by Lesley Kelly
Marguerite had shown the visitors to a small meeting room on the ground floor. Mona knocked gently on the door. ‘Pastor Mackenzie, I assume?’ She stuck out her hand.
‘Yes.’ He gave her a weak handshake.
‘Mona Whyte, from the HET. My colleagues at CID are wanting a word with you.’
‘We’re on our way there.’ The blonde girl spoke. ‘I’m Emma.’
The girlfriend. Definitely too good for Maitland.
‘So,’ she drew the word out. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I, I mean, we,’ the Pastor gestured from himself to the girl and back, ‘have been talking and we thought that there are some things that we needed to bring to your attention, with regard to the investigations the HET have been making into Heidi’s disappearance. Unfortunately it may also relate to the deaths of two of my parishioners.’
‘That is very helpful of you, Sir, but really at this point we need you to give that kind of information to Police Scotland.’
They looked at each other, and Emma spoke. ‘We will speak to the Police, we just thought that the information would help you in finding Heidi.’
‘Are you saying that you withheld information from my colleague when he came to speak to you, Pastor Mackenzie?’
‘No!’ The Pastor leaned forward with his head in his hands. ‘Well, yes. I did, but we weren’t worried about Heidi then.’
‘And you are worried now?’
‘We haven’t heard from her, and . . .’ He tailed off.
Emma spoke, quietly. ‘He couldn’t say anything. There’s some video footage . . .’
Amanda. ‘And the Pastor here was more worried about being compromised than actually protecting his parishioners?’
‘Compromised?’ The minister looked up. ‘The video wasn’t of me. Oh, God,’ he looked to Emma, ‘where to begin with all this?’
‘Start with that woman,’ she spat out the words.
‘Heidi brought a friend, well we thought she was a friend, to meet us. A girl called Amanda Harris. She was really enthusiastic about us getting out of our “middle-class box” as she put it, and spreading the Word in the most difficult places. She said she had a contact at this pub called Morley’s, who would let us use their back room. I jumped at the chance. But I was stupid. I was taking young people into an environment that I didn’t understand and making them vulnerable.’
He paused, as if waiting for her to comment. When she didn’t speak, he continued.
‘Amanda turned out to be the worst kind of person, a drug dealer. As soon as I realised that her church idea was more about giving her a forum to deal drugs I told her I was going to the Police. Then she produced her little trump card, and said she wouldn’t be the one doing time.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Mona.
‘Amanda had a video of Heidi and Kevin selling some drugs, I think antidepressants. I think Amanda had taken it surreptitiously on her phone. You have to understand that Kevin and Heidi thought these had some kind of impact on the Virus, they’re not criminals. But, as soon as I saw it I knew that we had to go to the Police. So, I spoke to Heidi and Kevin and gave them an ultimatum. If they didn’t go to the Police Station and confess themselves, I would do it for them. But then . . .’ He stopped.
‘But then they ran off?’
He nodded.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. We’ve traced both Heidi and Kevin, and I’m sorry to say,’ she took a breath, ‘Heidi is dead, and we’re waiting for news about Kevin.’
Emma let out a small cry, and the Pastor put his arm round her shoulder and pulled her toward him.
‘We’re seeking Amanda to help with our enquiries about Heidi’s death, and with another incident.’
The two of them stared back at her, hollow-eyed.
‘Please stay where you are. I’ll ask CID to send a car over to pick you up.’
‘Thank you.’ The Pastor’s voice was barely a whisper.
Mona returned to her desk to find the office deserted, and a scribbled note alerting her to Bernard’s safe arrival. Apparently, he would be available for visiting in the morning.
She rubbed her eyes, exhausted. She’d turn the machine off, and have an early night.
She closed down the programmes, then did a last check of her e-mails. She hovered over an e-mail ‘FAO Mona Whyte, HET Officer.’ It came from a G-mail account, the address a jumble of letters and numbers. Was it spam? There was an attachment with the e-mail, and ignoring every memo she’d ever received from Marcus, she clicked on it.
A small video file sprang up in the centre of her screen. Two women kissing, in the unmistakeable surroundings of Amanda’s hallway.
There was no sound with the file. Mona played it over again and stared at the tiny vision of herself on screen, holding Amanda close. No message, no soundtrack, no threat. What was this? A warning?
17
Bernard watched his reflection on the window of the ward. If he tilted his head forward and to the side, he could just about see the large dressing attached to his skull. He made a slightly incautious move to the left, in order to get a better look and felt a jolt of pain shoot up his ribs. He was manoeuvring himself back against the pillows when he realised there was someone on the other side of his reflection. His wife was watching him.
‘Here he is.’ A nurse ushered her into his room. ‘The hero of the hour.’
‘Not a hero, honestly.’
The nurse beamed at them both. ‘I know, just doing your job. That’s what you Policemen always say, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not . . .’ he began, but the nurse had vanished.
Carrie perched on the end of the bed.
‘So, how does it feel to be a hero?’
He laughed, then winced. ‘That’s overstating it a bit.’
They gazed at each other in silence. Bernard, as always, cracked first. ‘How are you?’
