Death at the Plague Museum Read online

  ‘Marguerite . . .’ began Bernard, hoping to head off one of Marguerite’s very long tales about her boyfriend’s shortcomings.

  ‘He said if he’d had to wait for me to turn up late again, he was going in and I could pay for myself. Get that – pay for myself!’

  ‘OK, but we’re kind of busy . . .’

  ‘So, I was planning to leave here at 4.30pm so that I could get home, have a bath, do my . . .hoi!’

  Maitland had had enough of listening to Marguerite’s plans for the evening and shoved her out of the way. She tutted, and manoeuvred herself more firmly in the way of Bernard.

  ‘Please let me past.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got a parcel for you.’

  Maitland ran backwards down the steps until he was level with her. ‘From Martine Galloway?’

  ‘Yes. And she made me promise I would deliver it personally into your hands. I said she could wait if she wanted, but she was a bit, you know, nervous or something and she said she’d just leave it with me. Made me give her a receipt and everything. So, that’s why I’m still at work instead of halfway through a nice relaxing bath.’

  Maitland threw an arm around her shoulder, and kissed her noisily on the cheek. ‘Marge, that Kev doesn’t know how lucky he is. You are truly an angel fallen to earth.’

  ‘Tell that to Kev when I’m late. Anyway, the parcel’s hidden under your desk.’

  Maitland took the stairs two at a time. Keen to not miss out, Bernard ran after him.

  ‘Thanks, Marguerite,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Have some popcorn on us!’

  ‘So, what is all this crap?’

  Maitland had unloaded the contents of the box onto his desk, none of which, thankfully, were items of clothing with traces of the DNA of Helen Sopel’s mystery boyfriend. The three items in the box had been set out across Bernard’s desk.

  On the left-hand side, there were several pages of itemised calls relating to a Virgin mobile. Someone had gone through the phone bills and highlighted a particular recurring number with a fluorescent pink pen.

  In the centre of the desk, resting lightly on the computer’s keyboard, was a face mask, which looked to Bernard like some kind of Native American folk art. It was painted black on one side and a powdery white on the other, and the mouth of the mask was distorted to one side. When Bernard picked it up, he was surprised at how light it was. He’d guessed it was reproduction, rather than the real thing.

  On the far right, there lay a black-and-white photocopy of a photograph of a woman. She was wearing a full-skirted, knee-length dress, decorated with a floral print. This was topped off with a short, boxy jacket, and a hat. Her fashion sense placed the picture firmly in the 1950s.

  ‘I don’t know what it all means, Maitland, but I still think we should have waited until Mr Paterson was here before we opened this up. And shouldn’t we be wearing gloves or something? Not getting our fingerprints all over it?’

  ‘Relax, this is the HET, not a CID investigation.’

  ‘But I thought this was a joint investigation with Police Scotland?’

  Maitland stopped flicking through the papers. ‘Oh, I suppose it is.’ He pulled his jumper over the end of his fingers, and continued flicking. ‘But finding Helen Sopel’s important. We can’t wait for the Guv or that Ian bloke to personally OK our every move.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Shut up and look at this. These bills are all for Helen Sopel’s phone, and she’s highlighted the same number over and over. Do you reckon this is lover boy’s mobile?’

  In spite of his misgivings, Bernard focused in on the paperwork. ‘It could be, couldn’t it? We should probably ask Mr Paterson what to do with it.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s not here, is he? And we could be wasting valuable time sitting on our hands, waiting for a grown-up to come along and say it’s OK for us to play with our toys. I say we seize the day.’

  ‘Oh, I really don’t know about this.’

  ‘Stop being such a wuss. I’m phoning it.’

  Bernard opened his mouth to protest further, and for want of a half-decent argument closed it again. Maitland was right that they were wasting time, and if he was completely honest with himself, he was dying to know who Helen Sopel had deemed important enough to highlight to her best friend in an open-in-an-emergency package.

