Death at the Plague Museum Page 8

  By the time she found a parking space, Ian had completed his interrogation of the PC, and was waiting impatiently for her on the pavement. He gestured in the direction of the cop. ‘He says the ambulance has been and picked up the body. There was a suicide note, which someone is going to scan and send to us, but apparently all it said was “sorry” and “I love you” so no great revelations there. And, he says he’s been warding off journalists all morning, though most of them buggered off once the body was picked up.’

  ‘Not surprising, I suppose, given that it’s such a secret that it’s been on the BBC website. Though I don’t understand how it’s made the news so quickly. Who told them?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows who Connington’s partner phoned when he found the body? One of his so-called friends could have been straight on to the press. Or he could have phoned them himself. I doubt it was a leak. Not like someone from the HET shouting their mouth off about the meeting at the Museum.’

  Fury engulfed her. ‘That was nothing to do with the HET.’

  ‘You’re sure about that? Couldn’t have been the disaffected staff member who’s desperate to resign, or the one who is too young and self-absorbed to know any better, or the one who is so naïve he’d tell anyone anything if they asked nicely?’

  ‘No.’

  He smiled, a lazy, infuriating grin. ‘Oh, well. Must have been you then.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off.’ She stormed into the building with a cursory nod at the PC, who shot her a nervous smile in return. As she marched up the stone stairs she tried to get her temper under control, mindful that in a few seconds’ time she’d have to face the poor man who’d just lost his partner.

  Jasper Connington’s husband was slumped on his sofa.

  ‘We’re sorry for your loss, Mr Keaton.’

  He was red-eyed and blank. Mona was pretty sure he was in shock. Fortunately, he wasn’t on his own. A woman in her sixties was next to him, a protective arm draped around his shoulder.

  ‘And, miss, can I ask who you are?’

  ‘I’m Joyce Miller, Colin and Jasper’s next-door neighbour. At least . . .’ The unspoken past tense hung in the air. Colin Keaton rubbed at his forehead, his fingers going back and forth as his eyes fixed on a distant point across the room. Mona wondered if the paramedics had given him the once-over.

  ‘Mr Keaton, could you tell us what happened this morning?’

  He took a deep breath. For a moment Mona thought he wasn’t going to speak, but he rallied and began. ‘I was working all night – I’m a theatre nurse. We had a bad night of it, dealing with an RTA. A young driver with head injuries was brought in about 2am. We worked on him for about four hours but in the end it was no good, he’d taken too much of a hit.’ He stopped and rubbed his forehead again. ‘It was after eight when I got in so I was surprised to see Jasp still in bed. I thought he’d be long gone. He usually tries to get into the office by seven thirty at the latest. I thought he was ill, but when I went in,’ his voice faltered, ‘I could see vomit on his front.’

  ‘Do you have to ask all this right now?’ Joyce’s tone was belligerent, which Mona thought was probably partly a cover for her grief.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, but we do. Mr Keaton, was Mr Connington still breathing when you found him?’

  ‘He was cold.’ His voice was flat. ‘I screamed and Joyce came to see what was going on.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Keaton, I understand this must be very distressing to talk about. Is there any chance that Mr Connington’s overdose was accidental?’

  ‘Accidental?’ For the first time since they’d arrived, Colin Keaton looked directly at her. ‘Jasp is – was – a nurse before he joined the civil service. He knew exactly what he was doing. He must have taken the tablets as soon as I left for work. He wasn’t taking any chances of being found, he knew he’d be dead by the time I found him.’

  ‘Surely you’ve asked enough questions now.’ Joyce looked ready to punch someone, and Mona couldn’t blame her. She must have had the shock of her life this morning.

  ‘I’m sorry, just a couple more. The pills that Mr Connington took, what were they?’

  ‘Anti-depressants. They were on prescription.’

  ‘Had he been taking them long?’

  ‘I didn’t know that he was on them. He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘But you knew he was depressed?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe, I suppose. I knew he was worrying about work, but I couldn’t get him to talk to me about it. I should have tried harder.’ He started rubbing his forehead again. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.’

