Death at the Plague Museum E-Book

Lesley Kelly

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Three senior civil servants are dead or missing. As their brief is management of the deadly Virus, Bernard, Mona and the rest of the hard-pressed Health Enforcement Team are fighting not just a pandemic, but government secrets.

Leseprobe

Praise for Lesley Kelly

The Health of Strangers

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

Lin Anderson

‘Well paced with strong storylines, a frighteningly plausible plot and entertaining banter between its main characters throughout.’

Portobello Book Blog

‘The characters are brilliant. Their dialogue is spot on and the relationship between Bernard and Mona is great. A truly fantastic read!’

The Crime Warp

Songs by Dead Girls

‘Laced with dark humour, there’s a mesmeric quality to Kelly’s writing that ensures this book, like its predecessor, is a real page turner. I read it from cover to cover over a weekend - seldom does a book have that draw.’ 

Liam Rudden, Edinburgh Evening News

‘A nicely constructed and very entertaining thriller, complete with some beautifully-drawn and very memorable characters.’

Undiscovered Scotland

Death at the Plague Museum

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

Mason Cross

‘Kelly has turned a [missing person] story into something altogether more sinister, more energetic. Death at the Plague Museum demonstrates skilful storytelling and it grips from the first page.’

NB Magazine

‘The presence and flair of Kelly’s writing makes this a highly compulsive read. The ending was not only unexpected, but a shining example of how to finish the last page.’

The Ileach

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

Lesley Kelly has worked in the public and voluntary sectors for the past twenty years, dabbling in poetry and stand-up comedy along the way. She has won several writing competitions, including the Scotsman’s Short Story award in 2008. Her debut novel, A Fine House in Trinity, was long-listed for the William Mclvanney award in 2016. She can be followed on Twitter (@lkauthor) where she tweets about writing, Edinburgh and whatever else takes her fancy.

Also by Lesley Kelly

A Fine House in Trinity

The Health of Strangers

The Art of Not Being Dead (eBook)

Songs by Dead Girls

First published in Great Britain in 2017by

Sandstone Press Ltd

Willow House

Stoneyfield Business Park

Inverness

IV2 7PA

Scotland

This edition 2019

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 2019

Editor: Moira Forsyth

The moral right of author to be recognised as the

author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland

towards publication of this volume.

ISBN: 978-1-912240-52-4

ISBNe: 978-1-912240-53-1

Cover design by David Wardle

Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

To Dave, Fiona, Martin,

Pam, Robbie and Sophie

CONTENTS

Monday: Caged Birds

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Tuesday: Pocket Full of Posies

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Wednesday: Chimps

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Thursday: Beneath the Mask

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Friday: Making the Papers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Acknowledgements

Preview of Health of Strangers 4

MONDAY

CAGED BIRDS

1

The man fell, his hands clutching wildly at the air, grabbing at imaginary handholds like a desperate climber reverse mountaineering his way to the earth. The jacket of his suit flapped as he fell, an ineffective parachute that did nothing to slow his inexorable journey toward the ground.

As he passed the second-floor balcony the screen went hazy for a second, before another shot of the body appeared.

Cameron Stuttle, Chief Executive of the Scottish Health Enforcement Partnership, paused the recording. ‘The boys from IT edited the whole thing together. The museum’s got CCTV on each floor, apart from the very top one. We thought it would be useful if the four of you from the Health Enforcement Team saw his entire downward journey.’

From this angle, the camera was pointing at the man’s face. Mona winced at his horrified expression, both fear and confusion writ large. She’d be replaying that image in her head, she knew, probably just as she was falling asleep tonight. At least she’d be able to put tonight’s insomnia down to work, rather than her usual concerns about her love life, or her mother’s health.

The screen went fuzzy again, and a third camera angle kicked in. This time, the screen was empty apart from a plastic model of something large and scientific. A foot appeared in the corner of the picture, rapidly followed by the rest of the body, which crashed at speed into the sculpture.

‘Ooh,’ said Maitland. ‘That’s got to hurt. What was the thing that he landed on?’

