by Lesley Kelly
Bernard frowned, one eye on the door in case Joanne Sopel came back. ‘There’s nothing to suggest that.’
‘Oh, come on. These high-flying types always have a secret boyfriend. Probably some handsome young tearaway that she’s just using for . . .’
Joanne reappeared with a dust-buster and hoovered up the dirt from around Maitland’s feet.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Surprised at the intervention, he contemplated the soles of both shoes. Joanne left the dust-buster prominently displayed by her feet.
Bernard decided to crack on with the interview before Maitland caused further havoc. ‘So, Ms Sopel, when was the last time you spoke to your sister?’
‘She texted me on Thursday, I think, about arrangements for our cinema trip on Sunday evening.’
‘But you didn’t actually speak to her?’
She shook her head. ‘To be honest I haven’t actually spoken to her for weeks. All our communication has been by text. We’ve arranged to meet up a couple of times and she’s had to cancel at the last minute due to something coming up at work.’
‘So it wasn’t unusual for her not to make your arrangements?’
‘No, obviously she was very busy with her job, and the Virus and everything. But she would always, always, let me know that she wasn’t coming. It isn’t like her to just not turn up. And I’ve never known her to not answer her phone.’
‘Does your sister have a partner, Ms Sopel?’
She shook her head again. ‘No, she’s single.’
Maitland leaned forward. ‘And you would definitely know if she was seeing someone? It’s absolutely something she would confide in you?’
She looked irritated. Between the dirt and the intrusive questioning, Maitland wasn’t endearing himself to her. ‘We’re sisters, Mr, ehm—’ she peered at his lanyard, ‘Stevenson. She would tell me if she was seeing someone.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, what if it was someone you wouldn’t approve of? Would she still tell you then?’
There was a flicker of doubt on her face. ‘Is she seeing someone? Do you know about a boyfriend?’
Bernard cursed inwardly. There was just enough concern on her face to make him think that Maitland might be right about the boyfriend. He decided to pursue another avenue in the hope of avoiding a smug Maitland for the rest of the day. ‘No, we don’t. We’re just trying to get as full a picture of your sister’s life as possible. As you pointed out, your sister has a very busy and probably quite stressful job. Is there any chance that it’s all got a bit on top of her and she’s taking some time out?’
Joanne sighed. ‘Yes, I wondered that. My sister has always worked hard, in fact I’d say she’s a bit of a stress junkie, but there must come a point in everyone’s life where they just can’t go on, mustn’t there?’
‘Has she said anything to you that would indicate she’s struggling to cope?’
‘No, not in so many words, but as I said she’s been a bit hard to contact the past few weeks. Maybe she’s been avoiding me in case I started asking her difficult questions.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘If anything has happened to her I’ll never forgive myself for not making more of an effort.’
‘Please try not to worry, Ms Sopel. There’s absolutely nothing to suggest she’s come to any harm.’ Bernard hoped he sounded sufficiently reassuring. ‘But your sister did miss her Health Check yesterday.’
‘Missed her Health Check?’ Joanne slowly moved her fingers away from eyes, and looked up. ‘But Helen would never miss a Health Check. Her whole job was about dealing with the Virus. She was part of the team that set up the system. She used to rant about how irresponsible people were who didn’t turn up for the checks. The only reason Helen would miss a Health Check is if something terrible has happened to her.’
Her hands went back to her face again, and her shoulders shook as she started to cry.
Bernard looked at Maitland, who, as usual in a difficult situation, shrugged.
‘Can we get you a glass of water, or something, Ms Sopel?’
‘No.’ She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please don’t apologise, we totally understand why you are upset. But for what it’s worth, I still think that the most likely explanation is that your sister has taken an unscheduled time out. If she was stressed, can you think of anywhere she would go to get away from it all?’
She thought for a moment. ‘No, I’m sorry. Nothing comes to mind.’
‘OK, well, I’ll leave you a card if you think of anything.’
