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  ‘I’m regretting this already,’ said Paterson.

  Mona patted her remaining colleague on the shoulder. ‘Best of luck, Carole.’

  8

  ‘It’ll be a firm but fair regime, Bernie. I won’t put up with any slacking, though.’

  Bernard spun round to face him. ‘Maitland, if you don’t leave me in peace, I’ll . . .’

  His tormentor raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ll what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – I’ll contact HR or something.’

  Maitland burst out laughing. Bernard turned on his heel and half-walked, half-ran into the Meadows. As he hurried into the expanse of green parkland, he heard Maitland shout something unintelligible after him. He kept walking without giving Maitland the satisfaction of looking back at him.

  Paterson was insane, literally certifiable, if he thought that Maitland could handle the responsibility of running the team. Despite what Paterson chose to tell himself, the job of team leader was 90 per cent paperwork, with the occasional foray into politics. Maitland’s inability to correctly fill in the simplest of forms was legendary. For goodness’ sake, this was the man who needed help every month to fill in his own timesheet. He’d never yet submitted an expenses claim that actually added up correctly. Well, Hell mend them both. He wouldn’t be digging Maitland out of any holes.

  Checking his watch, he debated whether it was too early to go back to his new flatshare. Flatshare. Even the word felt strange and new. Another part of the brave new world he’d been thrust into since his separation, the inevitable end of a process set in motion by the death of his son. He’d been married for almost ten years by the time the Virus took Jamie. A decade of happiness, of a stability that he’d taken completely for granted. He loved Carrie, she loved him, and he thought the two of them would be together for ever. But then two had all too briefly become three. The grief had been unbearable, the pain changing both of them, and their relationship from that day onward. So, now here he was, thirty-five, separated, and living in the spare room of a ground-floor flat owned by a beautician.

  Megan, his landlady, had taken a bit of persuading that she wanted to live with a man. He could see her point. Maitland was a man. Mr Paterson was a man. Neither of them would make ideal lodgers, given their propensity to fart, tell inappropriate jokes, and eat food that did not belong to them. So he’d worked hard to persuade her that he was not a laddish sort, drawing on examples from his sporting past (as a professional badminton player) and his previous work (in health promotion). But the part of his argument that had proved the most persuasive was the emphasis he’d put on his long working hours.

  ‘So, you probably wouldn’t be in all that much of an evening?’

  ‘No, no,’ he had lied. ‘When we get going on a case, we work round the clock.’

  Turning up at 6pm might show this statement to have been a gentle massaging of the truth. That being said, Megan did seem to have warmed to him over the week that he’d been living there. She’d been welcoming enough that he’d felt able to not spend every evening alone in his room, and was beginning to feel almost comfortable sitting on the green leather sofa in her living room watching TV. Still, six o’clock was pushing it a bit.

  He side-tracked to a bench. The Meadows were busy, full of joggers, amateur jugglers and people lolling about on the grass enjoying the early evening sunshine. He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a moment, trying to think of a reason that would justify him phoning his wife. Maybe he didn’t need a reason. They were still married, and he remained concerned about her health and happiness. As, presumably, she did about his, making her his best bet for someone who would listen to him whinge about work. So without any further soul-searching he opened the phone’s address book, and pressed his wife’s name. It rang twice, then she answered.

  ‘It’s me. Bernard.’

  There was laughter at the other end of the line. ‘I know who it is. How are things?’

  ‘Terrible. Mr Paterson’s on leave for a couple of days and he’s putting Maitland in charge.’

  ‘Maitland?’ Carrie laughed again, a gentle sound full of empathy. ‘You’ll hate that.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He smiled. It felt good to speak to someone who knew him so well. ‘Anyway, you sound happy.’

  ‘I am, actually.’ She sounded surprised, as if this was a revelation to her. ‘Happyish, at least.’

  Bernard watched a group of people in sportswear unroll yoga mats while he considered if his wife’s happiness was a good or a bad thing. Obviously, he wanted the woman he loved to be happy, but it hurt like hell that she seemed to be happier without him.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, irritated by the tentative tone of his voice, ‘do you want to meet up at the weekend, you know, for a drink or a film or something?’

  There was a long silence from the phone.

  ‘Bernard . . .’

  ‘Just as friends, no pressure?’

  ‘Bernard, we’re supposed to be moving on. Nothing’s changed. I still want another baby and you don’t want to bring a child into a world full of the Virus so . . .’

  ‘I miss you.’

  The phone took a depressingly long time to reply.

  ‘I miss you too, but you are making this even harder.’ Carrie sighed. ‘It would be better if you didn’t phone me again. At least not for a while. Goodbye, Bernard.’

  She hung up, over his protests. Moving on. In a few years he’d be forty. Was it time for a mid-life crisis? Could he just put everything behind him, his marriage, his dead son, his failed career as a badminton player and move on to something new? He could move to a different town, a different continent even. He could take his health promotion skills to a developing country, where he could be sure he’d really be making a difference. Except he couldn’t go anywhere. He was a HET member, and in the current climate it would be nigh on impossible to resign. Every single member of the HET team had had the Virus and survived, meaning that they were now immune to it. Immune workers were at a premium, and he was not going to be allowed to go anywhere.