‘It’s a 3-D model of the H1N1 virus,’ said Bernard, his eyes tightly closed. ‘It’s part of their standing exhibition.’

‘How come you know so much about it?’

‘I’m a member.’ Still without fully opening his eyes, he dug into his wallet and produced a small card. Mona took it from him and she and Maitland examined it. It proclaimed the bearer of the card to be a full member of the Edinburgh Museum of Plagues and Pandemics. The flip side highlighted the benefits of this, which included free access to all the exhibitions, and a 10% discount in the café and shop.

‘Can we see it again?’ John Paterson, the HET Team Leader, was staring thoughtfully at the blank TV screen.

‘OK,’ Stuttle pressed a button and the recording started again, ‘once more with feeling. You might want to look away now, Bernard.’

Mona watched again as the man fell fearfully to his death through the central internal stairwell of the museum. Something about the whole recording unsettled her. ‘Is it just me, or does he look mighty panicked for a man that’s opted to end it all?’

Paterson nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s flailing about a lot for a suicide. Don’t jumpers just let themselves fall?’ He frowned. ‘What makes you so sure this was intentional, Cameron? How do you know someone didn’t tip him over the top?’

‘A couple of things. First of all, as far as we can make out he was completely alone in the building. There’s no evidence on any of the CCTV cameras of any movement other than his, and, like everywhere else these days this building has secure Green Card technology. Nobody gets into the building without entering their Green Card in the machine.’ He paused, as if waiting for someone to challenge him. Satisfied that they were all in agreement on this, he carried on. ‘And secondly, he left a note, of sorts.’

‘Of sorts?’ Maitland looked intrigued.

‘It’s a little bit ambiguous. Could be a suicide note, or it could be a resignation letter.’

‘From what? What was his job?’

‘I’ll come back to that in a minute. Bernard, did you have a question?’

Bernard was sitting patiently with his hand raised. Maitland nudged her in the ribs. ‘Probably wants to know what was going on while he was too scared to look.’

‘Shut up.’ She tried not to smile.

Bernard looked put out but kept going. ‘It’s more of a comment really. I think it’s a strange place to choose to commit suicide.’

‘Jumpers often choose somewhere that is significant to them . . .’ said Mona.

‘Yeah, maybe he was also a member.’ Maitland smirked. ‘Probably wanted one last 10% off at the shop. Check his bag for souvenirs.’

Bernard’s cheeks were scarlet. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. I was trying to say that it was an odd place to choose to jump, because there is no guarantee that you would actually die. You’d end up horribly injured but depending on where you landed, you might survive.’

‘A very valid point, Bernard,’ said Stuttle.

If possible, it appeared that Bernard’s cheeks turned even redder.

‘Particularly as in this case, the fall didn’t immediately kill him,’ Stuttle explained. ‘He’d probably have splattered if he’d landed on the marble floor at reception, but the plastic model thingy cushioned his fall.’

‘So what did kill him?’

‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Stuttle. ‘The pathologists are running some tests even as we speak, but the initial indications are that there was something in his bloodstream that shouldn’t have been.’

‘Like poison?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘Possibly.’

There was a small ripple of interest, which Paterson raised his hand to quell. ‘Fascinating as this is, I don’t see what it has to do with the HET. We search for people who have missed their monthly Health Check. If this guy is overdue for a Health Check he’s got a really, really good excuse for missing it.’

‘I’m aware of all that.’

Paterson still looked suspicious. ‘This isn’t one of those scenarios when you need some dirty work doing, and you’re intent on press-ganging us into helping you?’

Mona’s mind went back to her recent trip to London with Paterson to search for a missing professor. The words ‘press-gang’ and ‘dirty work’ had all been entirely applicable to it.

‘I’m hurt that you would think that of me, John,’ said Cameron, smiling. ‘Let me explain . . .’

He was interrupted by a knock on the office door. Their heads all swivelled round to see Ian Jacobsen from Police Scotland appear. Mona felt a wave of fury rising up from her feet. She tutted loudly, and turned to glare at Stuttle, who was busy not catching her eye.

