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- Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
The body of Paul Shore toppled onto him, a stream of blood pooling around them on the concrete. Bernard lay back and waited to see if he too was going to die.An undercover agent gone rogue is threatening to shoot a civil servant a day. As panic reigns, the Health Enforcement Team race against time to track him down – before someone turns the gun on them.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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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 DeadGirls], 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.’
CrimeFiction Lover
‘Razor sharp Scottish wit . . . makes A Fine Housein 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
TheHealth of Strangers
The Art of Not Being Dead
Songsby Dead Girls
Death at the Plague Museum
Also by Lesley Kelly
A Fine House in Trinity
First published in Great Britain by
Sandstone Press Ltd
Willow House
Stoneyfield Business Park
Inverness
IV2 7PA
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 2020
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.
Sandstone Press is committed to a sustainable future. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
ISBN: 978-1-912240-93-7
ISBNe: 978-1-912240-94-4
To Barbara, Carol, Deirdre, Eddie, Iain, Ian, Joe, Linda,
contents
Monday: Arthusian Fall
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Tuesday: Gossamer Catchbasin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Wednesday: Fire and Deathstone
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
Thursday: Dead Hummingbirds
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
Friday: Greatest Hits
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Acknowledgements
MONDAY
1
It was the kind of gun to give you nightmares: black, shiny, approximately three foot long, and far, far, too close for comfort.
The months that he’d spent working for the North Edinburgh Health Enforcement Team should really have prepared Bernard for moments like this, should have given him the negotiation skills required to face down a hostile armed man, and the confidence to stand his ground. There had been an afternoon on guns and other weapons as part of his induction, delivered by an enthusiastic demobilised soldier fresh from a tour of Afghanistan. At the end of three hours Bernard could just about recognise the difference between a rifle and a carbine, but had learned precious little about what to do if you found yourself on the business end of either of them. More time on the subject might have helped, but he was pretty sure that even if he lived to be a hundred he would never, ever, feel at ease dealing with an authorised firearms officer.
The firearms officer who was currently alarming him was stationed in front of the public entrance to the Scottish Parliament, and seemed to be ignoring Bernard’s attempts to politely signal that he needed to enter the building. He continued staring straight over his head, his eyes scanning the activity taking place on the street behind him. It was busy, Parliament staff hurrying along in between the tourists stopping to get their pictures taken next to the ornamental pond, and dodging the parkour enthusiasts, who used the steps and landscaping around the Parliament as their own personal gym.
‘Ehm, excuse me, I need to get into the building.’
The police officer shook his head. ‘No can do. No-one is allowed in.’
‘But I’m here for the Virus Parliamentary Committee.’ He attempted to get his ID into the officer’s line of sight.
‘Sorry, sir, even so. Nobody’s coming in here.’
‘Why not?’
The question was ignored. ‘If you can just step back from the building please, sir.’
He took a few paces backwards, then stood watching as a number of other people received the same treatment.
‘Bernard.’
He turned to see a tall, well-built man with a crew cut striding toward him. His boss.
‘What’s going on here?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Paterson. They’re not letting anyone into the building.’
Something bumped into his lower leg, and he moved hurriedly out of the way of a large Alsatian dragging a man in black along in his wake. They watched in silence as the armed officer stood to one side to let dog and handler into the building.
‘Sniffer dogs?’ said Paterson. ‘That can’t be good.’
‘You don’t think they’re looking for—’
The expression on Paterson’s face silenced him before he could say the word ‘bombs’ out loud. He lowered his voice before continuing. ‘Do you think this is anything to do with Bryce?’
‘Why on earth would you think it was anything to do with our former colleague?’
‘Well . . .’
‘I mean, just because he proved himself pretty damn handy with an incendiary device when he blew up the HET’s offices, are you going to blame him for every unexplained outbreak of chaos?’
This was probably sarcasm, but sometimes it was hard to tell with Paterson. He was staring in a manner that suggested he was waiting for a response.
‘Well . . .’
‘Of course it will be Bryce’s work! He’s not done with us, is he? Do you think he left a ‘Watch this Space’ sign on our website just for the fun of it? He’s probably already updated it with his plans to blow the MSPs to kingdom come.’
