. ‘Hello?’

  His voice echoed through the building. The stillness continued for a minute, then a noise, a low sound that could have been a cough, came from behind one of the doors. Bernard took a deep breath, wiped his palms again, and looked round the hallway for anything he could use as a weapon. He picked up a brass cat that was lying at his feet; its weight confirmed its day job as a doorstop. Not ideal, but it would have to do.

  He pushed the door open, inch upon inch, until he had a good view of the living room. There was a bundle of blankets on the sofa that turned toward the door as he opened it. A young man’s face the colour of snow peered over the top of the blanket. Bernard returned his red-eyed stare. Whoever this was, he was in the latter stages of the Virus.

  ‘Heidi.’ The man spoke. ‘I can’t find Heidi.’

  He touched the man’s forehead. His face jerked away but not before Bernard had felt the burning skin beneath his fingertips.

  The young man was getting agitated. ‘Heidi!’ He tried to sit up, and failed. He fell back onto the sofa, banging his skull on the arm of the chair.

  Bernard picked up a cushion from an armchair and stuck it under his head. ‘Keep calm, I’ll look for her. Can you tell me who you are?’

  The head on the cushion lolled toward him. ‘I’m Kevin.’

  Bernard stared at him. Was this really the man that Heidi was fleeing from? He didn’t look particularly frightening, but then the Virus was a great leveller. No-one looks threatening with a temperature of thirty-nine degrees.

  He took a step back from the sofa. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Kevin closed his eyes. ‘Hiding from K.’

  ‘But you’re . . .oh.’

  So, this was not the bogeyman they’d been hunting. Kevin was just another naïve student who thought he could outsmart the Virus with prescription drugs. K, however, remained a drug dealer of some note who was probably going to arrive any minute.

  ‘Kevin.’ His eyes opened for a second, then closed again. ‘Kevin!’ He gave him a little shake until the sick man focused on him. ‘I’m going to get you some help.’

  He gave the slightest of nods, then closed his eyes.

  Bernard reached into his jacket pocket, where his fingers felt in vain for his phone. He tried his other side, and with increasing desperation, he dug into his jeans. He closed his eyes and tried to recall when he had last used it. A memory of throwing it in the direction of the passenger seat came to him, and he cursed. He looked down at Kevin, and noticed his mobile sticking out of his top pocket, and snatched it. He didn’t respond. Bernard dialled 999. A woman’s voice answered.

  ‘What service do you require?’

  ‘HET response.’

  ‘Code please.’

  ‘924.’

  There was a pause while the operator checked that he had given her a bona fide reference. Obviously he checked out, because she asked him for his location.

  ‘Myrtle House, about half an hour outside Dunblane.’

  He could hear the sound of typing.

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  He wasn’t sure that he could be. ‘I’m on the, eh, I think the north side of Dunblane,’ he was aware he sounded insane. ‘There was a bridge?’

  The clicking of the keyboard stopped.

  ‘We’ll need to do a satellite trace to find you.’ Click, click, click. ‘Right you are, response is on its way.’

  An immune paramedic would be on his way, followed by a Police car. One problem solved.

  ‘Keep the line open.’

  Bernard agreed, and put the phone down carefully on the table.

  Now on to the second challenge. He looked round the room that they were in. It was a large open-plan living/dining room, typically furnished as a holiday let. There was a hatch leading into the kitchen. Bernard stuck his head through and saw a couple of mugs lying next to the sink, and a pot sitting on the cooker. He turned back to ask Kevin if they were his work, but the invalid’s eyes were firmly shut, his breathing beginning to sound laboured. Bernard decided to do a quick check of the upper floor.

  He trotted up the stairs of the cottage, and found himself in a narrow hallway. He turned the handle of the first door and pushed it. It opened slowly, its progress impeded by the thick carpet. The room held two single beds, separated by a small chest of drawers topped with a lamp. The room smelled faintly damp, with a staleness to the air that made Bernard think it was unlikely that anyone had slept there recently. He opened the door on the other side of the hall, and found a double-bedded room, with a similar unloved feel to it.