‘Ian, perfect timing. I was just explaining to our HET colleagues about the unfortunate incident at the pandemics museum.’

‘Morning, all.’ Ian smiled round at the company. Only Bernard smiled back, then looked slightly panicked when he realised none of his colleagues was extending similar pleasantries. ‘I’m hoping that the HET and Police Scotland can work jointly on this.’

‘No way.’ Mona couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘Mona—’

‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Stuttle, but I’d rather resign than work with Ian and his colleagues.’

A look passed between Stuttle and Paterson.

‘Seriously, Guv, last time we worked together I nearly got shot.’

It was Ian’s turn to tut. ‘Last time we worked together I was under the impression I saved your life . . .’

Mona’s jaw fell open at this flagrant rewriting of history.

‘Mona,’ Stuttle’s tone was at its most conciliatory, ‘just listen to what Ian has to say. I’m sure we can accommodate everyone.’

She was torn between continuing to make her point, and having her curiosity satisfied about the body. She ended up not saying anything, which Ian took as a signal to start talking.

‘I have to stress to you all that everything from today’s meeting is confidential . . .’

‘Of course.’ Paterson responded for all of them.

‘The gentleman that you just watched take a tumble was called Nathan McVie.’

‘I recognise that name,’ said Bernard.

‘You should. He is – was – Head of Pandemic Policy for the Scottish Government. Which made him probably the second most important civil servant with regards to the Virus. Not, it has to be said, a particular fan of the HETs. He regarded them as largely window-dressing, with limited actual impact on the Virus.’

‘Always nice to meet a fan,’ said Paterson. ‘But I still fail to see what this has to do with us. He’s dead, not missing.’

‘True. And if that is all there was to this I wouldn’t be imposing on your time. But let me tell you about Mr McVie’s last day. At 10am last Friday, he turned up here for a meeting—’

‘With the museum staff?’

‘No, they’d no involvement in the meeting at all. The museum rents out conference spaces on the top floor, and McVie had booked one late on Thursday. Although we are wondering why Mr McVie couldn’t find a meeting room anywhere in Victoria Quay, St Andrews House or any of the other Edinburgh buildings owned by the Government. Anyway, four people attended the meeting: Mr McVie, Carlotta Carmichael MSP—’ He broke off in response to the low growl of dismay that was coming collectively from the HET staff.

‘The same Ms Carmichael who was recently spotted at the North Edinburgh HET office, complaining about the standards of housekeeping and threatening to establish an Inspector of HETs post, if my sources are correct?’ Ian grinned.

‘Shut up and get on with it,’ said Paterson.’

‘OK, so McVie, Ms Carmichael, and two other civil servants were at the meeting: Jasper Connington, Director of Health for the Scottish Government, and Helen Sopel, Head of the Virus Operational Response Team.’

‘Still not seeing what it has to do with us.’

‘At 8.30 this morning, Helen Sopel failed to turn up for her monthly scheduled Health Check. As you can imagine for someone in her position, missing a Health Check is unthinkable. She didn’t turn up for work this morning, and her colleagues couldn’t get any answer from her mobile. While her staff were wondering what they should do about her unexpected absence, her sister phoned looking for her. Apparently she was worried as Helen stood her up for a cinema trip on Sunday night.’

‘That’s not good.’

‘Quite so,’ Stuttle concurred. ‘The four most important people in Virus policy in Scotland had a meeting here on Friday morning. At 11.30pm on Friday night, one of them kills themselves, and at some point over the weekend, another one goes missing.’

‘Carlotta Car—’

‘Carlotta Carmichael was absolutely alive and well as of an hour ago, so don’t get your hopes up, John.’

‘Do we know what the meeting was about?’ asked Bernard.

‘No, we don’t. But we need to get Helen Sopel found and into a Health Check before anyone notices she’s gone. Because these are the people at the very top of Virus policy, these are the people who are continually popping up on TV telling us that everything is under control, these are the people who are supposed to be making everything all right. If word gets out that they are going crazy, there’s going to be panic on the streets.’ He looked round at them all. ‘There’s going to be bloodshed.’