As she showed them out to the door, she spoke again. ‘Helen would never, ever, miss a Health Check. Please let me know as soon as you find out anything.’
‘We will.’
‘You owe me a fiver.’
‘No, I don’t. There was nothing in that interview that even suggested, never mind proved, that she has a boyfriend. Even if she does have a boyfriend her sister is unaware of, there’s nothing to say it’s anything to do with her disappearance. People like Helen Sopel do not blow off work to spend time with a boyfriend.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Maitland flung open the door to the office and marched through. It bounced back and Bernard had to throw his hands up to avoid being hit in the face by it. ‘OK, you will owe me a fiver in about twenty-four hours’ time when we track them down to her secret love nest. Another fiver says lover boy is under twenty-five.’
‘Shut up, Maitland.’
His colleague grabbed his arm and pointed at Paterson’s office. The ‘office’ was one corner of the main room, which had been cordoned off, floor to ceiling, using a no-frills selection of inadequately soundproofed materials to give the impression that their Team Leader actually had a private space befitting his status.
‘Door’s shut. Do you think the Guv’s actually shown his face?’
‘What do we say to him?’
‘You don’t say anything!’ Paterson’s voice thundered through the layer of MDF. ‘Because I’m as pissed off as you are.’
They looked at each other. Bernard wondered if it would be a good time to make a tactical retreat to the canteen, although he was pretty sure that in this particular discussion the HET officers actually had the high moral ground.
‘Well, come in then, you pair of clowns!’
Paterson’s face looked every bit as pissed off as his voice had sounded. ‘So, you’ve seen the memo?’
‘Yup,’ said Maitland. ‘And we noticed that you made yourself scarce while we read it.’
‘Not my idea. Stuttle organised a meeting of all the HET Team Leaders from across Scotland . . .’
‘I was right!’ said Maitland, elbowing Bernard triumphantly.
‘ . . .so that we could all be briefed on dealing with irate staff and difficult questions. They even had us role playing, for Christ’s sake.’ He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe the indignities he had suffered. ‘So if you’ve got something to say, I’m prepared.’
Maitland poked Bernard’s shoulder, which Bernard took to mean that if anyone was telling Paterson about Carole’s visit, it wasn’t going to be Maitland.
‘Ehm, Mr Paterson?’
Paterson sighed. ‘OK, hit me. “This is an outrage, civil liberties, must be illegal etc. etc.”’
‘No, it’s not that. Well, it is all of that but we . . .’ He pointed to Maitland and back to himself. If he was going down, he was taking Maitland with him. ‘We thought that you should know that Carole came in today . . .’
‘Oh God, really? Today? She has to pick today of all days to come back to work?’
‘With a resignation letter.’
He put his head in his hands.
‘Did they not cover that in your briefing, Guv?’ said Maitland, cheerfully.
‘It’s a bit of a niche situation, Maitland. How did she take it?’ He looked up hopefully, as if there remained an outside chance that Carole might have seen the funny side of her servitude.
‘She yelled a bit, then stormed out saying she was going
to get a lawyer.’
‘Hmm. I suppose if she makes it a legal issue, Stuttle or SHEP’s lawyers will have to take over dealing with it.’
‘Good one, Guv. Buck neatly passed.’
Paterson glared at Maitland. ‘Anyway, how did you get on with finding the civil servant lassie?’
‘Her sister wasn’t much help, to be honest, Mr Paterson. She doesn’t seem to have seen her recently. Maitland’s theory is that she’s got a secret boyfriend but the sister couldn’t confirm or deny it.’
‘Ha, you’re probably right there, Maitland. You know how it is with these high-flying types. Tenner says the boyfriend’s under twenty-five.’
‘Good one, Guv.’
Bernard sighed, reflecting that he could be putting up with this sexism for a very long time.
‘Well, seeing as the sister was a bit of a bust, we’ll have to keep digging around.’ A thought occurred to Paterson. ‘Unless Mona has a new lead. What’s she been doing?’
