Death at the Plague Museum

by Lesley Kelly

  He clicked on his first email, which came from a Police Scotland address. The message drew his attention to its attachment, a photograph of the suicide note left by Nathan McVie.

  ‘Ooh.’ He clicked eagerly on the icon, and was disappointed to find himself looking at a very brief scrawled note.

  I’m not prepared to go on like this.

  I quit.

  Nathan McVie

  Was it a suicide note? His money would be on a resignation letter, albeit not one that followed conventional best practice. The handwriting was appalling. He’d like to see a sample of McVie’s normal writing, to establish if he was naturally messy, or whether this note had been written under duress. Or, of course, the last desperate scribblings of a man about to kill himself.

  He checked the email again, and Police Scotland had definitely referred to it as a suicide note. He looked at the note again and shook his head. I quit. That was resignation talk, he was sure. But either way, whether McVie had been driven to self-murder or self-preservation, what had he been unwilling to continue to do?

  ‘Morning, loser.’ Maitland swept in with a grin. ‘Look what I’ve got!’ He held up a little floral book.

  ‘A sudden fondness for Cath Kidson stationery?’

  ‘Very funny. This is Helen Sopel’s address book. Her sister was hanging around reception when I came in. She thought it might assist in our enquiries.’ He flicked through it. ‘Somewhere in here is the phone number of whatever young hunk it is that she’s having it off with.’

  ‘I still think that idea’s nonsense. And even if she did have a boyfriend’s number in her phone, I doubt she’s got his address in there with little hearts drawn round his name.’

  ‘The book’s a good start.’

  ‘I suppose. Can I help?’

  ‘Your performance over the last nine months suggests that’s unlikely.’ Maitland smirked and threw himself onto his seat, picking up his phone as he went. ‘You just carry on daydreaming.’

  Bernard opened his mouth, then realised he didn’t actually have a retort. He swivelled back to his computer and fumed. He’d tell Mona how annoying Maitland was being as soon as she got in.

  ‘Hello, my name is Maitland Stevenson and I’m phoning from the Health Enforcement Team . . .’

  Mona. He’d almost forgotten the discussion yesterday. The important thing was not to treat her any differently now that he knew that she was gay. Her sexuality was her own business, and nobody had the right to comment on it. He should probably remind Maitland of that fact before she arrived.

  ‘ . . .and I have to remind you that under the terms of the Defaulters Act (Scotland) you are not allowed to tell anyone that we are looking for Ms Sopel . . .’

  Maitland caught his eye and made a dismissive gesture suggesting that he might want to turn round and mind his own business.

  ‘Morning, Bernard. What’s he up to?’ Paterson lingered by his desk.

  ‘Helen Sopel’s sister dropped her address book off this morning. Maitland’s ringing round the numbers in it.’

  ‘Good stuff. Any sign of Mona yet?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Mum’s the word on that one, OK?’

  ‘I’m not the one you have to worry about.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of Maitland.

  ‘Fair point. And Carole?’

  ‘Do you really think she’ll be back?’

  He grunted and walked into his office.

  ‘Mr Paterson, I have a couple of questions.’

  ‘Oh good.’

  Bernard assumed this was sarcasm, but decided to press on regardless. ‘Helen Sopel’s sister is actively looking for her. Doesn’t that make her a Missing Person rather than a Health Defaulter? Shouldn’t this investigation be the remit of Police Scotland?’

  Paterson raised an eyebrow in response.

  Bernard was unsure if he got the point that he was trying to make. ‘The HET is only supposed to investigate people who haven’t been reported missing, as they are much more likely to be suffering from the Virus . . .you know, chaotic lifestyles and—’

  ‘Stop.’ Paterson raised a hand. ‘I work for the HET, Bernard, I do know that.’

  ‘You looked confused.’