2

Bernard pressed the on switch of his computer and wondered what to do next. The morning’s video show had been horrific, and he was in full agreement with Stuttle that if so much as a sniff of the disarray at the head of the civil service was made public, there would be panic on the streets. He’d fully anticipated that the team would rush back to their offices for a debrief, with an immediate doling out of tasks by their Team Leader.

But Paterson and Stuttle had excused themselves at the end of the meeting, with a muttered statement about a team leaders’ meeting over at the Parliament. In a slightly louder tone he’d made it clear that Mona was to take a lead on activity in his absence. Mona had risen to this challenge by heading off to the cafeteria in pursuit of coffee. Seriously, Bernard, I’m worse than useless until Iget some caffeine into me – you want one?

He’d declined the offer. He was trying to limit his consumption of coffee, ditto his intake of alcohol, takeaways, sugary snacks and any other item that his subconscious might be driving him to regard as comfort food. He was definitely at risk of taking refuge in eating, because there certainly wasn’t any refuge in bricks and mortar. Since he had split – just about amicably – from his wife, he’d had a range of increasingly unfortunate living arrangements. A flat-share with a beautician had started promisingly, but had lasted only a matter of weeks, brought to an abrupt end when a HET investigation resulted in his landlady getting her window put in, and a visit from a large and threatening thug.

This had been followed by five nights sleeping on a very short sofa in his mother’s sheltered housing flat, until one of the neighbours had complained about her harbouring a flatmate who clearly didn’t meet the age restrictions. That had led, desperately, to his current living conditions. The best thing he could say about them was that at least they were ending. In fact, they were concluding that very evening when he picked up the keys to his new one-person flat. Until he was properly settled in his new home and back on an even keel, he was sticking to mineral water and eating his greens, in a slightly doomed attempt to protect his mental health.

Also, he was slightly ashamed to admit, to stop him getting fat. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing unwanted weight gain, noticing an increasing amount of flesh that could be termed ‘love handles’ appearing. In his life before the HET he had been a professional badminton player, training three hours a day, six days a week. He’d followed a strict, protein-rich diet, which he’d continued to keep to while he’d retrained in health promotion. But with every passing month at the HET he’d fallen further into the world of fast food, snacks from the canteen and chocolate bars from the corner shop. His slow, sauntering journey toward obesity had to stop. He couldn’t get fat. Especially not now that he was single.

There was an outburst of expletives from the direction of Maitland’s desk. His ire seemed to be directed at the contents of his email Inbox. Bernard chose to ignore the ranting. In his experience of the other HET members, there did tend to be a great deal of swearing, much of which was directed at him. He’d been horrified when he’d first heard Mr Paterson refer to a colleague from SHEP as a bit of a ‘c-word’. He was largely able to screen it out now, although, like the junk food, he was doing his best to avoid developing a cursing habit himself. It was a slippery slope from an occasional oath in the office to accidentally telling your mother to F Off.

He returned to his musings about singledom. He and his wife had split by mutual agreement (it wasn’t like she’d kicked him out or anything, no matter what Maitland seemed to think) after ten years of marriage. They’d lost their baby son to the Virus, and the marriage had never really recovered, floundering on the difference of opinion about whether to have another child or not. And now he was torn between making the best of things, moving on, maybe even signing up for one of the dating sites that his friends Marcus and Bryce had been talking about. The other half of his brain was thinking desperately of a way to reconcile with his wife, a difficult reconciliation given his reluctance to bring a child into a world filled with the Virus and her insistence on . . .

A stapler crashed onto his keyboard. Startled, he swivelled round on his chair to confront the aggressor. ‘What are you playing at, Maitland? You could have hit me!’

‘I was aiming for you! You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.’

‘Yes, and . . .’

‘Check your emails – I’ve got one from HR that I don’t understand. I must be reading it wrong.’