‘That’s a good point.’ Bernard pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll check if it has changed.’
‘Let’s get a bit further away from the building while you do that—’
‘John, Bernard!’
One of the glass doors of the Parliament had opened, and the familiar figure of Cameron Stuttle gestured to them to come towards the building.
‘Must be a fuss about nothing.’ Paterson headed swiftly towards his boss. Bernard hurried after him, hoping he was right. Both Paterson and Stuttle had a considerably higher threshold for danger than he did. Their ‘nothing’ was quite often a substantial ‘something’ in his opinion.
‘Right.’ Stuttle stepped out of the building, and an armed police officer immediately positioned himself in front of the door. ‘The Virus Committee has been postponed and we have to get this area cleared.’
‘Why?’ said Bernard and Paterson in unison.
‘You take the park side, Bernard, I’ll take the area round the pond thingy, and John, you take from here to the Queen’s Gallery.’
‘And we’re telling people . . .?’
Stuttle strode off.
‘What are we supposed to say to them?’
‘As little as possible. Which shouldn’t be too difficult seeing as we know bugger all.’
Bernard sighed. Ordering people around really wasn’t one of his talents. Paterson and Stuttle had had decades of practice at it in their previous lives as police officers. As a Health Promotion Officer, he had extensive experience of supporting people in a non-judgemental manner to realise for themselves that smoking and over-eating were bad for them. Not the ideal skill set for today’s task. He approached a couple of young women in business suits, both heading towards the Parliament entrance. ‘Are you members of the Committee? I’m terribly sorry but we’ve had to cancel today’s meeting.’
They stopped, frowning at him.
‘Oh. Why?’
It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an answer. ‘Political reasons . . . Unavailability?’
‘Yeah, right.’ One of the women laughed. ‘I heard a rumour there was going to be an illegal demo here today. Is that it?’
He shrugged in a way that he hoped was neither confirming nor denying her accusation, while wondering if she was correct.
‘So,’ began her friend, ‘do we just go back to the office then, or what?’
‘Yes,’ he said, confidently. ‘Back to the office.’
The two of them drifted off, occasionally looking over their shoulders at the confusion.
Buoyed by this success he moved on to a group of men. One of them raised his phone as he approached and took a picture of him. Bernard got a flash of a press pass and a strong impression of testosterone. His heart sank. Journalists. Political journalists. They weren’t about to turn tail and head home without having their questions answered.
‘What’s the deal here? Why’s Cameron Stuttle running round shouting at people?’
Bernard looked over in Stuttle’s direction. He did appear to be taking a rather more assertive approach in clearing the area.
‘The Parliamentary Committee is cancelled today.’
‘Why?’
‘Political unavailability.’
There was a round of catcalls at this.
‘Who’s unavailable? Carlotta? Is she in Africa?’
Bernard attempted some Stuttle-type assertion. ‘I can’t answer your questions, and I have to insist that you vacate the area.’
Nobody moved their feet, although several mobiles were produced.
‘You’re clearing the area? Can you confirm that there’s been another bomb threat?’
‘I . . .ehm, look, you just need to get out of here!’
Stuttle appeared at his side, as if he had some sixth sense for a cover story going south. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, but I really need to insist you move.’
‘Another bomb threat, Cameron?’
‘Sorry, gents, time is of the essence. Press conference this afternoon.’
A couple of Police Scotland vans pulled up on the road, to Stuttle’s obvious relief. Uniformed officers materialised, and started moving people away from the building.
Stuttle grabbed Bernard’s arm. ‘About bloody time this lot got here. I’ve been calling for immediate backup for about half an hour now. They’ve all been at some unscheduled demo over at the university.’
Bernard’s source had been half right. He couldn’t help but notice Stuttle was shepherding him back in the direction of the Parliament building, and this time he was absolutely sure it wasn’t a fuss about nothing. He wondered about making a break for it, but Stuttle was still holding tight to his arm.
‘What’s going on, Cam?’ Paterson asked as he rejoined them.
Stuttle stopped, looking round to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘We had a phone call forty-five minutes ago telling us to get everyone out of the building or we’d regret it.’
‘Bryce?’
‘We’re certainly entertaining that possibility.’
‘Is it another bomb, Mr Stuttle?’
