Someone was trying to get in. Bernard, who had not moved from his position in the hallway since Maitland left, listened to the sound of a key scraping round in the lock.
‘Maitland,’ he said quietly, ‘is that you?’
‘Who’s Maitland?’ asked a low, gruff voice that he did not recognise. His heart leapt somewhere in the direction of his tonsils, and he looked round the hallway in a frantic attempt to locate a weapon. Should he run through to the kitchen and find something, or would his time be better spent phoning the police? Did he still have PC McGovern’s number somewhere?
There was a burst of laughter from the other side of the door, laughter that was childish, mocking, and annoyingly familiar. He peered through the spyhole and saw Maitland doubled over in hysterics.
‘Of course it’s me. Now take the bolt off the door, you tool.’
Bernard closed his eyes. If he made it through the next week alive, he was going to dedicate the rest of his life to torturing Maitland. His starting point would be giving Kate a good talking-to about what she had got herself into, and how she could do so, so much better.
‘Hurry up, Bernie!’
Bernard undid the bolts as quickly as he could, which wasn’t very quickly at all as his hands were still shaking. He pulled the lower bolt back too quickly and caught his finger in it, causing a little row of bloody dots to appear on his skin. Maitland ambled in, grinning.
‘That wasn’t funny.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ His grin turned into a yawn, giving Bernard a view of his fillings and tonsils. He pulled open a door. ‘This is the spare room. And remember, you are here for one night, and one night only, so don’t get comfy.’
Bernard peered in. Comfy was a danger he didn’t think he would be encountering. Given the dimensions of the ‘room’ he was looking at, claustrophobia or lack of oxygen might be a bigger threat.
‘Is this really your spare room? It barely meets the definition of the word room. It’s more like a closet.’
‘That’ll suit you perfectly then, won’t it?’ he smirked. ‘Being closeted?’
‘I’m not . . . oh never mind.’ There were more important issues to address than engaging with Maitland’s ever-present homophobia. ‘Maitland, I don’t see a bed.’
‘It’s in there. It’s just got a few things on top of it.’ He picked up a brown cardboard box marked ‘Uni Stuff’ in black marker pen, and dropped it in the hallway. ‘See.’
A square foot of red and grey duvet cover was revealed.
‘Anyway, I’m having first shot at the bathroom. I’ll give you a knock about half-six, OK?’
‘Yeah. I’ll just carry on excavating my bed, shall I?’ He turned round but Maitland had already disappeared into the bathroom. Bernard could hear him noisily relieving himself and singing at the same time. He manoeuvred another three boxes of ‘Uni Stuff’ out into the hallway, followed by two well-stuffed plastic bags of football memorabilia. Underneath this was a layer of shoe boxes and several bags of what looked like designer clothing. Once all of this was removed he was in a position to confirm Maitland’s theory that there was actually a bed in the room, albeit one with an extremely flat duvet. He pulled the cover off, and found a very large, very dead spider lying on the sheet. He picked it up by one of its legs and flung it after the other junk.
‘All settled in then?’
‘Do you have a lot of guests, Maitland?’
‘What were you expecting? Fluffy towels and a chocolate on the pillow?’
‘What is all this stuff anyway? Why do you need so many pairs of trainers?’
Maitland shrugged.
‘And do you actually wear any of this stuff?’
‘What are you – my mother?’ Maitland pulled a tracksuit top out of a bag, examined it for a moment and shoved it back in. ‘Anyway, I can’t wear this stuff now.’
‘Why not?’
He sighed. ‘Bernard, let me explain how men’s fashion works, seeing as your dress sense suggests it’s not a concept you’ve ever come across. It all begins with some old lady brand that a hot-shot PR person decides is going to be the next big thing. Early adopters of fashion, such as myself, buy into this and spend a small fortune on the stuff. Then you start seeing the brand appearing on the football terraces, and suddenly every ned in Scotland is wearing the same overpriced gear as you.’ He dug into a bag and produced a distinctive fawn checked scarf. ‘A case in point. And you know it’s time to move on.’
‘But why not throw all this stuff out, or give it to charity?’
‘Well, I spent a lot of money on it, and it might come back into fashion.’
‘You are crazy, Maitland.’
‘Yup, but women love me, and you are supposedly back on the market looking for some lady-loving so watch and learn. Now shut up and go to sleep.’ He threw the bag he was holding into the far reaches of the closet, where it hit the wall and spread its contents across the floor.