‘If it’s got the phrase “P45” in it, I think you are reading it just right.’

Maitland stood up and headed in his direction. Bernard spun hastily back toward his computer. ‘All right. I’ll look.’

Maitland shoved him out of the way and double-clicked on one of his emails. ‘There – that one. It’s been sent to every member of staff.’ He began to read aloud. ‘Due to the continuing challenges presented bythe Virus, we are invoking Clause 74 of your contractof employment. Please note that this may affect your annualleave, retirement, and severance plans. What does that mean? It’s not going to be good, is it? I mean, they’re not going to email us all to say they’ve improved our terms and conditions?’

‘Have you looked at what Clause 74 actually says?’

‘Of course not! It’s not like I carry a copy of my contract around with me in case I need to cross-reference it against my incoming emails.’

‘Do you even know where your contract is?’

‘At home! Probably. Or maybe I left it at Emma’s flat when I moved out. Or it could be in a pile of stuff I left at my mum’s. We’ll need to get HR to send us new copies out.’

‘No, we won’t.’ Bernard opened the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and pulled out a ring binder. He flicked past his timesheets and expenses claims for the past six months, then found what he was looking for, neatly stored in a plastic pocket. ‘My contract. The same as yours and, I assume, everyone else’s.’

Maitland made a grab for it, but he managed to get it out of the way just in time. With his back to his colleague, he found the correct page. ‘Oh, this is bad.’

‘What?’ Maitland made a second, and this time successful, grab for the contract. ‘Clause 74: In the event of exceptional circumstances the ScottishHealth Enforcement Partnership has the right to insist that allstaff are retained within the HETs in order to meetthe requirements of the service. This could include cancellation ofannual leave, delaying of retirement and revoking the right ofstaff members to resign.’ He lowered the paper. ‘Can they do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean “you don’t know”? The one, solitary contribution that you make to this team is that you understand shit like this.’

‘That’s not true! I . . .’

‘I mean, there must be some regulation or other that protects our rights.’

Bernard retrieved his, now crumpled, contract from his colleague, smoothed it out and re-read the offending clause.

‘Did you have provisions like this in your Police contract?’

‘I don’t think so. I mean, there was something about the right to cancel annual leave, but nothing about having to work for the Police for the rest of my life.’

‘It won’t be for the rest of your life, just until the Virus is under control.’

Maitland snorted, and turned back to his seat. ‘No time soon then.’

Bernard read and re-read the clause, his heart racing a little faster each time. The one thing that had made life at the HET tolerable was the thought that after one too many taunts from Maitland, or Mr Paterson, he could tell them where to go. In fact, he fantasised about it on a fairly regular basis. The cutting jibe he would make about Paterson’s leadership style. The pleasure he would take in telling Maitland that the only good thing about him was his girlfriend. And now – now – he was trapped here. Hell is other people, particularly those with the letters H.E.T. in their job title.

‘Look who I found.’ Mona, and her coffee cup, appeared in the doorway, her arm round a middle-aged woman, with an untidy mop of long brown hair.

‘Carole!’ Maitland rushed over to embrace his HET partner. ‘We’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve missed you too.’ She smiled, but Bernard thought it looked a little forced.

He gave her a discreet once-over. Pale, he thought, her rosy-cheeked good health no longer shining through. There were stress lines around her eyes, and more grey in her hair than he remembered. Something in her stance conveyed a weariness with life that was a complete contrast to her former optimistic self. She seemed to have aged in the six weeks since he’d last seen her, not surprising given the events that had led up to her extended compassionate leave.

‘How’s the jaw?’ The jaw had received a booting from a suspected health defaulter, leaving Carole barely able to eat or talk.

She made a show of chomping her teeth together. ‘Full working order.’

‘And the boy?’ The boy, Carole’s teenage son, had been an unwitting pawn in an attempt by a local drug dealer to get some traction over the HET. A pretty girl, drugs, and teenage bravado had combined to put young Michael in a compromised position. After a bit of nudging Stuttle had agreed to six weeks’ leave for Carole to get on top of the situation.

