Dead Man Driving E-Book

Lesley Kelly

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Health of Strangers Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 367

Beschreibung

Two years on from the start of a devastating pandemic, food shortages are becoming critical, and rationing looms. So it's more than embarrassing when a lorry full of luxury food for Scottish Virus Minister's banquet goes missing. When Bernard and Maitland from the HET team find it, the food is missing – but there is a dead body.

Leseprobe

Praise for Lesley Kelly

The Health of Strangers series

‘An intriguing tale of crime in a post viral Edinburgh, told with panache.’

Lin Anderson

‘Lesley Kelly has a knack of leaving you wanting more...’

Love Books Group

‘A crime thriller in a dystopian and ravaged Edinburgh with a great cast and the pages which virtually turned themselves. I bloody loved it.’

Grab This Book

‘The Health of Strangers moves along at a cracking pace and the unsettling sense you get of an all-too-believable future, helps draw you into what, at its heart, is a really well constructed and extremely entertaining thriller.’

Undiscovered Scotland

‘Laced with dark humour and a sense that the unfolding fiction could become a reality at any moment, there’s a mesmeric quality to Kelly’s writing that ensures [Songs by Dead Girls], like its predecessor, is a real page turner.’

Liam Rudden, Edinburgh Evening News

‘A dark, witty mystery with a unique take on Edinburgh - great stuff!’

Mason Cross

‘Death at the Plague Museum demonstrates skilful storytelling and it grips from the first page.’

NB Magazine

‘Can’t wait to read more about Mona and Bernard and the rest of the Health Enforcement Team.’

Portobello Book Blog

A Fine House in Trinity

‘Written with brio, A Fine House in Trinity is fast, edgy and funny, a sure-fire hit with the tartan noir set. A standout debut.’

Michael J. Malone

‘The storyline is strong, the characters believable and the tempo fast-moving.’

Scots Magazine

‘This is a romp of a novel which is both entertaining and amusing . . . the funniest crime novel I’ve read since Fidelis Morgan’s The Murder Quadrille and a first class debut.’

Crime Fiction Lover

‘Razor sharp Scottish wit . . . makes A Fine House in Trinity a very sweet shot of noir crime fiction. This cleverly constructed romp around Leith will have readers grinning from ear to ear.’

The Reading Corner

‘A welcome addition to the Tartan Noir scene, Lesley Kelly is a fine writer, entertaining us throughout. This is a book perfect for romping through in one sitting.’

Crime Worm

Lesley Kelly has worked in the public and voluntary sectors for the past twenty-five years, dabbling in poetry and stand-up comedy along the way. She has won a number of writing competitions, including The Scotsman’s Short Story award in 2008, and was long-listed for the McIlvanney Prize in 2016.

She lives in Edinburgh with her husband and two sons.

The Health of Strangers Thrillers

The Health of Strangers

The Art of Not Being Dead (short story, ebook only)

Songs by Dead Girls

Death at the Plague Museum

Murder at the Music Factory

Also by Lesley Kelly

A Fine House in Trinity

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by

Sandstone Press Ltd PO Box 41 Muir of Ord IV6 7YX Scotland

www.sandstonepress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © Lesley Kelly 2023

Editor: Moira Forsyth

The moral right of Lesley Kelly to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN: 978-1-914518-36-2ISBNe: 978-1-914518-37-9

Cover design by David Wardle

Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

To Caroline, Jenny, & Sarah

Contents

Monday: RESERVATIONS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Tuesday: À LA CARTE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Wednesday: STEAK AND PRAWNS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Thursday: PAYING THE BILL

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Friday: TAKEAWAYS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Acknowledgements

MONDAY

RESERVATIONS

1

Bernard McDonald had always prided himself on his ability to heed a warning. To the best of his knowledge he hadn’t ever eaten food that was past its Best Before date, never mind playing fast and loose with the dangers of an expired Use By sticker. When forced to consume medicines of any kind, he not only read and reread the caveats on the accompanying leaflet about potential side effects, but also conducted his own internet research on peer-reviewed websites. On his rare trips to London he was fastidious about Minding the Gap.

After checking for traffic, Bernard stepped off the pavement to allow a woman pushing a buggy to get past. She was the only pedestrian he could see who was heading away from Edinburgh’s town centre, as the whole population of the city seemed intent on making its way up the cobbles of the Royal Mile and joining the ‘Food for All’ protest taking place outside the Castle. The woman nodded her thanks.

‘Bloody disgrace, this,’ she said, waving an arm at the crowds. ‘Have they all forgotten about the Virus?’