‘The caller didn’t specify. And as we know from your spate of calls to the HET they are as likely to be hoaxes as real.’
‘Well, at least you’ve got everyone out of the way.’ Bernard and Paterson looked round at the dispersing crowds.
‘We haven’t. The MSPs are still in there.’
‘What?’ There was a collective dropping of jaws. ‘Why?’
‘Because if it is Bryce’s work, we can’t be sure this isn’t all part of his plan. Get all the MSPs out in the open so he can take a pop at them. We can’t use any of the usual emergency plans, because Bryce is a former—’ He stopped, suddenly mindful of the level of security clearance of his audience. ‘Because Bryce has prior knowledge of them. He knows all the ways we’re likely to respond to this kind of threat, and could use that to his advantage.’
‘But if he has actually planted a bomb in there . . .’
‘They get blown sky-high. Whatever we do has the potential to go very wrong.’
‘So what are you doing?’
‘We’re moving them out four at a time, straight into armoured vehicles. The army’s overseeing that bit.’
‘Sir.’ A police officer bounded up to Stuttle. ‘Message for you.’ He handed over a folded sheet of paper.
‘What now?’ Stuttle read the note, and his face contorted. ‘Carlotta Carmichael, our beloved Cabinet Secretary for Virus Policy, is demanding a meeting with me immediately, on the walkway leading to Dynamic Earth. Is she insane? Does she not realise we are under threat at the moment? She’s going to get herself shot.’
‘She is insane,’ said Paterson, starting to run. ‘We all know that. Come on.’
Bernard ran after his colleagues, happy at least that they were moving away from the building. Although he couldn’t help feeling this was not an ideal place to request a meeting. The concrete pathway ran along the side of the Parliament building and, apart from a low wall, was otherwise open on its other side to the park land that led up to Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh’s famous extinct volcano. If Bernard wanted to isolate someone and take a potshot at them, this was more or less exactly what he’d look for.
Carlotta appeared, the domed roof of the Dynamic Earth museum looming on her left. She was accompanied by the very tall figure of her secretary, Paul Shore. Bernard had met him a couple of times, and had found him to be one of the more pleasant people working in the world of politics. Or maybe that was just the way he seemed relative to his boss. Both of them were looking around at their surroundings as they hurried along, Paul with a protective hand on his boss’s back.
She stopped directly in front of them.
‘Minister—’ began Stuttle.
‘I can’t believe this is your idea of a safe area, Cameron.’ She pulled her coat collar up to her face, as if it could provide her with some protection.
‘Safe area?’ Stuttle frowned. ‘I never said that.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Paul. He waved a sheet of paper. ‘We got your note, telling us that this was the designated safe area. You said to get here as quickly as possible.’
‘Shit.’ Stuttle looked round. ‘We need to get you out of here.’
‘I don’t understand what’s happening?’ said Carlotta.
‘Cameron!’ Paterson shouted as a police marksman appeared at the top of the steps leading to Dynamic Earth. ‘Over there!’
Both Stuttle and Paterson threw themselves in the direction of Carlotta Carmichael. Bernard looked at Paul, who appeared as confused as he did. A thought went through his head that they should probably get down behind the wall, but he couldn’t get his legs to move. His eyes swivelled back to the marksman: his gun was raised and pointing in their direction. A shot rang out, and he heard Carlotta scream out Paul’s name.
Bernard found himself sprawling on the ground, as the body of Paul Shore toppled onto him, a stream of blood pooling around them on the concrete.
He lay back and waited to see if he too was going to die.
2
Mona squinted into the light, a fuzzy ball of luminescence that was sending shooting pains through her eyeballs and straight into her frontal lobe. On the other side of the brightness she could just make out the outline of Dr Sangha, consultant neurologist. She narrowed her eyes to try to get a better look at him.
‘Please don’t do that. Just try and relax.’
‘Sorry.’
Was he frowning? The lower half of his face definitely looked unhappy, his bottom lip puckered downward. Maybe it was just a look of concentration, his expression indicating nothing more than intense consideration of the matter in hand. Maybe this was the expression he always had as he stared deep into patients’ eyes and tried to work out if their pupils were reacting in a way that indicated they had continuing brain trauma.