‘She’s still out with that Ian bloke from CID, Guv. They were interviewing Sopel’s work colleagues. What’s Mona’s beef with him, anyway? We sensed there was a bit of history there.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Paterson. He picked up some papers and started leafing through them. ‘You know what Mona’s like. It’s probably the lesbian thing.’
There was a silence of such utter quietness that the proverbial pin would have echoed like a grenade going off.
Bernard wasn’t quite sure he’d heard his boss correctly. ‘The lesbian thing?’
Paterson’s head snapped back up, a look of horror on his face. ‘No, I, ehm . . .’
‘She’s a dyke.’ Maitland laughed. ‘I knew it!’
‘Mona’s gay,’ Bernard muttered, mulling this revelation over. ‘That makes a lot of sense.’
‘No, she’s not, I mean, who knows, and obviously there’s nothing wrong with that if she is, but I definitely didn’t say that she was.’
‘Think you did, actually, Guv.’ Maitland clapped his hands together, grinning broadly.
Paterson sighed and gave up the pretence. ‘If either of you breathe a hint of this to Mona, I will make your life so miserable you’ll wish you’d never been born. And you could be working for me for a very long time.’ He sighed again. ‘I can’t cope with both Carole and Mona wanting to kill me at the same time.’
‘The secret’s safe with us, Guv,’ said Maitland. ‘Come on, Bernie.’ He shuffled Bernard back out of Paterson’s office and closed the door behind him. ‘This is going to be fun.’
‘A lesbian,’ Bernard repeated. ‘Makes a lot of sense.’
5
The Professor’s work telephone rang twelve times then switched to voicemail. Mona shifted impatiently on her bed, debating yet again whether she should leave a message. She desperately wanted to know that the Professor was safe and well, and had been ringing him on a regular basis in the hope of him picking up her call and putting her mind at rest. So far, she’d resisted the temptation to leave a message, uncertain exactly who would be monitoring his phone while he was on sick leave. And now, if Ian was to be believed, he wasn’t coming back.
Oh, Professor, she thought. What’s happened to you? Ian seemed to think that Bircham-Fowler had told her something of significance. Nonsense, he’d called it. The nonsense that your friend the Professor spouted. If the Professor really had been spinning her a line, why was Ian so interested in it? And to her enduring frustration, why couldn’t she think of what ‘the nonsense’ could be?
She lay on her bed and closed her eyes, trying to think of the conversations that they had had. They’d discussed his daughter, obviously, and London. They’d discussed the role of curfews in tackling the Virus, which although controversial, she doubted would be enough to get the Professor nearly killed. They’d discussed his affection for Theresa. They’d talked about bacon rolls and coffee, for Christ’s sake! None of this seemed significant, yet there was a dull throb in her temple that wouldn’t go away, a pulse, pulse, pulse that spelled out that she had failed him. He’d suspected that he was in danger, he’d given her some vital information that could help to keep him safe, and she’d ignored it.
She sat up and redialled the university switchboard. ‘Can I speak to Theresa Kilsyth, please?’ If anyone knew the truth about whether the Professor really was intending to retire, it would be his long-standing (and long-suffering) personal assistant.
To her disappointment the phone rang and rang. She counted twelve rings, and was surprised to hear a thirteenth. No voicemail. She let it ring another dozen times, and was on the point of hanging up, when a slightly breathless female voice answered. ‘Theresa Kilsyth’s phone.’
‘Oh right, hi, is Theresa there? Have I missed her for today?’
‘She’s not working here any more, I’m afraid. She handed in her notice a couple of weeks ago, and she had so much leave to take I don’t think she’ll be back.’
‘Oh, I see.’ This wasn’t entirely surprising. Theresa and the Professor had worked so closely together that she had rather assumed that if one went, both would go. She tried a bit of digging. ‘The Professor will miss her. He’ll need to get a new assistant.’
There was a brief silence. ‘Professor B’s not coming back either. Didn’t you know he had a heart attack? It was on the news.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I thought he might be recovered by now though.’