‘He’s . . .well, he’s OK. He’s still down living with my cousin in Alnwick. We’re thinking about trying to get him into school there, actually. Which brings me to my visit today.’ She reached into her bag and produced an envelope. ‘I’m afraid I’m not coming back. This is my resignation letter. Is Mr Paterson in?’

‘Oh, Carole, are you sure about this?’ Mona reached out to her.

Maitland took several large steps backwards and poked Bernard’s shoulder. He looked up, and Maitland made a nodding gesture in Carole’s direction. Bernard interpreted this to mean that whoever was going to break the bad news to their colleague, it wasn’t going to be Maitland.

‘Ehm, Carole, I don’t think you can resign.’

Her face crumpled a little, and he thought for a moment she was going to cry. ‘I know you don’t want me to go, Bernard, and I’ll miss all of you too, but I really have to put my family first.’

Mona put a comforting arm round Carole’s shoulder. ‘Of course you do. We understand.’

Bernard looked up at Maitland for help, who repeated his nodding gesture more vigorously than before. He sighed, and prepared to try again.

‘No, I mean you really can’t resign. We got an email this morning telling us that SHEP’s invoking a clause in our contract that means we can’t leave.’

Carole’s face contorted through a number of emotions. The denial and bargaining stages quickly rushed past before her features landed heavily on anger.

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Mona.

‘Check your emails if you don’t believe me – or have a read of mine.’ Maitland rolled his chair out of the way and the two of them pushed in to the computer.

‘Where’s Paterson?’ Carole’s voice had the low measured tone of someone who was trying very hard not to completely lose it.

‘Him and Stuttle disappeared off to some meeting,’ said Maitland. ‘I’m pretty sure the “meeting” will be full of HET Team Leaders from across Scotland hiding out until their staff have calmed down.’

‘This,’ Carole’s voice was losing its controlled edge, ‘this is WRONG! HOW CAN THEY DO THIS?’

‘Carole—’ began Bernard.

‘Please say you are not about to tell me to calm down?’

‘Ehm . . .’ He gave up. If unhelpful suggestions weren’t to be allowed, he really had no other weapons in his armoury.

‘Because I do not feel calm. I feel furious. I’ve lost two teeth because of the HET. I had to relocate my son to England because of the HET. And now you are telling me I’m trapped here, like a bird in a bloody cage? You’re telling me I have to work for them for the rest of my life?’

‘It won’t be for the rest of your life, just until . . .’ Maitland trod heavily on his foot, which he took as a sign to shut up.

Carole glared at them all and turned on her heel.

‘Where are you going?’

She snatched up her bag. ‘To get a lawyer.’

The three of them sat in silence until her footsteps disappeared.

‘When do you think the Guv will show his face?’ asked Maitland. ‘I’m betting we don’t see him before Wednesday.’

There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

‘Or he might be about to front it out?’

They watched the empty door frame, until Ian Jacobsen loomed into view. ‘Your colleague shot past me with a face like fury. What did I miss?’

3

‘Are you going to crack a smile at any point today, Mona?’

They were in Ian’s car, en route to the Scottish Government’s offices in Leith.

‘Probably not.’

‘I still think this is a pretty poor way to treat someone who saved your life.’

She kept silent, refusing to rise to the bait.

‘It could have turned out very badly for you and Bircham-Fowler if Bob and I hadn’t ridden to the rescue.’

She leaned forward and turned the radio on. Ian tutted, but at least he stopped talking.

A year ago the name Professor Alexander Bircham-Fowler would have meant very little to her. She’d probably have known that he was Scotland’s leading virologist, with a long and distinguished career at one of Scotland’s top universities. But as he led a largely private life, aside from popping up occasionally on the Scottish evening news to discuss Ebola, or swine flu, or one of the many pandemics that never quite arrived, he’d have remained one of these half-familiar faces that you could never quite put a name to. But then the Virus had struck, and as the go-to person for commenting on viral issues, he had been catapulted into something approaching celebrity.