Some days she felt she didn’t really need a brain to work at the North Edinburgh Health Enforcement Team. She and Bernard seemed to do nothing but knock on the doors of drug addicts and alcoholics who had missed their mandatory monthly Health Check and drag them kicking and screaming into the nearest doctor’s surgery. Some of these people were so cavalier about their own health that she wondered if they had actually noticed that a million people had died in Britain from the Virus. Either way, dealing with them was strictly grunt work.
Other days, the days when she was negotiating the politics of the Virus, she needed all her wits about her to keep on top of the likes of Cameron Stuttle, who treated the North Edinburgh HET largely as his own personal task force, there to do his bidding on matters he would rather not have in the public domain. In July, she’d found herself dispatched to London to retrieve Scotland’s leading virologist, Professor Alexander Bircham-Fowler, who had gone missing dangerously close to his scheduled Health Check. This ‘routine’ mission had resulted in having to take refuge with the Professor in the woods at the back of a motorway services station, while a lone gunman fired at them. It turned out the Professor was very good at accumulating enemies.
Despite this near-death experience, Stuttle had not held back from using her talents on difficult cases. A few weeks ago he had partnered her with Ian Jacobsen from Police Scotland, a man to whom Mona had taken an immediate dislike. A top civil servant working on Virus policy, Helen Sopel, had gone missing after a meeting with Carlotta Carmichael held in the picturesque surroundings of the Edinburgh Museum of Plagues and Pandemics. Ms Sopel was of interest to both Police Scotland and the HET; the HET’s interest was, as usual, getting Ms Sopel to her Health Check, while Ian Jacobsen was intent on keeping her from revealing her knowledge of Carlotta Carmichael’s involvement in some rather dodgy drug trials taking place in Africa. This divergence of mission had resulted in Jacobsen threatening to shoot both Mona and Bernard. Bernard had responded with an uncharacteristic outburst of violence, resulting in a broken arm and black eye for their Police Scotland colleague. Ian had taken revenge by pushing Mona down a flight of stairs. The resulting collision between her head and a stone wall was what had led to her current period of care under Dr Sangha.
It would be unfair, however, to blame all their troubles on Stuttle’s puppet-master tendencies. The HET team were perfectly capable of getting themselves into the deepest of trouble. Like the time they took on an Edinburgh drug dealer in order to—
Dr Sangha snapped the torch off, dragging her back to the here and now. He made an irritatingly noncommittal sound as he did so. ‘Any headaches? Blurred vision?’
This was a difficult one to answer. Not because she didn’t know, obviously; she was well aware of the happenings in her head. Her reluctance to reply was due to the consequences of giving either a positive or negative response. Yes meant continuing her period of sick leave, and missing out on any of the action resulting from the hunt for Bryce. Yes meant delaying her attempt to bring Ian Jacobsen to justice. Yes meant giving Cameron Stuttle time to renege on his promise to give her full authorisation on Milwood Orders, the highest level of security clearance available to a public servant in the UK. Under no circumstances did she want to be putting a hand up to any continuing brain dysfunction.
But saying no left her with a different set of problems. No potentially meant being signed fit for work, without further medical intervention. No meant that the brain-exploding pain she had continued to experience since the incident might never actually go away. Worst-case scenario, no meant ignoring a situation in her grey matter that might actually be deteriorating. No could mean her mother walking in to her room one day with an early morning cup of tea to find her staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling.
Yesno yes no yes no . . .
‘Actually, Doctor, I’ve been feeling fine. Just keen to get back to normal.’ She held his gaze, and hoped that her left eye didn’t start twitching, as it had been doing unbidden over the past few days.
‘Huh.’ That infuriating sound again. He typed something in his on-screen notes, his computer screen irritatingly not at an angle where she could read it.
‘So, am I fit for work?’
‘I would prefer it if you took another week off, just to be absolutely sure that there was no remaining damage.’ He finished typing and turned to face her. ‘But, I’m aware that your bit of the health service, like ours, is desperately short of staff. So, if you’re absolutely sure that you’re not still suffering any ongoing problems, I’ll sign you back.’