She answered the question by bursting into tears. ‘I’m sorry, I should be asking you how you are.’
He leaned over as far as his ribs would let him, and touched her arm. ‘Please, sit down.’
She reached into her bag for a tissue, and still sobbing, pulled a chair up to the bedside.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Your colleague, Carole, I think she said her name was, phoned the flat to speak to me.’
‘You were at the flat?’ At the thought that his wife had moved back home, he experienced a range of emotions, not all of them positive.
‘I was picking up some things.’ The thought of this provoked another burst of crying. ‘I am so sorry. I should never have left.’
‘I got your letter, thank you.’ He couldn’t help himself. ‘Very concise.’
Carrie’s shoulders heaved. She took a deep breath. ‘I mean, seeing you lying there, if I hadn’t gone, maybe you wouldn’t have done something so dangerous.’
He reached for her hand. ‘Even if you’d been sitting at home waiting for me, I would still have had a job to do.’
She laid her head against his arm. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, then she slowly sat up. ‘How did we get here, Bernard?’
‘We lost a child, Carrie.’ He took her hand. ‘Fifty per cent of couples in that situation split up. We’re just in the unlucky half.’
She gently pulled away. ‘So, this is it then. We are splitting up?’
The pain in his side throbbed. ‘I absolutely will not bring another life into the world while the Virus is here.’ He shifted around on the bed, trying to get the pain under control. ‘But I know what that means for you. And with every passing month we’re putting more pressure on our relationship, so . . .’
‘Stop!’ She held up a hand, and sat perfectly still, her eyes closed.
Bernard eyed her anxiously, unsure whether this was a prelude to either tears or shouting, but to his surprise she picked up her bag and got to her feet.
‘I understand.’
‘You do?’
‘We’re
not doing each other any good, Bernard.’ She slipped her bag onto her shoulder. ‘I’m going to go. I’ll get the rest of my things from the flat, and I’ll be in touch.’ She smiled. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything else dangerous.’
‘Carrie.’
She stopped at the door.
‘I do still love you.’
She turned back, and he could see that she was crying again. She walked over to him, and kissed him gently on the forehead.
‘Goodbye, Bernard.’
18
Mona got into her car and sat for a minute with her head resting on the wheel. The evening stretched ahead of her. Should she head home, stopping only at an off-licence on Leith Walk that knew her far too well, and possibly also the Shapla Bangladeshi takeaway? Then she could sit alone in her flat, brooding and worrying. She put the key into the ignition and turned the wheel in the direction of her mother’s house.
One home-cooked meal, and several hours of quiet but not unpleasant television viewing later, she let herself be persuaded to stay the night. But alone in her childhood bedroom the thoughts that she’d been avoiding all evening came crowding in. Every time she closed her eyes her mind went over the day’s events, and, whichever way she looked at it, Mona did not come out well. What had she been thinking? Bernard, God bless him, hadn’t noticed how she’d messed up but Paterson and Maitland certainly had. She wouldn’t put it past Maitland to realise why her judgement had been off, either.
And, oh God, Amanda was out there, plotting, planning, about to infect her life with her lies.
Mona got up and put on the light. She lay flat on the floor and reached under the bed for her suitcase. She flicked it open and, ignoring her diaries this time, she pulled out an envelope. She held it upside down and photographs cascaded out. One by one she picked them up and sorted them out until she’d mapped out most of the floor with her old school friends.
‘What are you looking at?’
Mona looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway to her room. Her mother looked frailer than ever, a desiccated husk of a woman in a furry, tartan dressing gown.
‘Just some old stuff.’
Her mother came in. She surveyed the gallery of faces.
‘What a lot of pictures of Susanne.’ She circled her hand over them. ‘But then you did have a bit of a crush on her.’
‘A crush?’ Mona’s head snapped up.
Her mother looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, you know what I mean. You were good friends with her.’
Mona stared at her mother, at the taut skin and jutting bones that were all that remained of her. How long did she have left? The hospital could have given her six months to live, and Mona would be the last person to be told. This thought made her feel nauseous, so she focused instead on the photographs of Susanne.
‘Maybe “crush” would be the right word.’
Her mother sighed, and picked up the clothes Mona had left on the bedroom chair. She folded them neatly one by one and placed them on top of the bedside cabinet. Having cleared herself a space she sat down.
Mona toyed with one of the pictures. ‘Well, say something, Mum?’
Her mother looked down at the floor, then up at the ceiling, then finally directly at her. ‘You like girls, Mona, I know that. Not that you would talk to me about it. You could have a live-in girlfriend for all I know . . .’
‘I don’t.’ Mona started to collect in the pictures, slotting them into the envelope one by one.
‘Oh, well, there’s some news for me.’
They sat in silence. Mona watched as her mother smoothed down the pile of clothes. Just as the absence of words was starting to feel uncomfortable, her mother spoke again.
‘You could have spoken to me about it, you know.’
Mona wondered if this was true. ‘I spoke to Dad once, when I’d just joined the Police.’
‘What did he say?’ Her mother’s face was a study of surprise.