Maybe notoriety would be a better word, as the Professor’s approach to the Virus had not won him many friends within the Scottish establishment. He was often at odds with official government policy, and had gained a reputation for speaking truth to power. Not surprisingly, this had given him a large cult following amongst health professionals, trade unions and young people. As a keen supporter of the Health Check regime, he was popular with the HET staff, but his open criticism of other aspects of Virus policy had bought him some serious enemies.

Mona’s knowledge of the Professor and his work had deepened significantly some weeks previously. Bircham-Fowler had inexplicably disappeared dangerously close to both his scheduled Health Check, and an important speech he’d been due to give at the Scottish Parliament. Stuttle – a signed-up member of the Bircham-Fowler Fan Club – had ordered Paterson to find him, and in turn Paterson had ordered her to help. With the assistance of Theresa, the Professor’s extremely bossy secretary, they’d tracked him down to London, where he had been looking for his estranged daughter.

It transpired that tracking him down was the easy bit. Whatever the Professor had been planning to discuss in his speech, it had alarmed someone so much that they’d spent most of their journey back to Scotland being tailed by a car on the M1. When they’d stopped at a service station, things had taken a turn for the murderous, as one of their unknown assailants had stalked them through the dark and attempted to shoot the Professor. And the thing that had alarmed Mona most about the whole event was that the man who had taken the potshot knew her by name, a turn of events that no one at SHEP had ever explained to her satisfaction.

Annoyingly, there was some truth to Ian’s claims to have saved their lives. Ian, and his colleague Bob Ellis from the Police Scotland Virus Liaison section, had driven down from Scotland to find them, and had arrived in just the nick of time to help.

At least, she’d thought they were being helpful. She’d become increasing suspicious of their motives and had reluctantly left the Professor in their care. Her suspicions had been vindicated when the Professor had a heart attack on the steps of the Parliament. Whether this was down to stress or something more sinister she didn’t know, but she did know that every fibre in her body distrusted Ian Jacobsen.

The car turned into the Scottish Government offices.

‘Hello there, gorgeous.’

The car bonnet nudged the barrier to the car park. Ian passed both their Green Cards to the woman in the security booth, and blew her a kiss.

Mona rolled her eyes, but the Scottish Government woman didn’t seem so bothered. ‘Oh, you.’ She smiled and handed him his card back. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’

The barrier to the car park lifted, and Ian drove off.

‘Really?’ Mona stared at him, arms folded.

‘What?’

‘“Hello there, gorgeous”? Is that how you talk to Scottish Government staff?’

‘What’s wrong with that? I’ve known Margaret for years.’

‘And that makes it OK?’

‘Yes! It’s not like I walked into a meeting and groped the Permanent Secretary’s arse, or felt up an intern. Margaret’s an old pal and she doesn’t mind. In fact, judging by the smile she shot me, I think I made her day.’

‘Well, I think it’s a really unprofessional way to talk to women at work.’

He swung the car into a space so abruptly that she slid to the side, bumping her shoulder on the door. ‘Really, Mona?’ He turned off the engine and twisted toward her, a hint of a smirk around his lips. ‘You of all people want to talk about behaving unprofessionally with women at work?’

Her stomach lurched, and she turned to look out of the window.

‘Sudden silence, Mona? Aren’t you going to say, “Why, Ian, whatever do you mean?”’

He knew.

How could he know? How had he found out about the single, stupidest thing that she’d ever done at work? Oh God, he’d seen the video. She’d been set up, of course. Amanda Harris, a tiny, beautiful, and as it turned out psychopathic flatmate of a health defaulter, had turned to her for comfort. A reassuring hug had turned into something more, captured for posterity by a camera hidden in Amanda’s hallway. Amanda had sent her a copy, a prelude to blackmail she’d assumed at the time, although it hadn’t turned into that. She’d always wondered if Amanda had made good on her threat to pass it on to Mona’s colleagues, and she supposed that she knew the answer to that now. Stuttle and Ian had probably had a good laugh at it. Why was she even surprised that he knew? People like Ian Jacobsen and Cameron Stuttle made it their business to know about people’s indiscretions.