  The phone rang.

  ‘That may be a journalist,’ said Ian.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joyce, ‘the bastards have been phoning all morning.’

  Mona pitied the journalist that got Joyce on the other end of the phone.

  ‘How do they even have our number?’ asked Colin. ‘We’re ex-directory because of Jasp’s job.’

  Mona reckoned it would take any hack worth his salt five minutes tops to locate an ex-directory number. ‘Journalists have their ways, Mr Keaton.’

  ‘But how do they even know about Jasp’s death? The only people Joyce and I spoke to were the ambulance service. Who told the press?’

  That was a question she couldn’t answer.

  ‘That was odd,’ Ian was absent-mindedly tapping the dashboard, which was putting her off her driving.

  ‘What was? And please stop doing that.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He grinned, not altogether apologetically. ‘The anti-depressant thing. If my wife was on them, I’d know about it.’

  ‘People who are depressed can be secretive, you know, put on a brave face. For a man in his job there’s probably a lot of stigma to saying that you can’t cope with the stress of work. I mean, he was pretty near the top of the tree when it came to Virus stuff. He must have been under a ridiculous amount of pressure.’

  ‘True. Not sure I could have done his job. But we only have Keaton’s word for it that the depression was related to the job. Maybe it was something closer to home. Maybe he was unhappy in his marriage? Or was having an affair and couldn’t cope with the guilt?’

  ‘Possibly. Guilt does drive people crazy. But I’m still finding it a bit too much of a coincidence that he topped himself so soon after Nathan McVie jumped, and Helen Sopel went missing. I’d love to know what went on at that meeting at the Museum.’

  ‘Well, there is someone we can ask.’

  ‘Carlotta Carmichael?’

  ‘We’d better speak to Stuttle.’

  6

  ‘I wonder what’s in the package that Martine Galloway has for safekeeping,’ said Bernard. ‘Maybe it’s a semen-stained dress, like Clinton.’

  ‘Ew, yuck.’ Maitland’s expression moved from disgust to confusion. ‘Why would Hilary Clinton have a semen-stained dress?’

  ‘Not Hilary! Bill!’

  Maitland face did not look any less confused by this explanation.

  ‘How old are you, Maitland?’

  ’Twenty-four.’

  Bernard sighed. ‘Never mind, it’s all ancient history to you.’

  ‘Anyway, we’ll know when Ms Galloway drops off the stuff. Although if there are any dresses in there, you can be in charge of examining them.’

  ‘We’re nearly there. It’s this turning.’

  Maitland sighed. ‘Well, the trip to see Ms Galloway turned out to be a lot more interesting than I expected, but I’m pretty sure this is going to be dull as f . . .’

  ‘Maitland! A visit to the Plague Museum is never, ever, dull.’

  ‘You really are a sad little man.’

  The Edinburgh Museum of Plagues and Pandemics occupied a full three-storey townhouse in Edinburgh’s New Town. It was rare to encounter a townhouse that hadn’t been subdivided, and rarer still to find one which had been in the same hands since 1863. The Plague Museum, as everyone called it, had been established by a hefty donation from Archibald Cunninghame E
sq, a childless chemist. His will, much to the annoyance of his many cousins, had left his entire estate to the establishment of a museum focusing solely on infectious diseases. After a brief sojourn on Leith Street, the Museum had moved to its current premises in the New Town, and with the exception of the interruption of a couple of world wars, had remained open ever since.

  Bernard followed Maitland up the broad stone steps, which were lined on each side by a row of pot plants.

  ‘I love this place,’ he said happily.

  ‘I know, you’re a member, you said.’

  ‘It’s the attention to detail that I love. I mean, these plants, for example, they’re not just any old pot plants, they’re plague pot plants.’

  Maitland put his hands together as if he was praying. ‘Please God, don’t let Bernard launch into a long explanation of the significance of the potted plant in tackling the plague.’