He smiled, but she wasn’t wrong. The protestors had thrown caution to the wind, flouting health precautions that discouraged people from meeting in large groups where the influenza Virus could easily be passed on. Given that the Virus killed a substantial minority of the people it infected, such gatherings were a considerable risk. At least they were for the moment: the news had been full of talk of a potential vaccine that might give at least some limited protection against the worst aspects of the Virus. Bernard was treating these news reports with a degree of scepticism. There’d been talk of a vaccine almost as long as there had been a Virus, but no-one had yet come up with a workable version. One of the unworkable versions had resulted in the death of several of the participants in the clinical trial, so it was safe to say that there were some concerns among the population about the whole concept.

Bernard had no particular concerns about being in a crowd, as he had previously contracted the Virus, survived, and consequently now had complete immunity. Neither he, nor any of his similarly immune colleagues at the North Edinburgh Health Enforcement Team, needed to worry about catching the Virus at today’s event. There were a number of other things he was concerned about, not least the fact that he was running five minutes late for a briefing at the City Chambers regarding the HET’s involvement in the proceedings, but today’s anxiety levels were quite manageable.

Joining the HET had been a substantial challenge to Bernard’s natural risk-averseness. Situations arose so quickly that he didn’t have time to reflect on the pros and cons of a course of action, and before he knew it, he’d rescued a prostitute from a homicidal drug dealer or clubbed an armed man over the head or been caught up in some other HET imbroglio that would have been unthinkable two years ago. Caution-wise, he was definitely, if not a completely changed man, at least a man who was open to the possibility of change at some point in the future, after due diligence was undertaken.

His mobile beeped to alert him to an incoming text, three lines of properly punctuated writing that Bernard recognised as the texting style of his girlfriend, Lucy.

Dinner with my parents and me on Thursday evening 6 pm. The Sizzling Pepper. PLEASE DON’T MESS THIS UP! I just want a nice meal for my birthday and to put the last couple of weeks behind us.

Bernard prided himself on his ability to heed a warning, and he was in no doubt at all that this was one. Sometimes life sent you a signal that you just could not ignore, a heads up that, if disregarded, would change your life for ever. And sometimes life sent disaster without any kind of advance notice. Like the elbow that was currently making its way directly towards Bernard’s nose.

‘What happened to you?’ Paterson, the head of the North Edinburgh Health Enforcement Team stared at Bernard in dismay.

‘He got elbowed in the face, Mr Paterson.’ His colleague Carole spoke up on his behalf. ‘It’s getting pretty crowded out there.’

Maitland, the youngest member of the HET, leaned in towards him for a better look at the damage. ‘I don’t fancy Bernard’s chances on the front line today if he can’t even make it to the Command Centre without getting beaten up.’

‘Shut up, Maitland. It’s just a slight knock. The bleeding will stop in a second or two.’ He sniffed, hoping this was true. ‘Although I have to say, Mr Paterson, that we really shouldn’t be doing this. It’s quite a stretch of our job descriptions to say we should be marshalling an event of this kind. We haven’t even had any formal training.’

‘It’s not my idea, Bernard, I can assure you. I’d be quite happy if the G8 came to Edinburgh, discussed whatever Virus nonsense they have to, then left, with my only input being shouting at the television from the comfort of my own home. Unfortunately, due to every left-wing loony in town lining the streets out there complaining because they can’t get access to a crate-load of chicken nuggets every time the urge hits them, we need all the community officers we can possibly get.’

‘It’s the V8, not the G8 – they’re all Virus Ministers. And the concerns that people have about rationing are a little bit more realistic than that. And’, Bernard returned to his original theme, ‘we’re not police, Mr Paterson. We’re HET officers. We’re supposed to be tracking down people who miss their Health Checks, not providing policing services on the cheap.’

‘Well, you can tell that to Fraser Mauchline when you meet him.’

‘Who?’ asked Maitland.

‘The Scottish Health Enforcement Partnership’s Deputy Chief Officer, AKA Stuttle’s second in command, who is now first in command, while Stuttle is on gardening leave.’

Maitland looked puzzled. ‘Garden—’

‘It’s a euphemism. It means he’s on an enforced holiday while everyone’s favourite government minister, Carlotta Carmichael, works out a way to give him his jotters.’

Stuttle, their ultimate boss, was currently accused of being to blame for a security breach at the Parliament. It was widely seen as a convenient way for the Minister for Virus Policy to sack him, having crossed swords with him on a number of occasions. The North Edinburgh HET staff were very upset about their boss’s situation; Stuttle was their preferred leader in a ‘better the devil you know’ kind of way.

‘What’s this Mauchline guy like, Guv?’