  ‘I was slightly confused by your naivety, that’s all. OK, just so you are clear on all this, as of yesterday Helen Sopel is officially both a Missing Person and a Health Defaulter. It’s a joint operation between the HET and the Police.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Just let it go, eh, Bernard?’

  Letting things go was not Bernard’s strong point. ‘But our terms of reference clearly say that we only investigate if the person hasn’t been reported missing.’

  ‘And Helen Sopel wasn’t reported missing at 8.35am yesterday morning when I assume SHEP leapt into action and declared her a Health Defaulter.’

  ‘Why did they . . .?’

  ‘Bernard, close the door.’

  He hesitated for a minute, trying to establish which side of the door he was supposed to be on as it closed. He gambled on inside, which, judging by the lack of shouting, appeared to be the correct choice.

  ‘Bernard, I am now going to give you a crash course on how the world works. People of Helen Sopel’s importance aren’t left to their own devices about these things. It’s not like you or me defaulting. Someone like Ms Sopel misses a Health Check and the emergency telephone in Stuttle’s office starts glowing bright red.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not literally, no. But he’d get an early warning of it and make it HET business rather than Police Scotland.’

  ‘But why . . .?’

  ‘Why us and not Police Scotland? Easy. What was Maitland saying to all those people on the phone?’

  He considered the question. ‘That Helen Sopel was missing?’

  ‘Not that. The Fourteen-Day Rule. Under the terms of the Defaulters Act (Scotland) you are not allowed to tell anyone that we are looking for blah blah blah. Soon as someone goes missing if the press gets a whiff of it they can start asking Police Scotland difficult questions. But if the fourth estate so much as hints that someone has missed a Health Check they’re up in court. I wonder if the civil liberties types realised what a powerful tool they were giving to the likes of Stuttle when they pushed for a fourteen-day window of silence.’

  ‘Why is it a powerful tool?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bernard, don’t you get it?’ He sighed so heavily a sheet of paper blew gently off his desk. Bernard retrieved it.

  ‘As soon as someone misses a Health Check it gives Stuttle and his cronies carte blanche to poke around in their life for two whole weeks without the general public getting to know about it. Let’s them to do whatever . . .oh crap.’

  Paterson was staring over Bernard’s shoulder, looking out through the small glass window in his office door.

  ‘Was that Carole just arriving, Mr Paterson?’

  He sighed, and the sheet of paper was airborne once more. Bernard retrieved it again, and this time weighed it down with a coffee mug.

  ‘Looks like it. Oh well, better get this over with.’

  Carole looked up as the door opened, and the conversation she had been having with Maitland ground to an abrupt halt. Maitland grinned and slid back into his own seat. He caught Bernard’s eye and winked, obviously delighted to be watching the showdown that was about to take place. Bernard felt rather less happy at the prospect.

  ‘Carole,’ said Paterson, with a somewhat forced joviality. ‘I’d heard you were back. Feeling better, I hope?’

  The look on her face would have driven lesser men to retreat to their office, lock the door firmly behind them and dig deep into their bottom drawer for the bottle of spirits they kept there for just such occasions. Paterson settled for folding his arms.

  ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Mr Paterson. I want to resign from the HET . . .’

  ‘That’s not actually possible . . .’

  ‘I know. I want to resign, and I will
resign. Right now I’ve got a lawyer talking to SHEP about it.’

  ‘So, why are you here?’ asked Bernard.

  Carole turned her glare in his direction. ‘Because, Bernard, my lawyer thought it would be a good idea if I carried on as normal, until he works out exactly how we can sue SHEP.’

  ‘Well, obviously we’re delighted that you’re back.’

  Paterson gave Carole a rictus smile, which appeared to infuriate her further. She threw her bag in the direction of her desk and followed it.

  Undaunted, Paterson continued. ‘Yes, it’s good that we’ve got all hands on deck. We need to get this civil servant found pronto. Maitland – any joy from your ring round?’

  ‘Not much. There were only six contacts in the address book, and only one person has seen her this year.’

