Death at the Plague Museum Page 26

  The room went dark.

  THRIVE AND PROSPER: FINAL SCENE

  [The camera pans along a deserted street of derelict shops. In the foreground is MRS HILDA MILWOOD, a young mother in her late twenties. On either side of her are two small children, holding tight to her skirt. In the background of the shot other women, children and frail older people can be seen.]

  [The camera moves in closer and focuses on her face. In the background the sound of shouting and children crying can be heard.]

  MRS MILWOOD

  The times that we have lived through have truly been the worst that our country, and our world, has ever experienced.

  Many of our people have died. Our strongest, our fittest, our finest men have been sacrificed. We cannot let their suffering be in vain.

  Together we can, and we must, rebuild all that we have lost.

  I am only a woman. My life has been my home and my children. I have supported my husband as he went out into the world, and he has provided for us in return.

  I have not the physical strength of a man, nor the university education of a leader.

  But we women must step up.

  We must all do tasks that we could not have imagined before this crisis. We must find the strength to risk our health, even our lives.

  [Camera pans in even closer.]

  Because if we do not take these risks for a better world, there is no one else.

  We must suffer the blows that are given to us.

  We must rise up stronger, dust ourselves down, and move on with creating our new world, however battered and bruised we are.

  We cannot give up.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks are due to everyone at Sandstone Press for their continuing support in producing this book, particularly Moira Forsyth for all the polishing.

  Thank you to friends, family, fellow authors and bloggers who make the whole writing process so much less lonely. Love and thanks to Gordon and the kids; if only I was the kind of cool mum who writes computer games . . .

  And finally, thank you to Edinburgh and her many museums, for being so darn inspirational!

  Keep reading for the first chapter in the fourth book in the Health of Strangers series.

  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 he 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 going 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 and watched 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.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Something large 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? That can’t be good.’ Paterson shook his head.

  ‘You don’t think they’re looking for—’

  The look on Paterson’s face silenced him before he could say the word ‘bombs’ out loud. He lowered his voice considerably 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 at him 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’s 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 toward the building.

  ‘Must be a fuss about nothing.’ Paterson headed swiftly toward 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. ‘We need to get these people told that the Virus committee is being postponed.’

  ‘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 skillset for today’s task. He approached a couple of young women in business suits, both in an obvious hurry. ‘I’m terribly sorry but we’ve had to cancel today’s committee.’

  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 tha
t it?’

  He shrugged in a way that he hoped was neither confirming nor denying her accusation, and wondered 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 cat calls 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 both their arms. ‘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 holding tight to his arm.

  ‘What’s going on, Cam?’ Paterson asked.

  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?’ He read the note and his face contorted. ‘Carlotta Carmichael 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 that 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.

  Read the rest of the Series - now available

  In an Edinburgh reeling from a deadly Virus, two students go missing. Mona and Bernard have to tackle cults, late night raves and the mysterious involvement of overseas governments, to reach the girls before anyone else does…

  Pages which virtually turned themselves. I bloody loved it.

  Grab This Book

  ‘Bernard wrenched open the door and ran out to Carole, horrified to see her face was pouring with blood.’

  A deadly Virus. A missing academic with a head full of state secrets. A prostitute on the run. And a drug baron who needs a favour. All in a day’s work for the North Edinburgh Health Enforcement Team.

  ‘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.’

  Liam Rudden, Edinburgh Evening News

  While Bernard investigates the disappearance of a nurse who has undertaken a home visit that could prove fatal, Mona is in pursuit of an arts dealer in trouble. Unfortunately, so are his many creditors. Bernard and Mona must find the missing, while obeying the first rule in the HET handbo
ok – don’t end up dead.

  Enjoy this Health of Strangers short story free to download!