‘I mean, it’s out of character for you to sit there quietly, not asking any questions.’ Ian grinned at her, obviously enjoying the moment. ‘Hmm, could it be that you are sitting there thinking, “Oh God, surely he doesn’t know about me throwing myself at Amanda Harris. Oh God, don’t let him have seen the footage.”’ He elbowed her, less than gently, in the ribs. ‘And in case that is something you are wondering about, I can confirm that I have seen it. Several times, in fact. Watching the two of you snogging like that, I have to tell you, gave me a definite tingly feeling. Have you told your colleagues about your feelings for the ladies?’

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning round. She hadn’t, in fact, had any kind of discussions with her colleagues about her sexuality, considering it none of their business. ‘You’re a pig, Ian.’

‘And you’re a dyke with such poor judgement that she lets herself be filmed kissing a witness in a health defaulter case. Has Amanda been in touch recently?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Has she been in touch with Stuttle?’

He smiled. ‘Not for me to say. Shall we get on with our investigation?’

‘You fucker.’

His smile vanished. ‘I’m giving you one last chance to play nice, Mona. You were a pain in the arse last time I had to work with you, and I’m not putting up with that again. I know a lot more about you now, and this time you’re going to do as you are told.’

The rational part of Mona’s brain knew that this would be a good time to shut up, keep her head down and get Ian out of her life as quickly as possible without antagonising him further. Unfortunately her rational brain was a lot less assertive than her emotional one. She turned toward Ian so fast that her seat belt held her back. ‘You know a lot about me, do you?’ she snapped. ‘Then you’ll have learned enough to realise that I’m not going to let myself be bullied, especially not by one of Cameron Stuttle’s lackeys.’

‘Cameron Stuttle’s lackey? That’s a good one.’ He shook his head, still smirking. ‘Anyway, let’s get in there. And Mona?’ He opened his car door. ‘Try not to stick your tongue down the throat of any good-looking civil servants we come across in the course of this investigation.’

When Mona closed her door the slam could be heard across the whole of Leith.

Mona was aware of every eye in the Virus Operational Response Team watching them as they walked through the department. She wondered how much they knew about their visit. It might have been more discreet to meet off-site, rather than have everyone in the team speculate as to why Helen Sopel was off work. Did civil servants all sign confidentiality agreements? She certainly hoped so, because explaining to Stuttle why their top-secret investigation was a headline in the Edinburgh Evening News would not be fun.

The secretary who collected them from reception was a youthful twenty-something, smartly dressed and immaculately made-up. She showed them into a small meeting room where, by way of contrast, a middle-aged man in a slightly crumpled suit was sitting. To Mona’s surprise the secretary sat down at the table and gestured to them to do likewise.

‘I’m Anneka Tomas, Deputy Head of VORT.’

Mona reassessed the woman opposite her. Not a secretary, not by a long chalk. She looked impossibly young to be in such an important role, and her perfect hair and presentation made Mona wish she’d at least taken the time to drag a brush through her mop before she left the office.

‘And this is Simon, from our team. I thought you might like to speak to him because he took the call from Helen’s sister.’

Simon raised a hand in their direction. His slight air of dishevelment and slumped posture combined to give the impression that he was less than happy about being in this meeting.

‘Great, thanks for making the time to meet us. I’m Mona Whyte, HET Officer at North Edinburgh, and this is...’

‘Ian Jacobsen.’ He pulled a notebook out of his pocket, and sat, his pen poised.

Mona noted that he hadn’t mentioned he was from CID. Was this discretion, a little sin of omission, so that the VORT didn’t start wondering what interest Police Scotland had in all this? Or did it suit the police to keep their distance from this investigation?

‘Do you have some particular questions for us?’ Anneka asked. Mona detected a slight accent in her voice, indicating that English, flawless though it was, probably wasn’t her first language.

‘Perhaps you could start by telling us a little bit about Ms Sopel? What is she like?’