‘He said that any girl that came out as a lesbian in the Police Force would be mad, because she’d never be accepted. So, I thought it best not to say anything.’
Mona’s mother pursed her lips. ‘That was your father all over. It didn’t matter how hurtful something was, if he didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t really happening.’ She picked up a picture of Mona from her desk and looked at it. ‘Do your colleagues know?’
‘No. At least they didn’t know, but something may have happened at work to change that.’Mona sensed her mother trying to find the right words to say. She ran her finger along the top of the picture she was holding, as if looking for invisible dust, then replaced it on the desk.
‘Will you be OK?’
Mona shrugged. Maybe she would be OK. Maybe tomorrow Paterson and Maitland wouldn’t give her a hard time about today’s disasters. Maybe Amanda wouldn’t make good on her threat, or if she did maybe Bernard and Carole would be so supportive that going to work every day wouldn’t be hell. Or, maybe everything would go completely and utterly tits-up, and this time next week she’d been standing on Princes Street with a sign saying ‘Unemployed and Immune. No job too infectious.’
‘Well, this is always your home, remember that.’ Her mother got to her feet, and patted Mona on the shoulder as she went past.
‘Mum?’
Her mother stopped in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
‘Your next hospital appointment, I could get time off, you know, and come with you?’
Her mother nodded, smiling, and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.
Mona picked up the envelope of photographs. She’d done it. After years of imagining the moment, she’d actually had an honest conversation with her mother, and the world hadn’t ended. If she could just make it through the next couple of days, maybe everything would work out.
FRIDAY
RAT-CATCHING
1
Bernard woke up and yawned. He rolled over, and a searing pain in his side dragged him painfully into full consciousness. The events of the previous day crept slowly back into his mind.
‘I was just coming to wake you.’ A nurse appeared. She reached across him, picked up his unresisting wrist, and took his pulse.
‘Am I free to go?’
She gave a short, high-pitched laugh. ‘It’s not a prison! But you need to wait until the doctor’s done his rounds, in about an hour.’
With help, Bernard got out of bed, and into the room’s en suite. He wondered what he’d done to get a single room. These days it was practically unheard of for anyone not suffering from the Virus to be given a private space; it was just about the only downside to being immune. He suspected Toller’s involvement, again. Bernard shower-ed, dressed, and was halfway through a hearty hospital breakfast when the doctor arrived.
‘So, the tests came back clear. There doesn’t appear to be any damage to any organs, or anything like that. And I’m afraid there’s not much we can do for broken ribs, except issue you with painkillers, and strict instructions not to undertake any further heroics.’
‘Ah, you heard about . . .’
‘The plucky HET officer? Yes, you’re the talk of the nurses’ station.’
Bernard blushed, and the doctor laughed.
‘I mean it, though.’ She lingered in the doorway. ‘You need to give yourself time to recover. If you hang on here for a few minutes I’ll get you sorted out with a prescription to see you through the next few days, and I’ll write to your doctor updating him on your situation.’
‘OK.’ He had no intention of ever undertaking anything heroic, or even foolhardy, ever again. When the doctor had gone, he got cautiously to his feet.
‘You look surprisingly well. I was expecting to find you flat out and hooked up to a machine.’
Paterson was standing in the doorway.
Dizzy at the sight of his boss, Bernard sat down on the bed again.
‘I’m free to go, apparently, as soon as they’ve given me some painkillers.’
‘Mona’s just parking the car.�
� Paterson stepped into the room. ‘We can drop you home on our way to the office.’
‘Have Mona and I still got jobs?’
Paterson snorted. ‘Well, that remains to be seen.’
‘And . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you still got your job?’
‘Yes, despite my inability to control either my staff, or my temper, I still have. I’ve just come out of a very awkward meeting with Cameron Stuttle on that subject.’
‘You sound relieved,’ said Bernard.
It was Paterson’s turn to look surprised. ‘Of course I’m relieved! Didn’t you realise how close we all came to getting our jotters?’
‘Yeah, but . . .’ he tailed off, as his boss stared at him.
‘“Yeah, but” what?’
‘It’s just that you obviously hate your job, and,’ he shifted on his pillow, ‘and I thought you might not be that bothered about getting sacked.’
There was a brief silence. ‘That may or may not be true, but the main issue is I’ve got two young kids to support, to say nothing of my two older ones who’re still pretty quick to tap their old man for cash, and a student wife who would kill me if I got the boot.’
‘Oh. Not looking for a career change then?’
‘A career change?’ Paterson snorted. ‘The only place people in my position end up is standing next to the door in a supermarket, looking out for young mothers with a couple of cans of soup up their jumper. Mark my words, Bern, every time you see a security guard, you’re looking at an ex-law enforcement professional who’s had his dreams shattered.’
Bernard wondered if this was true. It was certainly plausible.
‘So, all in all, I’m glad we’re still here. Now we’re going to draw a line under this case, forget about it, let it go, and get back to doing whatever it is we do.’
‘I have a question.’
‘Oh, good.’ Paterson raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, hit me with it.’
‘This “whatever-it-is-we-do”, is it the right thing?’