‘Absolutely, Doctor. I’m fine.’ She nodded vigorously and recoiled in pain as the movement sent a shooting pain across the back of her head. Fortunately Dr Sangha was looking at the printer, which was clattering away as it produced her fit note. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, and told her brain to get a grip.
‘Here you go.’ She took it gratefully, before he could change his mind.
She’d googled head trauma numerous times over the past few days, starting with the NHS website, working her way through a whole bunch of American web MDs, and ending up on a few of the more alternative discussion boards. They were largely in agreement about the trajectory of recovery. The headaches usually subsided of their own accord. Usually, everything returned to normal in its own good time.
She’d take her chances with usually. There was work to be done.
Mona walked up the solid stone steps of the Cathcart Building, the second floor of which housed the offices of the North Edinburgh Health Enforcement Team. She pressed her Green Card against the box at the front door, and was relieved when it gave a satisfied beep and allowed her entry. The Green Card system was meant to keep track of who had, and hadn’t, attended their monthly Health Check. Failure to appear at a Health Check would result in a citizen’s access to any public building being revoked and, of course, a visit from the Health Enforcement Team. The existence of a Virus that had already caused a million deaths in the UK had rewritten the book on civil liberties.
Mona should not have had any reason to doubt that her Green Card would let her into the building. Like all her colleagues, she was immune to the Virus, having already contracted a mild form of it less than two years previously. She’d spent a week in bed with it, feeling like death, but had come out unscathed. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, criminals don’t return to the scene of the crime, and influenza viruses don’t infect the same person twice. At least not without serious mutation. The immune HET staff were ideally placed to track down health defaulters who may be out there infecting others, and their Green Cards were like American Express Gold Cards – welcome everywhere. Still, Mona couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the Green Card might be used by her superiors for more than their stated purpose. Say, for example, keeping tracks on a member of staff who might have a grudge against a colleague . . .
The door to the Admin room was slightly ajar, causing her momentary alarm. This would be a bad time to bump into Marguerite, Admin assistant to the team and self-appointed gossip-in-chief of the administrative professionals. The sound of laughter echoed out into the hall; good to see they were hard at work as usual. She hurried past before she was spotted and interrogated with half an hour of questions about what treatment the hospital had subjected her to. Although – she paused for a second – Marguerite would be ideally placed to update her on what was happening with Ian Jacobsen. Stuttle had been extremely tight-lipped about how the police were dealing with his attack on her.
A quick glance at her watch persuaded her to keep going. The bus had taken forever to get here, frustrating her with its slow progress through Edinburgh’s near permanent roadworks, and the necessity of stopping to pick up passengers, most of whom had appeared to be tourists without the correct change. She could have used her car, but maybe driving post-trauma wasn’t a good idea yet. Damaging her own head was one thing, but she didn’t want a sudden burst of crippling pain resulting in her taking out a bus queue.
The door to the HET office was firmly shut, no sounds of laughter, or even life, seeping round the door frame. She should probably have phoned ahead. It had definitely been her intention to call as soon as she was on the bus. Yet every time she looked at her mobile, she couldn’t summon up the correct words to reassure her colleagues that she was fit and well. In all probability her colleagues would be harder to convince than Dr Sangha that she should be back at work.
If she were to make a prediction about how everyone would react, she’d say that Bernard and Carole would use their health backgrounds to browbeat her about the importance of rest after such a trauma. Maitland and Paterson might be a bit gung-ho about the HET getting revenge for an attack on one of their own. This was all supposition and speculation on her part though. She’d no real idea of what her colleagues thought because Stuttle had banned them from visiting her, insisting that her time in the hospital was spent entirely on recuperation.
The door handle was stiff, so after a moment’s struggle she accidentally flung the door open wide, making far more of an entrance than she’d intended. Embarrassment was immediately replaced by a sense of anti-climax on discovering that the room was completely empty. Oh well. At least she could get back into the swing of things without anyone watching her. She switched on her computer, and several hundred e-mails slowly downloaded. If she’d been signed off for another week she might never have got to the end of her inbox.
‘Oh, you’re back.’ Marcus walked into the office. In common with IT folk everywhere, he seemed to be carrying one more laptop than was ever necessary in civilian life. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘You’ll have heard about all the excitement then?’