  Maitland grinned at him, then punched the number into his phone. His expression froze, and he ended the call, dropping his phone onto his desk as if it was on fire.

  ‘Shit, Bernie. We are so screwed.’

  7

  Stuttle was wearing a very sharp suit and appeared to have spent the last hour bathing in aftershave, if the smell permeating his office was anything to go by. Mona had to try very hard not to cough every time a whiff of it wafted in her direction. Stuttle sat behind his huge mahogany desk with an expression that suggested he was very annoyed to have his evening interrupted by the North Edinburgh HET. On the other side of the desk were Paterson, Mona, Ian and Bernard, with expressions that ranged from mild exasperation to heightened fearfulness.

  ‘So, the gang’s all here then? Where’s the one that’s threatening to sue me?’

  ‘Carole?’ said Paterson. ‘She left the HET on the dot of five o’clock, and persuaded Maitland that he should do the same. She’s not a very good influence on that lad at the moment.’

  ‘All very interesting, but can you cut to the chase of why you all absolutely had to see me? I’ve got twenty minutes until I’m due at the Sheraton for a charity event . . .’

  Mona turned to look at Bernard. She knew he’d be intrigued by this, as he was a strong supporter of charity. He’d be desperate to know which particular charitable endeavour Stuttle was a supporter of, but at the same time his fear of the SHEP boss was strong. Would curiosity or nerves win?

  Bernard’s mouth opened. ‘Which one?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Er, which charity?’

  ‘I don’t know, Bernard.’ He waved a sheet of paper at them. ‘I’ve not even had time to read the briefing notes yet. All I know is that I want to be there sharp at seven, eat whatever over-cooked, mass-produced hotel food I’m offered, say how strongly SHEP supports whatever charitable endeavour I’m actually at, then get home to Mrs Stuttle. So whatever supposed crisis involves all four of you being in my office, can you make your ask, I’ll say no, then we can all get on our way.’

  Ian smiled. ‘I’ll go first, shall I? There were four people at the meeting at the Museum, two are dead and one is missing . . .’

  ‘And you want to talk to Carlotta Carmichael? Well, you can’t. She’s currently on a fact-finding mission to Tallin, Estonia, in the company of a range of health service staff, several trade and industry bods and her ever-loving husband, Jonathon.’

  Paterson looked curious. ‘Do you memorise her calendar so that you know where she is at any given time?’

  Stuttle snorted. ‘In my position, wouldn’t you? Anyway, she’s back tomorrow. I’ll get something sorted. Shouldn’t be a problem as we have a legitimate reason. What do you want to get out of the meeting with her?’

  ‘We want to know what they talked about in their un-minuted meeting.’

  ‘Yes, you, me and the whole of Twitter wants to know that, but I wouldn’t bank on her telling you anything. There’s always a danger that she turns up with her lawyer as well, who I think she’s got on bloody speed dial, by the way. But I trust you guys not to mess it up. OK, who’s next?’

  Everyone turned to look at Bernard. ‘Right, ehm, OK . . .’

  ‘Clock is ticking, Bernard. The sick children slash animals slash historic buildings are waiting.’

  ‘OK, right, Helen Sopel’s best friend thought that she was having an affair, and was worried about this. She left a package with her friend in case anything bad happened . . .’

  He looked intrigued. ‘Like Monica Lewinsky and her dress?’

  ‘Exactly like that! In that package was a selection of Ms Sopel’s phone bi
lls all with the same number highlighted.’

  ‘The boyfriend’s number?’

  ‘We assumed so. So we phoned it and . . .’

  The room was suddenly very silent.

  ‘Jonathon Carmichael answered.’

  Stuttle stared at him. Without taking his eyes off Bernard’s face he reached over and picked up his phone. ‘Katherine? Can you put in my apologies for that charity thing? Something’s come up.’