Paterson shrugged. ‘Can’t say I know him particularly well, but pretty competent from what I have seen. Stuttle certainly rated him. But it doesn’t really matter, because he’s only acting up for a couple of days while they get some proper replacement in. Temporarily, of course, while they investigate the accusations against Stuttle.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ There was a murmur of agreement, although in reality nobody was holding out much hope of Stuttle coming back.

Out in the street the PA system crackled into life and they could hear a message being shouted at the crowd.

‘What’s it saying?’ asked Bernard.

‘Upstairs,’ Paterson pointed an index finger at the ceiling, ‘have set a message to go off every ten minutes reminding people that this is an illegal demonstration, as under the terms of the Health Enforcement Act people are not allowed to meet up in groups larger than twenty.’

‘So why aren’t they all being arrested?’ asked Maitland.

‘Believe me, if they had the resources, that’s exactly what they would be doing. As it is, they’re prioritising the arrest of anybody stupid enough to bring their kids with them into germ central out there. The rest of us are just focusing on crowd control. Right,’ he said, looking round the room with a sudden sense of purpose. ‘We should get moving. All the other HET officers are already out there, as their teams managed to turn up on time.’

Bernard recognised this as a jibe. ‘It’s not my fault—’

‘So, the jist of the briefing which you missed, due to being late—’

‘I was injured!’

‘Is that you, the marshals, are on the road side of the metal barriers, keeping the scumbags well away from the diplomatic cars as they drive up the High Street. Any attempts by anybody to climb over the barriers, you press the button on your radio and call in your position. Police reinforcements will be dispatched immediately. Take this.’ Paterson handed him a bright yellow vest, and a walky-talky.

‘I’m not doing it,’ said Carole suddenly.

There was an uncomfortable silence, which Paterson eventually broke. ‘I know you have some concerns, Carole, about work.’

Some concerns was an understatement. A clause in their contract of employment had been invoked recently, outlining the specific circumstances under which they could leave the HET workforce. Currently, the number of acceptable reasons for quitting had been narrowed down to one – death. Carole had responded to this in a number of ways, including beginning legal proceedings against the Scottish Health Enforcement Partnership, instigating a solo protest of working to rule, and generally making Paterson’s life miserable. Bernard hoped that for her sake the court found in her favour, as Paterson now had a stack of Carole-related grudges he would be looking for payback on.

‘I know you’re upset, but you do need to do the work we require of you, and today we’re helping out as marshals.’

‘I get that, Mr Paterson.’ She shot him a withering look. ‘But I’m not wearing one of those.’ She pointed at the high-visibility vest.

‘What’s wrong with—’

‘Or carrying one of those ridiculous radio things.’ She talked over him. ‘I couldn’t agree more with what the “left-wing loonies” out there are complaining about, so I’m perfectly happy to be attending an illegal demonstration on work time. But I’m not doing any of this marshalling nonsense, and if you disagree with that, why don’t you sack me?’

Paterson’s eyes followed her as she walked out. As the door closed on this challenge to his authority, he snapped round to face the two remaining members of his team.

‘Has either of you clowns got anything to say?’

‘About agreeing with the left-wing loonies or about not wanting to be marshalling?’ asked Bernard, for clarification.

‘Oh, shut up and put this on.’ Paterson shoved a vest at him.

Bernard hesitated but, not having Carole’s appetite for confrontation, acquiesced. A dribble of blood fell from his nose onto the front of the vest.

‘Gross,’ said Maitland. ‘Guv, look at his face. You can’t actually expect him to go out there looking like that? He’ll scare people.’

Before their boss could offer a response, a young man appeared in the room. ‘Mr Paterson? You’re wanted upstairs by Mr Mauchline.’

Paterson sighed. ‘OK, Maitland, time you were out marshalling. Bernard, you’d better come with me.’

Upstairs turned out to be a room on the first floor given over entirely to a bank of computers, each of which appeared to have a young man with a ponytail seated at it. Bernard was reminded of the HET’s IT Officer, Marcus, who seemed to have been left off the invite list for the day’s duties.

‘Interpol,’ muttered Paterson in his ear. ‘Scanning the crowd with facial recognition software to see if any European troublemakers have joined us for the day.’

‘John!’ A thin man in a suit headed in their direction. ‘You got the message. Excellent.’

‘Fraser. Good to see you.’

‘What the hell happened to him?’ Mauchline stared at Bernard.

‘Hit in the face,’ said Paterson.

‘So they’re assaulting us out there now, are they?’

‘No, no,’ said Bernard hastily, not wanting to be the misplaced cause of a crackdown on the protesters. ‘It was an accident due to the crowds.’

Paterson ignored him. ‘Well, what do you expect with those types? Anyway, you wanted to see me?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a job for your team. Nothing too complex, and it shouldn’t take them long.’