  ‘OK – you checking that out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take Carole with you.’

  She didn’t turn round. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Maitland and Bernard looked at each other, then at their boss.

  After a minute he nodded. ‘Probably best to ease yourself in. Bernard – you go with Maitland and...’ He stopped as his phone buzzed. ‘A text from Mona.’

  Maitland burst into a chorus of ‘I Am What I Am’.

  Paterson looked up from his phone in annoyance. Bernard caught his eye. ‘I told you it was him that you needed to worry about.’

  Paterson retreated to his office, its walls wobbling as he slammed the door behind him.

  2

  Mona’s whole body was aching. Her head was pounding, and she had a horrible queasiness in her stomach. Two bottles of wine on a school night were bad. She might have got away with it if she’d had a good night’s sleep, but her slumbers had been dogged by anxiety dreams. In every one of them she was trying to keep a secret from someone. Sometimes it was her mother, or she was back at school and trying to pull the wool over a teacher’s eyes. But mostly the dreams involved Paterson. Her subconscious was not overly subtle.

  She must have been crazy to think that Internet dating was for her. You had no idea who anyone really was; people knocked years off their age, or forgot to mention they were married, or, as had happened last night, they completely lied about their motivation. And she had sat there, without taking the slightest time to find out who the woman really was, and had ended up spilling her heart out about the difficulties of working for the HET to a woman who made a career out of slagging them off. She hoped to God she hadn’t handed her any ammunition, particularly any juicy snippets that could only have come from the North Edinburgh HET.

  And now she was running half an hour late for work, and if the bathroom mirror was to be believed, she looked like a reanimated corpse. She leaned her head against the mirror and groaned. She needed to be well. She needed to get into the office and arrange a meeting with Jasper Connington, the other civil servant who had been at the Museum meeting. And she needed Connington not to act like civil servants usually did, but actually give her a straight answer to what their meeting had been about.

  She washed her face, brushed her teeth and stared at her reflection in the hope it had improved. It hadn’t. If anything, she looked even more obviously hungover than before. She twisted the lid off a bottle of mouthwash, and swigged it as enthusiastically as she had the rioja the previous night. It had just hit her tonsils when her landline started to ring. She considered just letting it ring; 90% of the calls on it were telemarketers, people enquiring if she’d recently had an accident and wanted to sue someone, fake IT engineers or other assorted scammers and crooks. Unfortunately the other 10% of calls came from her mother. She spat the bright blue liquid into the sink and raced to the phone.

  ‘Mona.’ Her mother sounded even frailer than usual. ‘I don’t want you to worry, but I’m at the hospital.’

  ‘Oh my God, what happened?’

  ‘I fell getting out of bed this morning. Got my foot caught in the blankets.’

  ‘I’ll come right over.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You have your work to go to. I’ll be fine.’

  For a second Mona hesitated, then realised what was expected of her. ‘I’ll be right over.’

  Forty-five minutes later she was sitting outside her mother’s ward at the Royal Infirmary. Paterson had been fine about her taking an unexpected morning off. In fact, he sounded completely distracted when she’d spoken to him, leading her to wonder if Carole had turned up for work today. For all her boss’s bluster and fury he tended to be flummoxed by female anger directed at him, although given his ability to piss women off, by his mid-fifties he really ought to be used to it. His main response when challenged by a female member of staff was to retire to his office and sulk. She had, in her time, been on the receiving end of many a Paterson huff.

  ‘Ms Whyte?’ A female doctor approached her, hand outstretched, and sat beside her on the plastic seats. ‘I’m Dr Lewis. Your mother’s had a bit of a fall, I’m afraid.’

  Mona pictured the worst. ‘Is she badly hurt?’

  ‘No broken bones, but I think she’s had a bit of a fright. Her ankle is rather swollen, so she’s struggling to walk. She needs a good rest.’

  ‘So you’ll be keeping her in overnight?’