  8

  Bernard trudged wearily in the direction of his new flat. The day had been exhausting, although not altogether unsatisfying. Professionally, it was disappointing that they didn’t seem to be any closer to tracking down Helen Sopel, although on a positive note there was nothing in their investigation that suggested they’d be finding her body imminently, with or without a suicide note. On a personal level, he felt a modicum of pride in how he’d handled himself today. Maitland hadn’t been barking completely up the wrong tree about him passing his business card to Lucy. He had pulled off something not a million miles away from asking a woman out, and he had a pretty much open invitation to go back to the Museum. After all he was a member.

  He had also got all the way through a meeting with the supremely scary Mr Stuttle without humiliating himself, which was more than could be said for Maitland, who really ought to have been there. After all, he had been the one who made the call. But Carole had appeared when they were debating what to do, and persuaded Maitland that his best option was to clock off at five and worry about it in the morning. When Bernard had protested, she’d told him he was a jobsworth and flounced out, a grinning Maitland hot on her heels. So, it had been left to Bernard to phone Mr Paterson, who’d laughed solidly for a full minute when he’d explained about Jonathon Carmichael, before telling him to ‘get his arse along’ to the meeting with Stuttle.

  And now, at long last, he was heading home, a bag of mixed vegetables in his hand. In round about fifteen minutes he’d have a lovely stir-fry to eat in front of whatever tonight’s documentary was on BBC4. Or maybe he’d spend a while hunting for the Guide to the Edinburgh Museum of Plagues and Pandemics that he’d bought on one of his earlier visits. He’d familiarise himself with their range of exhibits, just in case, well, you know.

  He turned onto the driveway for his flats, and was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t see a figure detach itself from the shadows and step toward him.

  ‘Bernard.’

  He jumped a good six inches in the air, his shopping bag swinging against his knees.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  For a man who was desperate to talk, Bryce was taking a long time to say anything. He’d remained stumm all the way up the stairs, then sat silently in the living room while Bernard made them both tea. As Bernard plonked a mug of tea in front of his mute friend, he decided to hurry matters along a little. He’d like to get the stir-fry cooked and eaten, and still have a good long bath before bed.

  ‘You needed to talk?’

  This provoked a long sigh, and a burst of head-shaking. ‘This just feels really, you know, disloyal?’

  ‘Are we talking about Marcus?’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t say anything . . .’

  Bernard resisted the temptation to agree. He sneaked a look at his watch. He’d have to forget about the bath. At this rate he’d be eating his tea in front of Newsnight, while the next hour was going to be spent dragging information piece by piece from Bryce, information that he wasn’t sure he even wanted in the first place.

  ‘No!’ Bryce banged a fist on the table, making Bernard jump for the second time that evening.

  ‘No?’

  His friend seemed to be having some kind of argument with himself that Bernard wasn’t party to. At least he appeared to have come to some decision.

  ‘I’ve decided. I have to speak up.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think Marcus is in trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘I think he’s got himself addicted to online gambling.’

  ‘Really?’ Bernard couldn’t imagine Marcus doing anything quite that stupid.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Bryce gave a sad shake of his head. ‘He invented what he described as “an infallible system for winning” at online roulette, based on what he thought were predictabilities in the programme’s algorithms.’

  That did sound more like Marcus. ‘And was it infallible?’

  ‘Nope. And he’s lost a fortune, used up all his overdraft and maxed out his credit cards.’

  Bernard sighed. ‘That’s really, really stupid.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me. But what really worries me, is that I think he’s still gambling.’

  ‘How? He can’t have any money.’

  ‘Well, possibly.’ Bryce looked uncomfortable. ‘Marcus and I, as you know, spend a lot of time in different forums, and every so often we may, carelessly, let slip that we work for the government.’

  ‘That’s super stupid.’ Bernard redoubled his sighing and added a tut for good measure. ‘And could probably get you both sacked.’

  ‘Probably. But we don’t use our real names, obviously, or say anything that could identify us.’