Bernard’s heart sank. The only plus point in Stuttle not being around was the fact that he couldn’t involve them in any of his off-the-books investigations, which generally turned out to be both complicated and time-consuming, indeed occasionally life-threatening.

‘Sir!’

They all turned in the direction of the call.

‘I think we have one.’ One of the young men gestured them over. French, thought Bernard, if the accent was anything to go by.

‘We’ve got intel that there’s a group of anarchists got something planned for today,’ explained Mauchline.

‘Anarchists?’ asked Bernard.

‘Well, troublemakers, you know the sort.’

‘Here, sir.’ The young man tapped the screen. ‘That is Florian Boucher.’

‘Boucher.’ Mauchline frowned. ‘He’s one of the ringleaders, isn’t he?’ He peered at the screen. ‘Is there a marshal nearby?’

‘There is one here.’ The Frenchman pointed to the screen. Bernard saw he was pointing at Maitland’s image.

‘Nobody closer?’

The Frenchman brought the camera back to Florian Boucher. Bernard stared at the image on screen then turned to Paterson. His boss’s face revealed several fleeting emotions, before it settled reluctantly on honesty.

‘The woman standing next to him is also a marshal. She’s from my team.’

‘Why isn’t she wearing a vest?’ Mauchline demanded. ‘And she doesn’t seem to have a radio?’

‘Well—’

‘What is she doing now? Is she waving to somebody?’

Carole did appear to be signalling very enthusiastically. She then blew a kiss.

‘I think she said her sons were also coming down to the demo,’ said Bernard.

In response, Paterson stood discreetly, but heavily, on his foot. Bernard internalised a yelp.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Paterson. Is this some kind of family outing for your guys?’

‘I don’t quite know what’s, ehm . . . I’ll radio Maitland and get him to move closer.’

‘Something’s happening.’ The French IT man sounded concerned. ‘Boucher is covering himself in liquid.’

‘This is Marshal Point 76.’ Maitland’s voice came over the radio. ‘There’s a guy down here shouting about setting fire to himself.’

‘Move into standard evacuation procedure,’ Mauchline said. ‘Reinforcements are being dispatched.’

Bernard caught sight of the screen again. There wasn’t any need for Maitland to commence evacuation, as everyone seemed to be stampeding away from Boucher; everyone, that is, apart from Carole.

‘Bernard – let’s go.’

Paterson gestured to him to follow, so he ran after his boss, out of the Chambers and back to the High Street. The other marshals had obviously all got the message to clear the area: there were numerous arguments going on as they tried to persuade the people who had turned back to watch proceedings to move further away. Paterson pushed his way to the front of the crowd and vaulted over the crash barrier with a surprising degree of grace, given his bulk. Bernard followed as quickly as he could, and the two of them raced up the centre of the Royal Mile until Paterson ground to an abrupt halt. He held out an arm to Bernard to stop him moving.

Florian Boucher was six feet away from them on the other side of the crash barrier. His clothes were dripping, and his hand was aloft, clutching what seemed to be a lighter. Carole was holding tight to his arm.

‘Everyone OK here?’ asked Paterson.

‘Yes, thank you, we’re just having a chat,’ said Carole, her voice high-pitched but controlled.

Bernard saw someone move towards them on his left. Maitland. The two of them exchanged a quick glance before turning back to the tableau in front of them.

Marshals were still attempting to get people away to a safe distance. Most had fled the scene apart from a few ghouls who were capturing it all on their mobiles.

‘It’s very important that you don’t use your lighter,’ said Paterson, slowly.

Florian looked around at the remnants of the crowd. ‘Are you filming this? Are you getting all this on camera?’

Nobody answered.

‘Yes, they’re filming you. Don’t do anything stupid,’ said Paterson. ‘Carole?’ He lowered his voice. ‘You might want to walk away now.’

A number of police had arrived. In the distance he could see some of their number toting bright red fire extinguishers, hurrying over the cobbles in their direction. If Carole could just keep Boucher talking for another few minutes, she’d be safe.

‘If I move, he’ll set fire to himself,’ she said.

‘I will!’ shouted Florian.

‘Why aren’t there more police?’ whispered Maitland to Bernard.

There was the sound of shouting from further up the street. They couldn’t hear the words but it had the feel of a challenge to authority.

‘Maybe this isn’t the only protest?’

In the distance a wail of sirens could be heard.

‘I think you’re right,’ said Maitland. ‘I’m going to try to edge closer to Carole.’

Before he could put his plan into action, Carole brought Florian’s arm crashing down onto the metal barrier. He yelled as the lighter bounced out of his hand and onto the cobbles. It bounced twice and landed by Paterson’s foot. He immediately bent down and pocketed it.

Two of the police officers jumped on Boucher, twisting his arm up behind his back and wrestling him down to the ground.