  A look passed across the doctor’s face which Mona tried to place. Embarrassment, mixed with something else. Determination? Defiance? ‘Actually we were hoping that you could take your mother home now.’

  So that was it. The chronic lack of beds meant that a cancer-stricken sixty-year-old was being turfed back out to fend for herself.

  ‘Is she fit to go back home?’

  ‘Not on her own. Could she stay with you?’

  ‘I live in a second-floor flat. She struggles with my stairs even when she hasn’t just fallen.’

  ‘Could you stay at hers?’

  Mona struggled to find a reason why this wouldn’t be possible. She hesitated a moment too long and Dr Lewis stood up.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll get your mother discharged. Would you like to borrow a wheelchair to get her to the car?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll need one,’ snapped Mona, ‘seeing as she can’t actually walk.’

  But Dr Lewis had already turned away, the look of embarrassment, determination, defiance or whatever, all replaced by one of relief. Another patient out the door.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t say this, Mona, now that you work for the Health Service . . .’

  ‘I work for the Health Enforcement Team, Mum, not the NHS.’

  ‘ . . . but the NHS isn’t what it was. That doctor back there took one look at my notes then thought, well, this one’s going to die soon anyway, so we might as well kick her out and give the bed to someone with a fighting chance.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Mum.’ Mona felt a pang of fear inside her as always when she thought about her mother’s impending death. ‘They just need the beds.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you feel compelled to defend them, now that you’re working for them.’

  The fear she had felt a moment ago was edged out of the way by her usual feeling of irritation with her mother. ‘I don’t work . . .oh, you know what? Never mind.’ She snapped the radio on.

  ‘Your father, God rest his soul, would be horrified at the state of the NHS . . .’

  She concentrated on the radio, trying to block her mother out. The last thing she wanted to think about under the circumstances was her father’s death. She tuned her ear to Radio Scotland, which was broadcasting its hourly news bulletin. The headline was unusually positive. Economic growth had risen for the first time in two years, albeit by a teeny tiny amount.

  ‘The nurses on the night he died were superlative . . .’

  Not listening not listening not listening. A new windfarm was being built on the West Coast of Scotland.

  ‘I was in pieces, with his heart attack being so sudden . . .’

  The utility companies were defending their latest round of price hikes.

  ‘Nobody was
kicking us out the door back then . . .’

  A senior civil servant working on Virus policy had been found dead in an apparent suicide.

  Mona swerved the car over to the side of the road.

  ‘What was . . .?’

  ‘Ssh.’ She pointed at the radio, but the newsreader had moved on to a jovial ‘and finally’ item. ‘Did you hear that last item, Mum? Did they mention a name?’

  ‘I wasn’t listening, Mona, I was talking.’

  ‘Mum, I’m really sorry about your accident, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to have to just get you settled in and go straight back to work.’

  Her mother tutted. ‘Of course, Mona. It’s always about your work, isn’t it? Just like your father.’ She turned, pointedly, to look out the window. ‘And look what happened to him.’

  3

  Silence reigned in the HET office. Paterson, Maitland and Bernard were huddled round one computer, while Carole was sat some distance away from them, scrolling through something on her mobile.

  ‘Guv,’ Mona panted, slightly out of breath after racing up from the car park. ‘I heard on the radio that a senior Virus civil servant had committed suicide.’

  Three heads snapped toward her.

  ‘Did they give a name?’ asked Paterson.

  ‘No, Guv.’

  ‘Then you know what we know. Brains here,’ he tapped Bernard on the head, ‘spotted it on the BBC website.’

  ‘I get notifications,’ said Bernard, ‘whenever there’s a story about the Virus.’

  ‘So, he gets a notification thingy, and before I’ve even had time to look at the story, Stuttle’s on the phone saying he’s coming over, and bringing that lanky geek from IT with him.’

  ‘Marcus? Why’s he coming over?’

  ‘How’s your mother, Mona?’ Carole looked up from her phone.