Death at the Plague Museum

by Lesley Kelly

  They looked at him in a silence broken only by the sound of Corinna’s heels clicking as she took off down the stairs.

  ‘Should we . . .?’ asked Bernard.

  ‘No. Let her go.’ She pointed at Ian. ‘Do you think he’s faking it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I did hit him quite hard.’

  ‘Check his pulse.’

  ‘He’s still breathing.’

  ‘That was a fucking high-risk strategy there, Bernard. What if the gun had gone off when you hit him?’

  He frowned. ‘I thought he was planning to shoot us all. It seemed like a risk worth taking. Has he gone mad, or something?’

  ‘No, he’s sane. Beyond that, I have no idea of what’s happening. Look, we need to hurry – Ian’s already called for backup. I’ll call an ambulance and stay with him. You need to get Helen and Lucy out of here. Go out through the skylight and let’s hope they’re not watching the back of the Museum. Here – take the gun.’

  ‘No way.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘Sorry, Mona, but I’m not touching that thing.’

  ‘OK.’ It was probably for the best. The last thing they wanted was Bernard unintentionally shooting someone, probably himself. He gave her a worried little nod, then turned to leave.

  ‘Bernard?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well done.’

  He nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll probably be in loads of trouble for this.’ He ran up the stairs, and she heard him calling out to Lucy.

  She pulled out her mobile and dialled 999. ‘Ambulance, please. HET code 924.’

  After securing the emergency response, she turned back to Ian. His breathing seemed regular. She debated putting him into the recovery position, but didn’t want to get too close.

  What was she going to say when the Police and ambulance finally arrived? And what story would Ian and Bob spin them? If Ian had been telling the truth when he said he could get her arrested, Bob would have similar powers, and seeing the state that his colleague was in, might well feel moved to use them.

  ‘Mona?’

  The Guv’s voice echoed up the stairs. Corinna must have fled without taking the time to lock up behind her. She stuck her head over the banister and was horrified to see Bob right behind him.

  ‘Are you OK? Bob said there’d been a bit of trouble?’ And the lies and damage limitation had begun.

  She watched them walk up the stairs. A movement caught her eye and she turned back just in time to see Ian lunging full tilt toward her. She stepped back and her feet went from under her. She grabbed the banister to pull herself upright, but before she could fully right herself, he was on her, grabbing her arm. To her horror she realised he was pushing her backwards over the banister, intend on reclaiming his gun. If he kept up this pressure another minute she would tip over and fall, but at this distance if she fired the gun it would be fatal.

  ‘You stupid, stupid bitch.’ Blood was dripping onto her from Ian’s ruined face. His eyes were wide and staring, and his teeth were bared. He looked like an animal moving in for the kill.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ian!’

  The sound of her voice seemed to bring him back, and he released his grip slightly. He was holding her with his left hand; Bernard had obviously done some serious damage to his other arm. She tried to move but his grip on her tightened. She had one option left. Opening her hand, she dropped the gun. After a second she heard it crash to the ground; she hoped it had hit the floor and not some irreplaceable artefact.

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on up there?’ the Guv’s voice rang out. ‘Jesus Christ, is that a gun?’

  Ian released his grip, as if he was suddenly weary. She stared at him. His nose looked like it might be broken. Blood was smeared across his face, and most of his clothing. His right arm was hanging limply at his side. She really was going to have to buy Bernard a vegetarian meal, and toast him with the non-alcoholic beverage of his choice. He’d given Ian a total doing.

  ‘Why do you have to make things so difficult?’ he asked her. He started sliding slowly down the wall. ‘You could have worked for us, you know. We had you marked out as having potential. But now you’ve fucked up a major police operation. Well done. But we’ll get Helen Sopel. She’s going nowhere.’

  ‘Mona? Mona, are you OK?’ The Guv was sounding frantic.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she shouted, then turned and ran as fast as she could up the stairs. The skylight was still open and she stepped out into the darkness.

  The roof was deserted.

  15

  ‘Where to?’ The taxi driver sat with one hand on the wheel, awaiting instructions.

  Bernard looked at Lucy and Helen, who both looked back at him. He had literally no idea where he should be taking them. He should probably have asked Mona where he was supposed to go. He should probably have asked Mona a lot of things about what she was expecting him to do, but there hadn’t been time.

  Helen took charge. ‘Centre of town. Quick as you can.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Bernard.

  ‘I don’t know, but I thought getting away from here as fast as possible would be a really good idea.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Have you any idea what was going on back there, Ms Sopel? Ian wasn’t really planning to shoot us, surely?’

  Helen snorted. ‘Yes, he was. He’d have shot me without a second thought. The man has no conscience.’

  Now that the adrenaline was leaving his body, Bernard could feel his usual state of apprehension flooding back. This time his anxiety was particularly focused on the fact that he had just broken the nose of someone who was apparently a cold-blooded killer. ‘Oh dear.’

  He wondered how Lucy was bearing up to the evening’s events. He was pretty shaken, and he was used to the ups and downs of life at the HET. Lucy was used to the ups and downs of life at a Museum. He looked past Helen to the far side of the taxi, where Lucy was staring out of the window.