‘Are you getting this?’ Boucher was still yelling, despite the fact that he was now horizontal. ‘Capture this police brutality on your phones!’

A young policewoman with an extinguisher ran up beside them and enthusiastically sprayed all three of them with foam. She then turned the hose onto Carole, the force of the spray shoving her up against the crash barriers.

‘Are you OK?’ Paterson shouted. Carole waved a hand in his direction, then drew it across her face in a not entirely successful attempt to remove all the foam from her eyes and mouth.

Paterson’s radio broke into life, broadcasting Mauchline’s message to everyone around. ‘Everyone OK down there?’

‘I think so,’ said Paterson. ‘Everyone’s still alive and no-one’s on fire.’

‘Thank God you’re all safe.’ Mauchline’s voice echoed. ‘But please tell me that the woman down there who tackled Boucher isn’t the one who’s trying to sue us?’

Carole wiped the remaining foam from her face. ‘Why don’t you all just—’

Paterson’s hand made it to the mute button on his radio in the nick of time.

2

‘Do you think we can go?’ asked Maitland. They were back in the City Chambers, having spent the best part of the last two hours being interviewed about the recent events by the Scottish Health Enforcement Team, Police Scotland, and several other large men who hadn’t bothered to explain to them who they were.

Bernard looked round the room. It was the same one he had started the day in, and people were still rushing to and fro, talking into mobiles, shouting and waving across the room to the long-haired guys on computers, occasionally stopping to listen to the messages that were being broadcast over the loudspeaker system. There was no sign of Paterson or Mauchline, or anyone else who could officially give Maitland an answer to his question. ‘Probably? I think everyone who could possibly have wanted to speak to us has spoken to us by now.’

‘Well, almost everyone. We haven’t had a visit from your mate.’

‘My mate?’

Maitland grinned. ‘Yeah, Ian Jacobsen. Don’t he and Bob Ellis usually pop up in situations like this?’ He attempted to mimic Jacobsen’s voice. ‘We’re here from HET/CID Liaison to patronise you about how you’re doing things all wrong.’

‘I don’t think you can really call Ian Jacobsen my mate. Quite the opposite.’ Bernard shuddered. Even the thought of being in the same room as the HET/CID Liaison Team was terrifying. Jacobsen and Ellis were a two-man team who assisted the HET with any chasing of Health Defaulters who strayed into potentially criminal territory. His colleagues had had to call on the HET/CID Liaison far more frequently than Bernard liked; he hated the bits of his job that brought him into contact with Edinburgh’s criminal fraternity. If he’d wanted to work with criminals, he’d have joined the police force or the probation service instead of the HET, where he had hoped to put his degree in Health Promotion to good use. This was only part of his dislike of working with the HET/CID Liaison, however. His other issues with them were that they were both bloody terrifying, and that nobody, not Mona, not Paterson, not even Stuttle, really believed that they were serving members of Police Scotland.

Ellis was a large man, broad and cheerful, whose bonhomie Bernard always thought was a front to disguise an utterly ruthless temperament. Jacobsen was smaller and slighter, and considerably less charming. While the HET were united in their dislike of the CID officers, they each had a different theory as to who their actual paymasters were. Maitland favoured Secret Service, either MI5 or MI6 (his colleague was unclear on the difference between the two). Mona thought they had something of the military about them and had them pegged as an elite army unit. Paterson’s money was on some brand-new government unit set up as a response to the pandemic.

These were all good theories, although no-one had answered the burning question of what the actual purpose of any of these agencies was in relation to the HET, beyond turning up and poking around in their business, usually at the most inopportune moment. There were only two things about them that Bernard could say with absolute certainty. The first was that they were very good at ensuring that Carlotta Carmichael MSP got her own way. The second was that however much he disliked the CID officers, the feeling was definitely mutual.

‘I can totally understand why Jacobsen hates you.’ Maitland was warming to his theme. ‘After all, you did beat him unconscious with, what was it? A lump of wood?’

Briefly, Bernard closed his eyes, the memory of that evening coming back to him. ‘It was the wooden pole they used to open the skylight at the Plague Museum.’ The thought still made him feel sick. ‘And in my defence, I thought he was trying to kill Mona at the time.’

Maitland nodded, sagely. ‘And still no-one at SHEP has considered giving the three of you any workplace counselling. Just a pat on the back, whoops, these misunderstandings happen, off you go and work happily together.’

‘Well, maybe if we had been offered counselling, he wouldn’t have felt the need to push Mona down a flight of stairs.’

‘His word against hers, Bernie. Do you want me to suggest to Stuttle’s replacement that he organise some mediation?’

‘Please don’t.’