  His new home was a main-door flat with a pocket hanky-sized garden to the front. The lights were on in the kitchen, and he could see Megan pottering about. She had her long hair tied up in a bun, and a red and white striped apron on. She caught sight of him as he walked up the path and waved.

  ‘How was your day?’ Her voice drifted through to him.

  He closed the door behind him, wondering how to answer this. He couldn’t face explaining Maitland from first principles, so he opted for, ‘OK, I suppose.’ A wave of cooking aromas hit him. ‘Wow. Something smells good.’

  Megan appeared in the hallway, her apron covered in flour. ‘I’m making fish pie – it’s a new recipe I’ve not tried before so I don’t know how it’ll turn out. If you’re feeling adventurous you’re welcome to have some?’

  Bernard was a little bit overcome by the offer. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him. Carrie had pretty much given up on eating, never mind cooking, since their bereavement. ‘That would be lovely. Really lovely.’

  ‘And, Bernard, I was thinking about being a little naughty.’ She smiled.

  For the second time, his emotional core took a punch. Unless he was very much mistaken, the conversation was taking a flirtatious turn. It had been a long time since a woman had cooked for him. The last time a woman had flirted with him, there may have been an ark floating past the window. He slowly lowered his bag to the ground and waited to see what transgressive activity she was planning.

  ‘I know it’s only a Monday night, but I was thinking about cracking open a bottle of wine. What do you think?’

  Bernard felt several emotions, the chief of which was relief. ‘Ehm, OK?’ He followed Megan into the kitchen, and watched her expertly open a bottle of Shiraz. A strand of her hair had fallen across her face. She tucked it back behind her ear, and smiled.

  ‘I wasn’t sure how it would be living with a man, but I think this is working out just fin
e, don’t you think?’

  He took the glass of red. ‘Ehm, yeah. Great.’

  9

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, Mona, it’s you.’ Her mother looked pleased to see her. ‘I expect you’re here to find out what Dr McCallum had to say today.’

  Mona felt a pang of guilt as she followed her mother into the house. She’d completely forgotten about the appointment. ‘Yes, of course. What did he say?’

  ‘Come on through and sit down.’ Her mother waited until she was settled before she spoke again. ‘It’s not the best of news, I’m afraid. The cancer is spreading. You need to be prepared.’

  Mona stared at her mother.

  Her mother looked slightly exasperated. ‘You do understand what I’m trying to tell you?’

  ‘You are going to die.’ A lump was forming in the back of her throat. Growing up she had never been particularly close to her mother; she’d been a daddy’s girl through and through, to the extent of following him into the police. But since her father’s death, and particularly over the past few months, they’d grown closer. The thought of losing her mother, her only remaining relative, filled her with dread.

  ‘We’re all going to die, Mona. But in my case it won’t be that long. I’m sure you’re not entirely surprised.’

  ‘I knew it was a possibility, but still . . .’

  Her mother sat next to her on the sofa, and took her hand. ‘Mona, I want you settled before I’m gone. I know I’m not going to get a son-in-law, and a couple of grandchildren, because that is not your inclination, and that is fine by me. But I’d like to think that you were at least in some kind of relationship, not going home to an empty flat every night.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Is it? It doesn’t seem that complicated to me. You need to go out and socialise, and find someone you like and settle down. That is simple enough in my opinion. And it seems to me that the first step is that you actually tell people you are a lesbian.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready to, Mum.’

  ‘Mona, you’re twenty-nine years of age. When exactly are you going to be ready? Because you’ll never meet a nice girl if nobody knows you’re available.’

  Mona smiled. ‘Shall I stick the kettle on?’

  ‘Indeed you will not. This is my house and while I’ve still got breath in my body I’ll be the hostess.’

  In spite of the brave words, Mona’s mother struggled a little to get back out of the chair. Mona took her arm and helped her through to the kitchen. ‘I just wanted to tell you, Mum, that I’ll be away for a few days with work, but you can get me on my mobile.’

  Her mother pulled a face. ‘I hate those things. Write your number out for me and leave it by the phone. And don’t waste your time worrying about me, because I’ll be fine.’ She took Mona’s hand again, and held it to her face. ‘You’re the one that I worry about. Promise me you’ll think about what I said.’

  She nodded. ‘I will.’

  TUESDAY

  EARACHE

  1

  ‘Guv, this is getting boring.’

  Mona had been in her boss’s company since their 6.30am rendezvous at the BA desk in the departure hall of Edinburgh Airport. They were now ten minutes away from landing at Gatwick, and during that time Paterson had said three whole sentences to her. She’d been counting: three sentences, thirteen words.

  You’re late.

  That’s our flight being called.

  Not that row, the next one.

  At this rate, the sentence count for the whole trip wouldn’t require her to take off her socks and unleash the little piggies. It was unbearable.

  ‘Guv?’

  Paterson didn’t answer, continuing to stare out the window at the clouds that surrounded them.

  ‘Can we at least discuss what we’re going to do when we get there?’