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I think so. Just trying to take it all in.’

  He leaned forward. ‘You were so clever suggesting that we climb over the roof and use a different fire escape. I’m sure that’s what let us get away.’

  She smiled at him, then reached past Helen and lightly touched his hand. ‘And you were magnificent back there. I’ve never seen anyone be so brave.’

  He felt himself blush.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Helen, returning Lucy’s hand to her own side of the taxi, ‘it’s his job. Can we focus here?’

  Bernard opened his mouth to say that nowhere in his job description did it say anything about facing down supposed colleagues armed with a gun, then thought better of it. Helen didn’t seem that much less scary than Ian.

  ‘I want to speak to a journalist.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to talk to the press?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t you signed the Official Secrets Act?’

  She looked irritated. ‘Yes, but if it’s a choice between being dead or being in prison I know which option I’ll choose.’

  ‘Dead?’ Bernard was still struggling with this formulation of events. ‘Are you sure Ian wasn’t just trying to . . .’

  ‘Trying to what? Scare me? Give me a good talking-to? I’m an embarrassment to the government.’

  ‘We could go to the Scotsman’s offices?’ said Lucy, helpfully.

  This brought a curt shake of the head. ‘No. I don’t know who I can trust there. Can we go somewhere quiet where I can think?’

  ‘We can’t go to my house – Ian might know where I live,’ said Bernard. Did Ian know where he lived? He was definitely going to have a few sleepless nights.

  ‘And Corinna knows where I live,’ said Lucy. ‘Oh, I know! My parents are on holiday. We could borrow their house for a couple of hours? Assuming there won’t be any more men with guns. Mum and Dad really wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘I certainly hope not.’ Bernard wasn’t sure he could face down any
more guns. Particularly any held by Ian Jacobsen who would surely be nursing a very big grudge against him.

  ‘Just tell the driver the address, please,’ said Helen, impatiently.

  Bernard was taking quite a dislike to this woman.

  Lucy’s parents lived in a detached house in Cramond, with a side garage and a neat garden out front. The taxi had driven past street after street of other similar houses before pulling up. Bernard felt reassured by the anonymity of the surroundings. Safe in suburbia.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Lucy, ushering them into the living room. There was an upright piano against one wall. Bernard wondered if Lucy played. He’d put money on her being able to roll out a sonata or two. A little Chopin, or Bach perhaps. She was probably extremely musically gifted. As well as intelligent. And brave.

  Helen threw herself onto the sofa.

  ‘Shall I pop the kettle on?’ asked Lucy. ‘Although there might not be any milk in the fridge.’

  ‘I need a journalist I can trust,’ said Helen to the room in general. ‘One who will put my side of the story.’

  ‘Your side?’ said Bernard. He was about to challenge what her side might actually be when he remembered that Lucy was still in the room, and probably shouldn’t hear any more. ‘Any chance of that cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ll see what I can do.’

  He waited until the door closed behind her, then returned to Helen Sopel. ‘I really can’t see any way a journalist could make this a sympathetic story. What you were doing to children in the Developing World was awful. People will be appalled whatever spin you put on it.’

  ‘Oh grow up!’ She raised a couple of exasperated eyebrows in his direction. ‘We already see these countries as a source of spare parts.’

  ‘We do not!’ Bernard was outraged.

  ‘What about all the tourists who head to India to get a kidney bought from a local, or who use a surrogate mother from one of the poorer corners of South America? Everyone is opposed to these kinds of things until they are going through a medical crisis of their own, and they find out how long they have to wait on the NHS, or how much it’ll cost them to jump the queue. Then suddenly they find themselves able to think the unthinkable, and before you know it they’re whipping out their credit card and getting themselves on the next flight to some godforsaken hole or other. And now that the entire country is in the middle of a crisis, people are ready for this kind of thinking.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that.’

  ‘If the project succeeds there’s not a parent in the land who wouldn’t be giving thanks and stocking up on our pills.’

  Bernard’s mobile rang, flashing up an unfamiliar number. He regarded it with some trepidation but pressed the button to accept the call. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Bernard, it’s me.’

  ‘Mona! Are you . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Phone me back from a landline on this number.’

  He popped his head into the kitchen, where Lucy was busy putting cups on to a tray. ‘OK if I use your phone?’

  ‘Of course – it’s in the hall.’

  He dialled, and Mona answered on the first ring.

  ‘Where are you?’

  He gave her the address. ‘It’s Lucy’s parents’ house. They’re not here.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m on my way. Is everything OK at your end?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Although I have to say I don’t much like Helen Sopel.’

  He peered through the crack in the door into the living room. Lucy seemed to be showing Helen the contents of her parents’ drinks cabinet.

  ‘We don’t have to like her. We just have to get her into a Health Check, somehow.’

  ‘She thinks Ian wants to kill her.’

  There was a silence. ‘She might be right.’

  ‘What about us, Mona? Are we in danger?’

  She ducked the question. ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Before you hang up, she’s saying she wants to talk to a journalist. She wants this in the public domain, thinks it will save her life.’