‘Probably wouldn’t work anyway, not with all the other grudges he has against you.’

Bernard felt his heart rate speed up. ‘What other grudges?’

‘Well, I don’t think he ever bought that you didn’t know Bryce was a spy.’

Bernard put his head in his hands. Bryce was a former member of the HET’s IT department, who as it turned out had been spying on them on behalf of, well, no-one was exactly sure who Bryce had been aligned to. What they did know, without a shadow of a doubt, was that Bryce had had a lot of weapons at his disposal and had been extremely willing to use them.

‘And I suppose I can see where he was coming from.’ Maitland was enjoying himself. ‘After all, you and Marcus were really good friends with Bryce. He must be assuming that the only reason that you didn’t rat him out to CID was that you were all in on it.’

Bernard looked up. He couldn’t quite read the expression on Maitland’s face. ‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’

‘I think that both you and Marcus are such morons that you wouldn’t spot a spy if he sat on you. Anyway,’ Maitland said, looking round the office again, ‘I’m surprised not to see the pair of them here.’

‘I’m not.’ Bernard immediately realised his mistake. He knew exactly where the HET/CID Liaison Team were. They were busy following up a lead on Operation Trigon, a lead that he, Bernard, had given them. A lead that Bryce had insisted he pass on to them, in order to give Bryce himself a bit of extra time to make a getaway. Bernard had no idea what Operation Trigon was, but the effect on the Liaison Officers had been extreme. The words had barely been out of his mouth when Ellis and Jacobsen had abandoned him and headed off to deal with whatever horror this operation referred to. He had had several sleepless nights since trying to work out how much damage he’d done with this false tip.

He’d tried to say no to Bryce. He tried very hard to say no, but Bryce’s threats had been both extravagant and strangely believable. He didn’t want to risk Bryce shooting his colleagues if he refused or, God forbid, making good on the intimation that he knew where Bernard’s mother lived, and wouldn’t hesitate to kill her either if Bernard didn’t do this one little favour for him. So he’d obliged, although due to some really bad timing on his part, by the time he had passed on the message, Bryce was already dead. And when Jacobsen found out he’d been lied to, Bernard would probably be joining him. He got to his feet. ‘I mean CID will be really busy, and I don’t think we’re doing much of use here.’

‘They know where we are if they want to speak to us again. Come on, let’s get gone before anyone says otherwise.’

‘I’m surprised you’re so keen to get back to the office.’ It wasn’t like Maitland to be rushing back to work when there was the opportunity to laze about, doing nothing, on work time. In fact, his ability to spin out simple tasks was legendary. Bernard had witnessed him on many occasions effortlessly turning a ten-minute task into something that involved several hours of concentrated skiving.

‘I’m starving. Aren’t you?’

Bernard realised, with a slight feeling of surprise, that he was, in fact, very hungry. Despite the near constant discussion of food all day, no-one had offered them anything to eat. He followed Maitland, looking round as he went, waiting for one of the people with clipboards to shout at him, but no-one batted an eyelid. It would appear they were free to go.

‘Can you believe the price of a . . .’ Maitland contemplated his lunch. ‘A pretty common-or-garden sandwich these days?’

‘Well, if you buy something on the Royal Mile you end up paying tourist prices.’ He looked at the poster in the window of a shop they were passing. It illustrated a large BLT, a fine-looking one, admittedly, with a great selection of lettuce, and probably some quality tomato, but the price quoted in the corner of advert was eye-watering. Since when did buying a sandwich leave you with no change from a tenner?

‘Even so, I reckon this is, what, double the price of what it would have been pre-Virus?’

‘Yeah, that’s probably about right.’ The Virus had led to staff shortages in just about every walk of life, but the food sector had taken a particular hit. Fruit and veg had ended up rotting in the fields, lorry drivers were in short supply, and consumables prices had rocketed. Wages, on the other hand, had not.

Bernard downed the last of his vegan bake and speeded up his pace. ‘I’ll catch up with you back at the office.’

Maitland hurried after him. ‘Why? Where are you going?’

Bernard tried not to answer. ‘Just got something, to, ehm . . .’

His colleague walked in front of him, forcing him to stop. ‘You’re off to the Museum aren’t you, popping in to see your bird on work time?’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘Shame on you, Bernie, mixing work and private life like that.’

Bernard took a large step to the side and continued walking. ‘Don’t call Lucy my bird. It’s sexist.’

‘Whatever.’ Maitland grinned. ‘Have you told the woman who you respectfully call your girlfriend—?’

‘I actually prefer the term partner.’

‘Have you told your partner about your ex-wife possibly being up the duff with your child?’

