The bus was crowded, hot and heaving with commuters making the journey from city centre to suburb. Bernard was squeezed into a double seat on the upper deck, trapped against the window by a large besuited man with a great many belongings. His laptop bag was wedged into the side of Bernard’s thigh, and despite his best attempts at discreet wriggling, he couldn’t shift it.
He resigned himself to the pain, and began replaying the events of the day. Whichever way you looked at it, an attempted Health Check fraud and a colleague with a boot in the face wasn’t what you’d call a good result. He wondered if Mona or Maitland would have done things differently. Was there some finely honed police intuition that would have alerted them that they’d got the wrong person? Some experience gained the hard way that made them better placed to spot when they were being lied to?
And Maitland was right, there was bound to be a vast amount of paperwork attached to this: incident reporting, witness statements, liaison with Police Scotland. To say nothing of someone having to explain all this to Mr Paterson when he got back . . . Bernard realised with a start he was approaching the stop for his new flat.
‘Excuse me.’
The man sharing his seat gathered up his bags to let him past, but by the time he’d squeezed out his stop was long gone. He alighted on an unfamiliar street, and set off in what he hoped was the direction of his new home. On a day like today, he’d give anything to be back at his old flat, with his wife. Well, almost anything. He’d give Carrie anything in the world apart from the one thing that she really wanted from him.
He turned the corner and was delighted to find himself back on a street that he knew, Park Road, which was named after the small public green space that ran the length of it. The other side of the street was taken up with shops, all of which were closed for the night. Assuming no further wrong turns he’d be at his new flat in five minutes. Would Megan be in the kitchen, whipping up something delightful for tea? Would she extend her hospitality again, and offer him some food? If so, he’d really have to repay the favour, and cook her something in return. Although his attempts at cooking tended to be functional at best. Maybe he should take her out for a meal; he’d noticed a couple of local restaurants that looked quite passable. Though that might be drifting into dangerous territory, because it might look suspiciously like a date.
Although . . .
He shook himself and focused on the present. In case he did get the offer of a home-cooked meal as soon as he got in, he’d better get the evening’s phone calls out of the way. He perched on the wall of the park, and leaned back against the metal railings. Who to phone first? Carole, to check if she was OK? Mona, to see how things were going in London? Carrie, to see . . . well, for no very good reason at all.
He opted for Carole first. Her number was answered almost immediately by a man, which gave him a moment of anxiety. This was probably Carole’s husband, who was, no doubt, furious about the day’s events. Bernard couldn’t begin to imagine how angry he would have been if anyone had hurt Carrie. Would Carole’s husband consider him responsible for not protecting Carole? Because that would make two of them. He took a deep breath. ‘Hi, this is Bernard from the HET.’
‘Oh.’ Rather than angry, he sounded disappointed. Bernard felt relief, as well as a slight confusion at the unexpected response.
‘I expect you want to speak to Carole.’
‘Yes, if she’s . . .’
He heard the sound of a conversation in the background, which seemed to consist of Carole being urged to keep the call short.
‘Hi, Bernard.’ Her voice was thick and unfamiliar, as if she was talking through a mouthful of tar.
‘How are you?’
‘Sore.’ She sighed. ‘An ’orried.’
‘Worried?’
‘’ichael didn’t go to ’hool today, an’ he’s ’ot answerin’ his ’one.’
Bernard mulled this over. A likely translation was ‘Michael didn’t go to school today, and he’s not answering his phone.’ It explained the response he’d had when he rung. ‘Oh, that’s not good.’ Bernard’s mind went back to their earlier conversation. ‘Probably just him trying to assert his independence?’
‘Prob’ly, but we’re still ’orried.’
‘Are you going to contact the police?’
There was a pause. ‘Maybe.’
He understood Carole’s dilemma. Better to know what Michael had been doing with his day before drawing the attention of the law to it. ‘OK, I better let you go. Call me if I can do anything.’
He scrolled through his address book until he found Mona’s number. A wave of doubt hit him as he looked at the screen. She hadn’t felt it necessary to phone him, and if they did speak she might ask how the search for Alessandra Barr was going. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that particular conversation, especially if Mr Paterson was listening in to the call. He quickly returned to the address book and pressed the number of his former home. The phone rang and rang, until the answering machine kicked in. Bernard felt a sudden sense of loss. There was no reason why Carrie should be sitting at home, waiting for the phone to ring. He tried her mobile, and counted the rings from one to twelve until he got the voicemail.
‘It’s Bernard. Just wanted to see, you know, how you were. Anyway . . . speak to you soon. Bye.’
Why hadn’t she picked up? A range of possibilities crowded into Bernard’s head. She could be in the bath. Carrie liked a long, hot soak, and she probably wouldn’t leap out of the suds just to answer the phone. She might even have taken the precaution of turning her phone to silent, to make sure she wasn’t disturbed. That would be it. Not any kind of illness, or accident, or her not wanting to speak to him ever again. It would just be a bath thing. He stared at the phone for a few seconds, then redialled the number, and counted the rings again.
‘Maybe just let me know if you are OK once you get this? Just a quick call. I know you wanted some space, but now I’m worried . . . Anyway, call me. Thanks.’
If she wasn’t pissed off with him already, she would be now. He checked the time. He should head back to his digs, and see what Megan was doing. But the streets were quiet and he was enjoying the solitude. The absence of Carrie had unsettled him, and, lovely as his new flatmate was, he wasn’t sure he was up to making small talk. He tipped his head back against the railings, and enjoyed the evening sun on his face for a moment, before getting to his feet. He couldn’t sit there forever. And maybe Megan would have opened another bottle of wine, although he didn’t really approve of drinking two nights running.
He walked slowly, hearing the echo of his footsteps on the deserted street. After a few steps he realised he could hear two sets of footsteps. He speeded up. The other set of steps, though irregular, kept pace with him. He stopped and turned, in time to see a figure disappear into the park. Bernard stared after him, but didn’t get a good enough view to make an impression. Jeans, brown leather jacket perhaps? Either way, the person didn’t seem intent on doing him harm. Probably wasn’t interested in him at all. He shook his head. He was getting paranoid.
He arrived at the new flat and put his key into the lock of the front door.
‘Bernard, is that you?’ His new flatmate’s voice echoed through the flat.
He stuck his head into the kitchen. There was a pot bubbling away on the stove, curry if the smell was to be believed, but no sign of a cook.
‘I’m in the living room.’
He pushed open the door. Megan was sitting on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand. In the two weeks Bernard had lived there he’d only ever seen her in jeans, or the white uniform that she wore to work. Today she had on a green dress, with a pattern of a bird repeated over it. It ended at the knee and he couldn’t help but notice a pair of shapely legs tucked underneath her.
Megan picked up the remote control. Her long bright pink fingernails made a clicking sound as she turned the TV off. ‘I’ve made enough curry for two, if you fancy some.’
‘That sounds great. And it smells great as well.’
‘There’s a bottle of Rioja on the go, as well, if you’d like a glass.’
His phone buzzed. ‘Sorry, I just need to . . .’
Megan nodded, and started pouring him a large glass.
He was delighted to see a text message from Carrie, proving she was alive and still speaking to him. He pressed the screen to open it.
Stop calling me. WE NEED TO MOVE ON.
Bernard realised that despite the health impact of drinking continuously without a rest day, he really, really would like a large amount of wine. And if it meant he went over the recommended weekly units for a man, he really didn’t care. He dropped his rucksack on the floor and sat down, rather heavily, on the sofa next to Megan.
She handed him a glass. ‘Sláinte!’