  He turned fractionally in her direction. ‘We’re meeting a contact I’ve got from the Met.’

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be hush-hush?’

  Paterson glared at her. ‘Considering neither of us knows the geography or politics of the area, what else do you suggest?’

  The Fasten Your Seat Belts light flashed, and they buckled up as instructed.

  ‘Anyway, he owes me a favour. He’s not going to say anything.’

  ‘So, where are we meeting him?’

  ‘In the airport. He said to look out for him outside the Costa in the exit hall.’

  The plane touched down, and without waiting for the seat belt signs to go off the two of them were on their feet and retrieving their hand luggage. They walked purposefully through the terminal, then ground to a halt while they looked for the meeting place. Mona spotted it first. There were a number of people loitering outside the coffee shop, but Mona knew immediately who her money would be on to be Paterson’s acquaintance. A tall, well-built man in his late twenties was eyeing people walking past with an air that suggested he was ready to spring into action at any moment. A cop, if ever she had seen one. He caught sight of Paterson, and waved them over. Paterson and the man grunted a greeting at each other. Whatever favour had been called in, it looked pretty grudgingly fulfilled.

  ‘This is Mona.’

  The man stuck out his hand, and smiled. ‘Greg. Let’s get a coffee and we can talk.’

  Paterson plonked himself at the nearest available table. She dropped her rucksack onto a seat.

  ‘What’ll it be, Mona?’ Greg pointed to the counter. ‘Tea, coffee, breakfast roll?’

  ‘Just a black Americano for me, please.’

  ‘And what about you, Dad?’

  Paterson was busily engaged in fiddling with the menu. ‘The same.’

  Mona waited until Greg was out of earshot. ‘Dad? Greg is your son?’

  ‘Yes, he’s my eldest.’ Paterson kept his eyes on the menu. ‘And as you’ve probably picked up, he’s not desperately delighted to be helping me out. I wouldn’t have asked him, but like I said, we’re travelling blind here.’

  Mona’s desire to ask more questions was cut short by Greg’s return with the coffees. ‘Well, I’ve asked around as discreetly as I could, but from what I can make out he’s not been arrested or ended up in hospital.’

  ‘That’s good, I suppose?’ said Mona.

  ‘Good for him, definitely,’ said Paterson, ‘but it leaves us with a lot of London to search.’

  ‘Maybe not as much as you think. You said your man was looking for a rough sleeper? Well, the homeless tend to cluster around certain areas. Your best bet is to head to the South Bank and start from there.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a big push to get rough sleepers off the streets of London?’ asked Mona.

  He smiled. ‘There was, particularly to get the more touristy bits of London cleared. But keeping people off the streets takes a big investment of resources, and since the Virus came along it’s really eaten into those kinds of budgets. And in some ways, it’s easier for our equivalent of your team to have people sleeping in certain locations, because it allows for health interventions to take place. They can card them, and take their blood if they know where they are.’

  ‘And is it unusual for a woman to be sleeping rough?’

  ‘More unusual than for the men, because women are usually better at having somewhere they can go to. If they’ve got kids the council has to house them, even if it’s just in a B&B. But for a single woman, with no friends or relatives to fall back on, they end up on the South Bank like everyone else.’

  Mona pulled a face. ‘Not a safe place for a young woman, I would imagine.’

  ‘No, it’s really not, so I’m not surprised that your man dropped everything and headed down here. Like I say, the South Bank is probably your best bet. But, if you don’t bump into your professor, speak to Elijah from the Rough Sleepers project.’ He handed Mona a sheet of paper with an address. ‘He knows everyone and everything that’s going on in that bit of the world. If there’s been a mad professor type poking around, he’ll
know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He held out another sheet of paper. ‘I’ve also written you a note of how you get to the South Bank from here by Tube. And you need to download an A–Z of London app to your phone if you haven’t done so already.’

  Paterson didn’t take it, and looked vaguely offended at the offer. ‘I’m sure I can negotiate the London Underground without help.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Mona, and reached out for the directions. ‘Again, thank you.’

  Greg got to his feet. ‘Well, I’d better be off. Mona, nice to meet you. Dad, you’ve got my number if you need me.’

  Paterson grunted something that wasn’t quite a thank you.

  It was nearly two hours before they reached the South Bank, including ten minutes spent travelling in the wrong direction on the District Line. Paterson had used this as an opportunity to make a snide comment about Greg’s instructions, although Mona couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t actually contributing anything himself to navigating the London transport environment. She just about managed to keep her temper, and was delighted to emerge, at long last, into the sunshine at Embankment Station.

  ‘I don’t think I could bear travelling that kind of distance every day, Guv.’ Mona pulled at her shirt, which was sticking to her back. ‘Even without this heat it would be a killer.’ She turned her phone around in her hands to try to orientate herself. She looked up to see Paterson scowling at her.

  ‘Could you look any more like a tourist?’

  ‘Is that a bad look for us, Guv, really? Given the sensitivity?’

  Paterson thought for a minute. ‘Fair point.’

  Mona smiled. She might well look like a tourist, but the Guv would still look like a cop if he was dressed in a Bermuda shirt and shorts.