Bernard was torn between breaking into a run or grinding to a halt and telling Maitland to F Off. His indecision resulted in his pace slowing down, which his colleague took as a sign to continue his interrogation.

‘Are you even sure that your ex-wife is actually carrying your kid, and not someone else’s?’

‘She’s not technically my ex-wife. We’re still married.’

‘Oh well, that’ll reassure Lucy. The woman that you are still legally attached to may be having your baby. That won’t make her insecure at all. Anyway, I still don’t understand why you think the child is anything to do with you. You’ve been separated for ages, and it wasn’t like you were still, you know . . .’ He made a graphic hand gesture that Bernard did his best not to look at. ‘I say the kid’s not yours.’

‘I don’t know. She was so into having another child, and I wasn’t, so maybe she kept some of my sperm and used it.’

‘With a turkey baster?’ Maitland grinned.

‘Why am I even talking to you about this? It’s none of your business.’ He resumed his previous speedy pace. ‘Don’t ever raise the subject with me again.’

‘Can’t promise that. Impregnating one woman while being with another is literally the only interesting thing you have ever done in your life. If we don’t talk about this, you bring absolutely nothing to our conversations.’

‘Then don’t talk to me at all! Anyway, the office is in that direction.’ He pointed back up the High Street.

‘Go back on my own? What am I supposed to tell Paterson? I came running back but Bernard’s caught up in some urgent heritage work? No chance. I’m coming with you. Anyway, it’d be nice to catch up with Lucy.’

Bernard ran through possible scenarios that would stop Maitland following him to the Museum, and decided that, regrettably, nothing short of pushing his colleague under a bus would stop him. ‘OK, but just keep your mouth shut about exes and babies, right?’

‘Soul of discretion, me.’

The Edinburgh Museum of Plagues and Pandemics was located on York Place, in a three-storey Georgian town house. The Museum had had a key role in one of their previous investigations. The HET’s involvement had resulted in damage to several of the exhibits, and the arrest (and subsequent sacking) of Lucy’s then boss. Lucy didn’t seem to be bearing any kind of grudge against the HET, but then she had been given her boss’s old job, which might have made the interference easier to bear.

He stepped into the foyer and looked up. A wrought-iron staircase wound its way skyward, leading up to a cupola that flooded the hallway with light. The building was truly beautiful, yet much as he loved visiting Lucy here, he couldn’t quite shake off a feeling of dread every time he set foot on the premises. For him, it would always be the building in which Ian Jacobsen had tried to kill Mona.

‘Bernard!’ Lucy stepped out from behind a large pile of boxes. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘We were passing.’ He reached for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

‘Hi Lucy. Remember me?’ Maitland stepped into the hall and rested his elbow on top of the pile of boxes.

‘Of course.’ She smiled, much to Bernard’s annoyance. ‘Maitland, right?’ She turned back to Bernard and perused his face. ‘Is something wrong with your nose, it looks kind of bruised?’

‘Your boyfriend was very brave,’ said Maitland. ‘Took on a bunch of rowdy protestors single-handed.’ He winked at him.

‘Really?’ Lucy’s eyes were wide.

‘No. Well, anyway, it’s not important.’

She put her arm round him. ‘I’m just glad you’re OK.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Do you think it will have faded by Thursday? I’m sorry to be so shallow, it’s just that it will be the first time you’ve met my parents, and—’

‘It’ll be fine by then,’ he said quickly. ‘Anyway, you look busy. We probably shouldn’t disturb you, but I just wanted to let you know that I got your message about Thursday night and I’m really excited.’ He needed to get to a mirror and see how bad the damage to his face was. Was he going to have to buy some make up to cover up the bruise? Or maybe he should stick with Maitland’s lie that he went down in the line of duty?

‘Oh, wonderful. Look, we’re just putting the finishing touches to our latest display.’ The Museum housed a wide range of standing exhibits about pandemics through the ages. There was a room documenting the role of animals in spreading various diseases to humans, a room which featured a wide range of human interventions in response to illness, including some truly gruesome prophylactics and remedies for the Black Death, and an exhibit about the use of big data in tackling outbreaks. However, as Bernard had learned since meeting Lucy, the large room on the ground floor housed a topical exhibition which was updated every three months. Today, it would appear, was changeover day.

‘What’s the new exhibition?’

‘Well,’ she beamed, ‘strange as it seems we’ve never actually had an exhibition about our current virus. This exhibition is all about the H1N1 strain of influenza. Why don’t you take a look? I’d appreciate your feedback.’

Bernard looked at his watch. ‘I don’t know. We probably ought to—’

‘We’d love to.’ Maitland hustled him through the doorway, past a volunteer who was busy pinning a display board in place.

‘Paterson might be looking for us by now,’ Bernard hissed.