  ‘She’s probably right.’

  ‘But she doesn’t know who she can trust, and then I thought, you, ehm, know a journalist. Not the kind of journalist I like, but I’m sure she’d love this story.’

  The phone was silent.

  ‘Mona, are you still there?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to go there, Bernard.’

  ‘Really? Because I’m thinking that it might not just be Helen Sopel that’s safer with all this out in the open. Where do we fit into all this?’

  There was a long sigh. ‘I’ll pick her up en route.’

  16

  ‘So I was right about Helen Sopel.’ Elaine grinned at her.

  She’d explained the situation in a phone call, which had been surprisingly short given the complexity of the issues involved. She suspected Elaine could tell a good story from bad in the first two sentences. Now they were in Elaine’s car, driving through quiet back streets, heading for Cramond.

  ‘Stop gloating.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just delighted that when you wanted to give a journalist such a fabulous scoop your first thought was little old me.’

  ‘You were the only journalist I had a phone number for. I tend to avoid them, especially the muck-raking type.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you held your nose and called me anyway. God, it’s good to see you, Mona.’

  ‘Can you move your hand back to the steering wheel, please?’ Elaine’s fingers were gently massaging the top of Mona’s leg. It was very distracting. ‘We need to focus.’ She looked as they passed yet another street of detached houses. ‘Number 37! I think we’re here.’

  ‘So, are you sure this Sopel woman will talk to me?’

  ‘She requested a journalist, so I guess so. Let’s find out.’

  Mona spotted a pair of nervous eyes and a slightly balding head sticking out from behind the curtain in the front room of the house. She waved to Bernard who disappeared from view, appearing again a second later at the front door.

  ‘Come in.’ He still looked worried. ‘Helen’s had a couple of whiskies.’

  ‘Not sure that’s a great idea, Bernard.’

  ‘That’s what I said! But she’s not an easy woman to reason with. They’re in here.’ He pushed open a door, revealing a large and airy living room. Helen and Lucy eyed her from their seat on a cream leather sofa. Helen was nursing what looked like a double, and Lucy was nursing a worried expression. She’d get Bernard to replace whatever bottle it was that Helen was currently destroying.

  ‘Is she a journalist?’ Helen pointed at Elaine.

  ‘Elaine McGillvary, delighted to meet you.’ She extended a hand. Helen didn’t take it, and after an awkward moment, she pulled her arm back.

  ‘McGillvary, I know that name.’ Helen brow wrinkled as she tried to join the dots, then smoothed out as realisation hit. ‘You’re Cassandra Doom!’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘Your column is appalling.’ Helen threw back the last of her drink. ‘The kind of gutter journalism that you indulged in made our job tackling the Virus ten times harder. Your lowest denominator populism led to us abandoning good ideas because we know that spin that Cassandra Bloody Doom would put on them.’

  Elaine smiled. ‘All that may or may not be true, but the most important thing is that people do actually read my column in huge numbers. So you can talk to me, and the whole of Scotland will be talking about it tomorrow, or we can wait and see if the Guardian can fit you in for a profile some time next week.’

  ‘If you can guarantee this goes out tomorrow, the interview’s yours.’

  Bernard’s face was contorting through a variety of expressions of disgust. Mona had some sympathy with his feelings.

  ‘OK, Helen, let’s head over to my office then, just in case anyone has worked out where you are.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Mona stepped swiftly into the doorway, to stop anyone from
leaving. ‘Ms Sopel needs to attend a Health Check in the very near future . . .’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Helen looked furious.

  ‘Ms Sopel, my colleagues and I have risked life and limb to track you down for this Health Check, and it’s just as well that we caught up with you when we did, or who knows what would have happened to you. I know that you are very keen to speak to the press, but . . .’

  ‘Mona . . .’ began Elaine.

  ‘And, yes, I know that you are also keen to get the interview, but . . .’

  ‘Mona, stop!’ She put a hand on her arm. ‘It’s really not a problem.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘We have a sympathetic doctor, darling. Helen’s not the first interviewee we’ve had who’s been a bit naughty with their health care.’ She winked, and in spite of herself Mona smiled.

  ‘Well, I’ll need to come and oversee it.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ There was a breezy wave of the hand. ‘Shall we?’

  17

  ‘So, what now?’ asked Lucy. The house felt very quiet now that the others had left.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bernard. ‘Were you planning to stay here, or did you want to go back to your own home?’

  ‘Home, I suppose.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’m not really supposed to be here. They only left me the key in case there was an emergency.’

  ‘I’ll see you back to your house.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t put you to any trouble,’ said Lucy.

  He smiled. ‘Believe me, it’s the least we can do after what you’ve been put through.’

  ‘It has been quite an evening,’ she admitted. ‘I’m still getting my head round everything that happened.’ She stood up, collecting her mug and Helen’s empty glass as she went. ‘I’ll just get these.’

  ‘Ehm, OK.’ He watched as she left. Would this be a good time to suggest meeting up again? He could frame it in the context of concern about her – wanting to check she was OK, maybe tomorrow over coffee?