‘Just here is fine.’
Bernard pointed at the end of Milton Street, a narrow street with tenements on either side, appalling parking, and a fine view of Arthur’s Seat if your window was facing the right way. If he remembered correctly, this was where Maitland had his bachelor pad.
PC McGovern double parked the car, and put the hazard lights on. Grateful as he was for the lift, Bernard was very glad to be saying goodbye. The car journey had been fifteen minutes of interrogation about how they were responding to the memo (which he hadn’t read), what their future plans would be for responding to these attacks on HET officers (which he didn’t know), and what a fine cop like John Paterson was doing wasting his time with the HET nonsense (upon which he really couldn’t speculate).
‘Before you go.’ PC McGovern reached past him into the glove compartment, and pulled out a folder. He leafed through it, then picked out three sheets of pink A4 paper. ‘John, or whoever is currently in charge, needs to complete these and fire them over to Ian Jacobsen, our HET liaison person. He’ll want to give you some guidance on this situation.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And can I give you some unsolicited advice?’
Bernard assumed this was a rhetorical flourish rather than an actual question. He nodded.
‘Ease off on the search until you’ve spoken to Ian Jacobsen, or at least until John is back at work. No offence, but you lot are amateurs when it comes to dealing with some of the nasty bastards out there.’
He nodded, but the advice was moot. He had no intention of doing any further chasing after his Defaulter until someone could guarantee his safety. Someone who had a degree of concern for his well-being. Someone who would take his concerns seriously. Someone who wasn’t Maitland.
‘Thanks for the lift.’ He opened the rear door, and picked up his worldly goods from the back seat.
‘Take care.’ PC McGovern drove off with a cheery wave over his shoulder.
Bernard set off down Milton Street, trying to remember exactly which of the grey stone tenements was home to Maitland’s flat. He’d only been there once before, when an early start had involved him picking up Maitland directly from home. He did not remember his colleague being overly grateful for his lift.
The obvious thing to do would be to phone ahead, but he suspected that any pre-announcement of his arrival would result in him being redirected to a hotel, hostel, YMCA, park bench or any other venue that didn’t interfere with Maitland’s date night. Better to arrive and be shouted at than risk the door not being answered.
He walked up to the first of the tenements and ran an eye over the names on the entryphone. The shifting population of renters meant that most of the names were written on bits of paper, full of scoring-out and Tippexing. Even allowing for the quality of the copperplate, there wasn’t anything resembling a Stevenson. The second tenement had a sun-faded entry that looked like it started with an S and ended -son. He filed it away as a possible, and moved on to a third door. There he found a doorbell with Stevenson typed onto a bit of paper and sellotaped over the previous nameplate. In a stroke of luck, the stair door was propped open. The first Maitland would know of his arrival would be the joyous moment when he opened the door and they were stood face to face. He ran happily up the stairs until he found another sellotaped ‘Stevenson’ and hammered loudly.
After a minute’s delay, Maitland opened up holding a £20 note in his hand. ‘You’re not the Chinese takeaway.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Then why are you here, at my home, outside of working hours?’ He pointed the banknote at him, in what Bernard felt was a rather aggressive manner.
‘You know how my flatmate, Megan, phoned up earlier, in distress?’
‘Yes, sorry to hear that, but—’
‘She was attacked at her flat. A guy broke in and threatened her, had her by the throat and everything.’
‘Sounds awful, but really a police matter . . .’
‘The guy who assaulted her was looking for me.’
‘You?’ He looked sceptical. ‘Why would anyone be looking for you?’
Bernard felt his good humour slipping away, being replaced by the usual Maitland-induced irritation. ‘I think it’s to do with our search for Alessandra Barr.’
Maitland’s face clouded over. ‘I just cannot get a break on this case, can I?’
Bernard stared at him. ‘You? You can’t get a break? My flatmate is hurt, I get threatened and you . . .’ Rage overcame any articulacy he may previously have possessed. ‘Fuck you!’
‘Bernard, language.’ Maitland grinned. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’
‘Yes, and they’ve given me these forms for you to fill in.’ He handed over the pink sheets.
‘Do I have to do it now? Kate’s here. This can wait until morning, surely?’ He looked down and caught sight of Bernard’s bag. ‘Oh no, no way.’
‘But Megan’s kicked me out!’
‘Go to a hotel!’
‘I don’t want to stay in a hotel on my own. What if someone is looking for me?’
Maitland looked less than concerned about this prospect.
‘Anyway, it’s not like you and Kate are going to be, you know, what with her Christian beliefs.’
Maitland stepped out into the hall, and pulled the door shut behind him. ‘I know! But I was looking forward to seeing exactly how far the boundaries laid out in the Good Book could be stretched, which I can’t do with you here.’
Bernard folded his arms. ‘You owe me a favour.’
Maitland grunted.
‘Shall I explain the nature of the favour to Kate?’
‘Don’t you dare!’ For the first time in the entire conversation, Maitland looked animated. ‘She doesn’t know anything about Emma’s bunny-boiling tendencies. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. You can stay for one night, and one night only.’
There were footsteps on the stairs, and a Chinese man appeared carrying an insulated bag.
‘Do I get a share of the prawn crackers?’