  He walked to the third door and found it slightly ajar. The curtains were drawn, so Bernard flicked the light switch, which illuminated a rucksack, a pink T-shirt, and a pair of jeans laid out on the bed. Someone, probably Heidi, had arrived here and not taken the time to unpack properly. He looked through the backpack. She’d brought quite a lot of clothes, which suggested she’d been intending to stay for a while. So, where was she?

  Bernard walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains. The room overlooked a large, neatly kept garden. He stared into the dusk and tried to make sense of what had happened. Heidi had arrived here, got some of her things out – maybe intending to change into them before Kevin arrived? Then something had happened, although the lack of evidence of a struggle made him think that K hadn’t appeared on the scene.

  Perhaps Heidi had just gone out for a walk? Bernard’s eye was caught by a summer house in the garden, a wooden building that looked like an oversized Wendy house. A thought occurred to him. Maybe she hadn’t gone far at all.

  He dived down the stairs, and poked his head round the living room door. The patient was sleeping on the sofa.

  ‘Kevin?’

  There was no response, so he left him to his dreams and went in search of a door to the garden. He guessed, correctly as it turned out, that the garden was accessed from the kitchen. There didn’t appear to be a key hanging up nearby. He raked around in the cutlery drawer without any success, then stuck his fingers into a row of pots resting on the dresser, where he was rewarded only by a dead spider. He shook his hand vigorously and it fell to the floor. In desperation he rattled the door handle. It opened.

  The grass was damp, and he bounced as he walked. Someone was keeping the lawn in good condition. He slowed down as he approached the summer house.

  ‘Heidi?’

  The door was open, but nobody answered him.

  ‘I’m here from the Health Enforcement Team.’

  Please be asleep in here, thought Bernard. Please don’t be . . .

  There was something black sticking out of the bottom of the doorway. As he drew closer he could see
it was a boot, with a solid gripped sole, and a small heel. A woman’s boot. He took two steps forward and stopped. A denimed leg was attached to the boot.

  ‘Shit.’

  Heidi was lying on the bare wooden floor of the summer house. Bernard bent down to feel for a pulse, but recoiled when he realised her skin was cold. Reaching out again he found that her body was rigid.

  Balanced on the edge of a wooden bench were the remains of a cup of tea, and two small tubes of pills. Bernard picked up the tablets and examined them. Luphrophen. They looked completely innocuous. Like aspirin, perhaps, or some other painkiller. Not something that would do this to you. Not something that would kill you.

  He looked down at the figure lying at his feet, and felt a lump rising in his throat. ‘Stupid girl.’

  Where was the ambulance? Not that it would be much use to Heidi, but at least they could save Kevin. And, even aside from the possible arrival of K, Bernard wasn’t enjoying being here alone. He checked his watch, and found it was fifteen minutes since he’d called for help. It had taken him twice that just to drive up the road from Dunblane. Maybe Mona would answer her phone this time. He walked slowly down the steps of the summer house, across the garden and round the side of the house. He let himself into the car and shut the door.

  For a minute he sat with his head in his hands, then realised that the state Kevin was in, there wasn’t really time to feel sorry for himself. He looked across to the passenger seat for his phone, but didn’t see it. He felt a wave of panic. Could K have been in the car and taken it? Rationality fought back and he realised it was much more likely it had slipped onto the floor.

  He lay down on the passenger seat, and started rooting around underneath it. Eventually his hand closed round the phone, and he let out a sigh of relief. This was OK, he could do this. He would be able to hold his head up high at the HET; he’d completed the task he’d been sent to do without messing up. With that happy thought, he closed his eyes, leaning back. A distant buzz irritated the countryside silence. What was it? His eyes snapped open as he realised it was the noise of a rapidly approaching motorbike. He froze. Two minutes later he heard the sound of the tyres turning on to the gravel drive.