  This still sounded ridiculously risky to Bernard. He never told anyone he worked for the HET if he could possibly avoid it, although to be fair, that was less about security and more about the ever-present worry that he would be ranted at about the HET’s infringement of civil liberties.

  ‘And from time to time people make approaches to us, offering us money for information . . .’

  ‘Who?’ It was news to him that they had anything worth selling. ‘Why?’

  ‘The why varies with the who. We get approached by people who want to sell IT services to SHEP, people who are looking for evidence to undermine SHEP, conspiracy theorists who want to know what’s really going on, journalists . . .’

  Bernard thought about the recent leaks at the HET. ‘You think he might . . .be tempted?’

  ‘I’m afraid that there’s a very real possibility that he’s already given in to temptation.’

  Bernard slumped back in his chair. ‘What can we do? Should I speak to him?’

  ‘No.’ Bryce shook his head vigorously. ‘He’d only deny it. I’m going to try to keep track of what he’s up to but if you notice anything untoward at work, try and cover for him.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ said Bernard, doubtfully. He wasn’t sure that ethically he was prepared to cover for someone who might be leaking HET secrets. More practically, he wasn’t sure that he had the deceptive ability to participate in a cover-up. His woeful inability to lie convincingly was one of the many things that Maitland berated him about.

  ‘He’s our friend, Bernard. We need to try to help him.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  ‘At the very least can you tell me if you spot any leaks, or anything else that? And let me know if you think Paterson or Stuttle are on to him? Then I’ve got a chance to warn him, if nothing else.’

  He sighed. ‘OK.’

  9

  There were three missed calls on Mona’s mobile, all of them from Elaine. Hell would freeze over before she phoned her back. For all that she’d met Elaine on a dating site, she was and remained, a member of the press. There was only one reason that a journalist would be getting in touch with her – she would be making contact to see if she could get any more gossip out of Mona about the current state of the HET, and God knows she’d already been indiscreet enough. If she got out of this without providing featured content for a Cassandra Doom column she’d be lucky.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Mona?’ Her mother’s voice drifted up to her. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  An hour ago she’d sat through a full meal of pork chops, roast potatoes and veg, followed by apple tart and custard. There was a vague feeling at the back of her mind that this might have been her favourite meal at some po
int in her childhood. She’d been touched by her mother’s efforts, particularly given the current state of her health, but had also been extremely keen to get back to her room to plan what she was going to do next. It would take more than the offer of tea to lure her downstairs.

  She put her mobile with its accusatory missed calls back into her bag. Oh God, what a mess. What had possessed her to sign up to Internet dating? At the time it had seemed easier than meeting people face-to-face. She’d been unable to picture herself making small talk in a bar, or over dinner, with a group of women that she might have nothing in common with except her sexuality. Internet dating had seemed a good way to get to know someone before committing to meet. When she’d met Elaine in person her critical faculties should have kicked in, but the amount of alcohol she’d consumed on their date meant that she’d lost whatever common sense she had in the bottom of a wineglass. At least she could go back and check what she’d said when they’d chatted online.

  You heard all these scare stories about people being unwittingly infected by talking to people they didn’t know over the Internet. Could Elaine have unleashed some tracking device onto her laptop or her phone that let her read her files? Had she given her a route into eavesdropping on current activity at the HET? Was that even possible, or was she having a massive bout of paranoia? She really needed to talk to someone who understood computers, but she didn’t fancy confessing to Marcus or Bernard or the other geek from IT what she’d been up to. It would have to involve starting from the first principle of explaining why she’d been on a date with a woman, for one thing. She was pretty sure that would come as a revelation to her colleagues.

  Maybe she was just being paranoid but given the sensitivity of what she had planned for the rest of the evening, she wasn’t willing to take the risk. If she couldn’t use her laptop or her mobile, her evening’s activities were going to involve a library and a call box, two things that she hadn’t used since she was a teenager. Time to find out if such things still existed in her neighbourhood.