‘Is there anyone else who could help you?’ The voice was beginning to sound a little curt, and Mona couldn’t say she blamed her. Given the Professor’s profile, she suspected they would have had a journalist or two fishing for information from his staff.
She declined any further assistance and hung up. It looked as if the Professor had been permanently silenced, chased from his high-profile role at the university, with all the protection of a tenured position. From her experience of him, she thought he would keep working until he dropped. Maybe he really was ill, maybe Ian was right and she should leave the man in peace. Or maybe, just maybe, he was in need of all the help he could get.
If she knew where he lived, she could turn up on his doorstep and assess his health for herself. He was ex-directory, of course, but she could get his address, she was sure, by pulling in a few favours from her former Police Scotland colleagues, but she couldn’t guarantee that Jacobsen wouldn’t hear about her asking around, and the last thing she wanted was him on her back. She’d already tried phoning the Professor on his mobile, but the number he’d given her had returned a ‘this number is no longer in use’ message.
The number he’d given her. She jumped to her feet. When they’d parted he’d given her his card, with a vague commitment to meeting for coffee. Except he hadn’t just given her one card, he’d given her a little bundle of cards, held together with an elastic band. She’d assumed that he’d just absent-mindedly handed over the entire set of business cards he was carrying by mistake. But what if it was deliberate? What if he’d communicated something to her that he hadn’t wanted Ian or Bob to see? And, most pressingly, where the hell had she put the cards?
After some digging around she found it in a bowl of bits and pieces on her mantelpiece. She tugged impatiently at the elastic band, which snapped and scattered the cards across the floor. As they fell, she noticed that there was something written on the back of one of them.
She peered at it, trying to decipher the Professor’s spindly handwriting. After a second or two of squinting, the letters formed themselves into a sentence.
FOLLOW THE ORDERS OF MRS HILDA MILWOOD.
She frowned at the card. Was this an instruction for her, or just a note to himself? The Professor had gone out of his way to give her the cards, but in the rush to hand it over discreetly he could have given her the whole bundle by mistake. If it was an instruction, it was a pretty poor one. She’d no idea of who Hilda Milwood was, least of all how to contact her. The only thing that she could be totally confident about was that whatever it did actually mean, it was in no
way, shape or form, nonsense.
Reaching under her bed she pulled out her laptop, fired it up and opened a search engine eager to see if a simple search would give her a lead.
Hilda Milwood, she typed.
The search returned six results, all of them from sites that specialised in tracing family trees. She sighed, disappointed but not entirely surprised. As far as she was aware, people had stopped naming their girl children ‘Hilda’ somewhere around 1940. If Hilda was still alive, it was likely that she didn’t have an active social media presence.
She caught sight of the clock on her bedside table and realised with a start that it was later than she’d thought. Her dealings with the Professor would have to wait. First thing in the morning she would pull out all the stops to find out who Hilda Milwood was, why she was so significant and where she lived. She’d waste no time tracking her down and doorstopping her. But that would have to be tomorrow’s problem, not today’s. Tonight she was busy. Tonight she had a prior engagement.
Tonight, she had a date.
6
It turned out that there were three things which were very important to Bernard in a home. He had not been aware of this until recently, but over the weeks that he had been staying at his colleague Marcus’s flat he’d thought about the nature of home a great deal. In fact, he’d lain awake hypothesising what his ideal accommodation would be, a model that was based largely on taking his existing living arrangements and choosing the exact opposite.
His first requirement was a bed, a proper resting place with legs, a mattress, sheets and a duvet. Ideally, the bed would be situated in a bedroom, with a door, lockable if at all possible. He’d never realised how important a quality place to lay his head was to him. A bit like the old saying about health, he hadn’t missed it until it was gone. Six weeks in a sleeping bag on a blow-up mattress on Marcus’s living room floor, tossing and turning in the breeze that blew under the door had rammed home to him the importance of suitable slumber arrangements.