  Bernard was an atheist. ‘Can’t you smell the lovely fragrance coming off them? Back in the seventeenth century people thought the plague was caused by a miasma of bad air. People started carrying around Plague Bags filled with herbs and sweet-scented plants because they thought it would protect them.’

  ‘Is that nursery rhyme not supposed to be about the plague? A pocket full of posies and we all fall down, that one.’

  ‘Actually, that’s an urban myth.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maitland looked almost disappointed. ‘Thought I knew a Bernard-type fact there. Anyway, the only plants I am interested in are the ones that can be harvested, dried and smoked.’

  ‘Maitland.’ Bernard was horrified. ‘You’re a former policeman. You can’t advocate the smoking of illegal drugs.’

  He grinned. ‘Even the Police don’t ban tobacco. What drugs were you thinking about, you badass?’

  Bernard remained silent.

  ‘Shall we go in, badass?’

  ‘Shut up.’ He pushed the front door. ‘Oh, it’s locked.’

  Maitland pointed to a sign entitled ‘Opening Hours’. ‘They close at three on a Tuesday.’

  ‘I phoned ahead, though. There should be someone here.’ He pressed the ornate Georgian bell, and a deep dong sounded somewhere in the heart of the building. After a second or two’s delay, the door opened a crack, and a female face peered nervously out.

  ‘Are you the gentlemen from the Health Enforcement Team?’

  ‘Yes. We’re here to see Corinna McFarlane.’

  The door opened a little further. ‘She’s not here.’

  Maitland slowly but firmly pushed the door open and stepped into the entrance hall. Bernard followed him. It was a tight fit, due to a pile of brown cardboard boxes that stood as tall as he was. He looked at the labels on them. Ebola. Yellow Fever. Crimean-Congo Haemorrhagic Fever. With a shudder he stepped as far into the room as possible.

  ‘What do you mean she’s not here?’ Maitland scowled. ‘My colleague phoned ahead to arrange a time that was suitable to meet with her.’

  Bernard looked at the woman. She was thirtyish, with long lank hair, and an unfortunately large nose. She was looking extremely uncomfortable at Maitland’s questioning.

  ‘Yes, I know, but something came up so she had to go out and she asked me to help you and,’ she paused for breath, ‘I’m Lucy, by the way.’ She stuck out a hand. Bernard shook it. It was warm and moist to the touch. ‘The assistant curator.’

  Maitland also shook Lucy’s hand, then rubbed his palm less than discreetly on his trousers. ‘Well, you’ll have to do, but tell your boss we’re not impressed about her absence. Hindering the search for a Health Defaulter is a criminal offence, you know.’

  Lucy’s eyes almost popped out of her head. ‘I’m sure Corinna isn’t . . .’ She stopped, confused. ‘Who’s missed a Health Check? Not Corinna?’

  ‘No, and we don’t need to go into all of that.’ Bernard glared at Maitland, who was throwing his weight around rather more than Bernard thought was necessary. ‘It can wait until we catch up with Ms McFarlane. But there is something you could do to help us – could we have sight of your meeting room booking diary? Or your online calendar, or whatever it is that you use.’

  ‘Oh, I can do that.’ She ducked behind the reception desk, reappearing with a large, leather-bound book. ‘It’s paper, I’m afraid. Some of our older volunteers are quite resistant to technology.’ She dropped it onto the counter, where it landed with a thud that echoed around the room.

  Maitland immediately started flicking through it. Bernard caught Lucy’s eye. She smiled back, a full and, he thought, guileless smile which made her look quite pretty.

  ‘Is it a particular meeting you’re looking for?’

  As she stepped toward Maitland, Bernard took the opportunity to shoot a glance at her ring finger, which was gratifyingly bare.

  ‘We’re looking to see how often there was a meeting of a group of civil servants in your premises.’

  ‘Do you mean the meetings organised by Nathan McKie?’ Her face clouded over. ‘Poor Nathan.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Only through Corinna. He’s an old university pal of hers. Nathan came to all the fundraisers that we held for the Museum, and I used to chat to him. He was a lovely man. And of course, I sometimes met him when he came here for meetings.’