She was torn between irritation that he hadn’t seemed more interested in her well-being, and curiosity about what the ‘excitement’ might be. ‘No. What’s happened?’
Marcus put one of his laptops down on a desk, placed the other one on top of it and flipped it open. ‘There’s been a shooting up at the Parliament.’
‘A shooting?’ Multiple scenarios raced through Mona’s mind, from lone gunman to full-scale coup attempt. ‘Who was shot?’
‘Carlotta Carmichael’s Parliamentary Assistant.’
‘Not Paul Shore?’
‘I think that’s his name. The tall, pale one.’
‘I met him a couple of times. Seemed a nice guy.’ She frowned. ‘Why would anyone want to shoot him?’
‘I guess they were aiming for Ms Carmichael and the poor bloke got in the way.’
‘That’s awful. Is he badly hurt?’
‘The website said he’s in a critical condition.’ He shook his head, as if he was still struggling to comprehend the situation. ‘I suppose it’s too soon to know much more.’
They stared at each other, until another thought occurred to her. ‘Did they get the gunman? At least I assume it was a man?’
‘Don’t know. Everyone’s on their way over for a briefing so we’ll be updated with whatever management can tell us. In return, I’m going to update them on this.’ He swivelled the laptop to face her. The screen appeared to be blank.
She blinked a couple of times, and hoped to God it wasn’t her brain playing tricks. ‘What exactly am I looking at?’
‘Remember how Bryce left a parting shot on the HET website, a blank page with “Watch this Space”?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, taking care not to move her head too quickly this time.
‘Well, I have to hand it to my former colleague. He may be a mad psychopath, but he really knows his IT because we have been completely unable to remove it. The IT repercussions have been enormous; Lord help anyone who required tech support over the past few days. You picked a great week to be ill . . .’
‘I’m not sure ill is quite the right word . . .’
‘Anyhoo, the site has been updated to this . . .’ He tapped the top of the laptop, and one by one words started to appear.
‘Your Health Is A Public Matter? What does that mean? Whose health?’
He shrugged. ‘I assume, and it is just an assumption, that he’s referring to the wellbeing of Carlotta Carmichael. He did, after all, just attempt to . . .’ He made his fingers into a gun shape, and emitted click/boom sounds. ‘Although beyond that I’ve got no idea what it means.’
‘Does Stuttle know the message has changed?’
‘Yes, sort of.’ He grimaced. ‘I had a bit of difficulty getting through to him. I phoned him three times, and the first two times he said, ehm, “F off, I’m busy dealing with murderously urgent stuff. I can’t deal with this nonsense”.’
In spite of the situation, Mona smiled. It was a typical Stuttle response. ‘What did he say the third time you phoned?’
Marcus shuddered. ‘That if I didn’t F the F off he’d swing for me. Eventually I had to phone Bernard and get him to brave the monster and deliver the message in person.’
‘Bernard was at the Parliament? How is he?’
‘Not good. He was standing next to Paul Shore when he was shot.’
‘Oh dear.’ She winced. For a former Health Promotion Officer, Bernard really wasn’t great with the sight of blood. Particularly blood that had been spilt in a violent manner. In his immediately vicinity.
‘Mona!’
They’d been so engrossed in the laptop they hadn’t heard Carole come in. Mona stood up to allow herself to be enveloped in a warm hug.
‘Feeling better?’ Carole held her at arm’s length, scrutinising her.
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘So.’ Carole was already turning away from her. ‘I heard about the shooting. How awful.’
‘Yeah.’ Her colleagues weren’t showing much interest in her injury. She could believe that Marcus’s social skills were such that he’d forget to enquire after her health, but Carole was usually very supportive. She was a qualified nurse, and Mona had anticipated a full-on interrogation about her wellbeing and proposed treatment. Something was up; it was almost like they’d been told not to discuss it. Would Stuttle have done that? She’d get the full story out of Bernard later.
‘Mr Stuttle and Mr Paterson are . . .’
The need for Carole to finish that sentence was relieved by the sound of the heavy footsteps and loud voices that generally announced the arrival of their senior management team. They walked into the room, and flung their bags in the general direction of a desk. Several paces behind them trailed Bernard, looking extremely wan.
Stuttle and Paterson seemed to be halfway through an argument.