‘Not as important as keeping your good lady wife-stroke-partner happy, under the circumstances,’ said Maitland quietly, although not quite as quietly as Bernard would have liked. ‘Get some Brownie points in the bag before you tell her about—’

‘OK, OK, OK,’ he looked back over his shoulder, and was relieved to see that Lucy hadn’t followed them in. ‘Just shut up. We’ll have a quick look then head straight back.’

‘Course.’

Maitland headed off, taking in the room in an anti-clockwise direction. Bernard sighed. If he was going to look at this exhibition, he was going to do it properly, and read it from beginning to end. He turned round and looked at a display board that had ‘Introduction’ in large red letters at the top. He skim-read the information . . .

The H1N1 influenza strain was responsible for Spanish Flu . . .

The current strain has caused the death of over 1 million people in the United Kingdom since its first appearance on these shores . . .

He skipped over a few boards then stopped in front of ‘Government Response’. It outlined in detail the various departments that had been established in response to the crisis. There was a picture of Cameron Stuttle next to an explanation of the Scottish Health Enforcement Partnership, and underneath that, a brief description of the Health Enforcement Teams.

In an attempt to control the pandemic, the Government instituted a monthly Health Check for all Citizens who had not yet had the Virus. The information on Citizens’ Health Status is held on a database, and each individual has a card with a unique identifying number on it – commonly referred to as a ‘Green Card’. If a Citizen fails to attend a Health Check, this will be followed up by the Health Enforcement Team (the ‘HET’) who will track the individual down. The HETs have considerable powers of enforcement.

It wasn’t a bad summary of how the HETs worked, it just missed out on a few of the realities of their work. It didn’t mention that most of their time was spent tracking down drug addicts and alcoholics, whose chaotic lives meant that they struggled to make the regular monthly date. It skipped over the fact that many of their regular customers objected to their presence in their lives, and generally expressed their annoyance through the medium of violence. And it also didn’t mention the tendency of Cameron Stuttle to use the North Edinburgh HET as his own personal task force, roping them in to do whatever task Police Scotland was too busy to do, or more likely, to do whatever task Stuttle wanted to keep private.

He turned round to see what his colleague was looking at. Maitland appeared to have given up on the display boards and was staring out of the window, his tolerance limit for culture apparently reached after five minutes. In fairness, this was longer than Bernard would have predicted. He resolved to look at one more panel, then hit the road. He shuffled along and found that the next section looked at Young People and the Virus. It was a sobering read.

H1N1 can result in a huge overstimulation of the immune system, meaning that young, fit people are most at risk of dying from the Virus . . .

He stopped reading. If he read further, it might talk about the impact of influenza on babies. He didn’t need to read about the impact of influenza on babies. He’d lost his infant son to the Virus back in its early days, when no-one, not doctors, not researchers, not politicians, actually knew what they were dealing with. His marriage had never recovered, and if he was honest, he wasn’t sure that he had either.

‘Maitland.’ He nodded towards the door. His colleague loped over to join him, and they headed back to Reception, where Lucy was stocking Perspex leaflet holders with promotional information.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ She spun round to face them. ‘Be honest.’

‘I thought it was brilliant, really reminded me of lots I’d forgotten.’ Maitland nodded thoughtfully, and Lucy looked delighted. Bernard resisted the temptation to ask him if he had actually read any of it.

‘The exhibition was great, Lucy,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back to have a proper look at it as soon as I can. I’ll ring you later.’

‘Do you want to meet up this evening?’

‘Ehm, I’m sorry I can’t there’s a, ehm, work thing I need to attend.’

‘OK, give me a ring when you’re done.’ She waved to him, and they headed back through the grand entrance.

‘Work thing?’ Maitland ran down the steps and stared back up at him. ‘What work thing?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Did you just lie to your girlfriend?’

Bernard ignored him, walking determinedly past him in the direction of the office.

‘You did, didn’t you?’ His colleague swivelled round and started to follow him. ‘You know what, Bernie? I think you’re finally growing up and turning into a proper man, in all our lying, cheating glory.’

Before Bernard got a chance to tell Maitland to mind his own business, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and grinned.

‘Mona! Where are you?’

3

‘How was Bernard?’

‘Good,’ said Mona, shoving her phone back in her pocket. ‘The HET’s been dragged into marshalling the food protests. Bernard said they got caught up in a bit of excitement.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Greg Paterson turned from the passenger seat and stared at her. ‘When you say excitement . . .?’

‘An activist called Florian Boucher attempted to set fire to himself on the Royal Mile and was only stopped when my colleague Carole grabbed hold of him.’

‘Florian did that?’ Liz, Greg’s girlfriend, took her eyes briefly off the road and looked at her in the mirror.