  ‘So he was Corinna’s friend?’ said Maitland. ‘Boyfriend? Or just good friend?’

  ‘Friend,’ she said, firmly.

  Maitland returned to leafing through the bookings journal. ‘I’m not finding any Scottish Government meetings here.’

  ‘Really?’ She gently eased the book back out of Maitland’s hands. ‘Oh, I see the problem here. Corinna’s been a bit lax noting who was meeting here. See.’ She pointed at an example. ‘Wherever she’s booked the room, she’s just written “Corinna” instead of saying who the meeting was for. Which will make it very difficult for us to know how many sessions to charge them for.’

  ‘You’d charge the Scottish Government for using the room?’

  ‘I assume so – we charge everyone else who books them. Corinna deals with all the finance stuff, so you’d really have to ask her. We’re a small museum, and every penny counts. Although . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I hope I’m not talking out of turn, but I get the impression that we don’t seem so badly off financially this year. I’ve been here coming up for five years, and a big part of my role has been organising fundraisers, you know, after-hours events, or membership drives. But Corinna hasn’t even asked me to apply for any grant funding this year, never mind organise fundraisers.’

  ‘But we’d have to ask Corinna about that?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘OK, one last thing. Seeing as the book can’t tell us, could you estimate how frequently the civil servants met here?’

  ‘Maybe every couple of weeks, for the last six months? But they usually met in the evening, so I only saw them if I was still at work.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Lucy, for your assistance,’ said Bernard.

  ‘Such as it was,’ muttered Maitland.

  Lucy’s smile faltered. ‘I’m sorry that your journey wasn’t more useful. Can I offer you a tour of the Museum to make up for it?’

  ‘What have you got in there?’ asked Maitland. ‘Any two-headed dogs or anything like that?’

  She looked confused. ‘We’re an infectious diseases Museum, why would we have a two-headed dog?’

  ‘So, no deformed animals of any kind then?’

  ‘Please ignore my colleague,’ Bernard stepped in. ‘He’s a philistine. He’s confusing the concept of a museum with that of a freak show. I’m, ehm, I’m actually a member of the Museum.’

  ‘Are you?’ She beamed. Her smile really did make a huge difference to her looks. ‘Would you like the full “behind the scenes” view?’

  ‘I’d love to . . .’

  Maitland coughed, noisily.

  Bernard sighed. ‘But I’d better get back to the office.’

  ‘M
aybe some other time, then? When you’re not so busy.’

  ‘I’d like that. Ehm, take my card, just in case, you know, your boss wants to contact us, or anything like that. Or if you have any questions. Anything at all, in fact.’

  ‘Tell your boss we will be back to see her,’ said Maitland, sternly.

  Bernard smiled to himself as they exited the Museum, retracing their steps past the sweet-smelling plants.

  ‘I saw that, you know,’ said Maitland.

  ‘Saw what, exactly?’

  ‘You slipping Lucy your business card . . .’

  ‘That was legitimate HET . . .’

  ‘ . . .and seeing as she’s got a big nose and a bad hairdo, you might even be in with a chance.’

  ‘Shut up!’ He felt irrationally annoyed at Maitland’s comments. ‘I did not “slip her my business card”, it was a work thing.’

  ‘Whatever. Badass.’

  The stairs that led up to their office were blocked by the large and unmoveable shape of Marguerite. Marguerite was by far the most outgoing of the team of admin assistants that the HET shared with the other departments in their building. Although ‘outgoing’ was only one way of describing her personality. Loud, might be another, or perhaps opinionated. She tended to hold forth on a narrow range of subjects including soap operas, pop music, hairstyles, make-up, nail art, ineffective diets and the best place in Edinburgh to get cheaply and efficiently drunk on a Saturday night. Suffice to say, Bernard had not yet encountered much common ground with her.

  ‘Well, you pair made in back just in the nick of time.’

  ‘What?’ Maitland ground to a halt.

  ‘Another five minutes and I’d have been out of here. Kev’s got us tickets for the cinema tonight, and you know what he said last time I turned up late?’