‘So you remember nothing about him, John, not one single thing?’
‘No! I keep telling you that. Some bloke in a police uniform, who I obviously assumed was actually a policeman, handed you a bit of paper and ran off. It was chaos, and all I was bothered about was how we were going to get people away from the building.’
Paterson turned in Bernard’s direction; Mona wouldn’t have thought it possible but her colleague appeared to turn even paler.
‘What about you, then? Anything at all? Hair colour? Height?’
Bernard shook his head, and slunk toward his desk.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Call yourself policemen? You’re like a couple of teenage girls trying to give a witness statement.’
‘I’m not a policeman,’ said Bernard weakly, from behind the safety of his computer monitor.
‘Well, I am a proud former member of the constabulary, as are you, Cameron, although you seem to keep forgetting that.’ Paterson was not taking the slurs on his work experience lying down. ‘You were actually there too when he handed the piece of paper to you, and you seem to remember nothing about him.’
‘I was facing in the opposite direction! Trying to get through to you two the importance of the situation.’ He threw himself, rather heavily, onto a seat. ‘Oh well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just have to hope the CCTV has picked him up. Though it doesn’t make us look good that we can’t remember a thing about him.’ He caught sight of her. ‘Mona! I wasn’t expecting you back just yet.’ His expression was thoughtful. ‘No bad thing to have you around.’
It wasn’t quite the welcome she’d hoped for; she obviously wasn’t going to need her prepared defence of her fitness to be at work. It wasn’t that she wanted everyone fussing over her, God knows, she wasn’t the attention-grabbing type, but the occasional ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ wouldn’t have gone amiss.
‘Yes, yes, everyone’s glad Mona’s back, but we need to get on,’ said Paterson.
‘Thanks for keeping me right, John. What would I do without you?’
‘Sort out your own messes, I expect . . .’
Marcus moved hastily in between them, holding the laptop aloft. ‘This is the new wording on the website, Mr Stuttle.’
Stuttle moved his glasses to the top of his head and stared at it. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? It would have been helpful if it was a little bit more specific. Do you think it’s a threat?’
Marcus looked at Mona, then at Paterson, and reluctantly decided that no-one else was about to venture an opinion. ‘I don’t know. It could be, I suppose?’
‘Is he likely to post again?’
‘I don’t know. It’s pretty much impossible to say.’
Stuttle’s mood wasn’t improving. ‘Well, you’re not much use, are you?’
Marcus looked hurt. ‘With all due respect, Mr Stuttle, I’m an IT officer, not a psychologist. I don’t know what Bryce means, or intends to do. I’ll keep monitoring it, of course, and will let you know as soon as anything changes.’ He snapped the laptop shut, huffily. ‘Assuming you take my calls.’
The argument was brought to a conclusion by the door flying open and Maitland staggering in, weighed down under a large number of box files.
‘Got the lot, Mr Stuttle. At least, I hope that’s all of them.’ He dropped them gratefully onto Mona’s desk and wiped his dusty hands vigorously on his trousers. She immediately opened one and started leafing through the papers it contained. The top one declared it to be a report by Bryce Henderson.
Shuttle opened the office door and poked his head out into the corridor. Satisfied that there were no stray members of the Admin team eavesdropping out there, he closed the door firmly. ‘What I need to say stays in this room.’ His eyes flicked over to Carole. ‘Can I rely on everyone’s commitment to confidentiality?’
They all muttered yes, Carole rather more huffily than the rest of them. Mona caught her eye, and she shook her head slightly, registering her annoyance. Mona smiled back, but privately she thought Stuttle had a point. Carole was currently attempting to sue the Scottish Health Enforcement Partnership, who had recently enforced a clause in the HET officers’ contracts which prevented them from resigning. Invoking the clause was interfering with Carole’s plans to move to England with her family and find a much less stressful job. Stuttle might be giving her some good ammunition for her court case. He seemed reassured by her commitment, however, and began to talk.
‘So, Bryce, Marcus’s fellow IT officer, appears to have been some kind of, well, undercover agent.’
Mona could see Bernard’s face scrunching in a manner that suggested a question was on its way. She would have strongly advised against it, given Stuttle’s current mood.