‘Maitland, what do we do if someone does turn up here tonight?’
‘They won’t. And if they do, the door is securely locked and we’ll have plenty of notice. Go to sleep, Bernard.’
Go to sleep, Bernard. As if it was just that easy. He stared at the ceiling of Maitland’s spare room, then sat bolt upright. He could hear footsteps on the stairs. It was probably nothing; after all, there were five other flats in the building, and they could be returning home to any one of them. The footsteps stopped, and so did Bernard’s breathing. Should he waken Maitland? Probably a false alarm but better to be prepared. He crept out into the hall. He was nearly at Maitland’s room when he heard the unmistakeable sound of girlish giggling. He slid over to the front door and looked through the spyhole at two young women opening the door opposite. Neighbours.
He slunk back to his own room, immensely grateful that he hadn’t woken Maitland; he would never have heard the end of it. He climbed back into the dirty sheets of his temporary refuge, and wondered if tomorrow could get any worse than today had been. What could top the day that had started with him being shouted at by a politician and ended with him being threatened by people who sounded more than capable of carrying out their warning? And just to add to the joy of the day, this threat, as well as putting the fear of God into him, and limiting his ability to do his job, also seemed to have stomped all over his first chance at romance since his marriage broke up. Megan, lovely Megan, with the ex-boyfriend who was apparently so much handier than him in a crisis. He probably had better fashion sense too.
And now he was here, stuck in the junk room of a man who spent every working day needling him about his lack of machismo. He really didn’t have to bother; over the past few months the universe had made plenty of assaults on his masculinity – he’d already got the message. He’d been beaten up so badly on the Weber case he’d ended up in hospital. Wouldn’t have happened to a real man. His wife had left him because he refused to get her pregnant. Real men impregnate anything with a pulse without a second thought. His female colleague had nearly had her jaw broken. Real men keep their team mates safe. And the worst bit, the part that really did make him feel like he had the testosterone levels of a teenage girl, was that he did feel safer with Maitland around.
He sighed. Wallowing in self-pity was making him feel marginally better, but it certainly wasn’t making him feel any sleepier. Maybe counting his blessings would relax him enough to drop off. And there were plenty of people out there much worse off than him. Carole, for instance, with her sore jaw and her teenager troubles. Anyone that wasn’t yet immune was also much worse off than him. And poor Alessandra Barr, the woman with two black eyes. Or at least two black eyes six months ago when she’d got her Green Card.
Six months ago. Six months. That had to be unusual, right? The whole Green Card regime had been established over eighteen months ago, and even a year ago it would have been odd to come across someone without a card. The regime made it impossible to even get a cup of coffee without showing them your credentials. How had Alessandra survived without a Green Card? And why hadn’t anyone asked any questions about why she was only requesting one now? Unless . . .
He dug his bag out from under the shower of designer clothes, and found his laptop. He logged in and opened up Alessandra’s file. He went over the facts again.
Alessandra Valentina Barr
Born: 23 April 1995
Place of birth: Glasgow
It didn’t make sense. If Alessandra was part of the Barr clan, why was she working in Edinburgh? Surely it wouldn’t be safe? And he didn’t know much about gangster families, beyond what he’d seen in films, but he was pretty sure that their womenfolk didn’t usually walk the streets touting for business.
Six months. Six months with a Green Card. A thought occurred to him. He looked at the time, and decided that it was too late to phone Marcus. He stared at his laptop for a moment or two, then decided to phone anyway.
To his relief the phone was answered on the first ring. ‘Bernard! What can I do you for?’
‘Sorry to ring so late.’ He heard a voice in the background. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No, that’s just Bryce. You caught us, I’m afraid.’
‘Really?’ He found himself wondering about his colleagues’ relationship – what exactly had he caught them doing? Oh God – one night in Maitland’s box room and he was turning into him.
‘Yes, we were in the middle of a guilty pleasure. We’ve spent the whole evening rewatching season two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Call me an old romantic but I do like the early episodes with Angel. Never quite took to her other boyfriends . . .’
‘Anyway,’ Bernard said, eager to head Marcus off from an episode by episode discussion, ‘sorry to intrude so late, but I was wondering if you could look something up for me?’
‘Sure,’ he sounded surprised. ‘Something that just couldn’t wait, eh? Must be important. Hang on a mo while I get my laptop on to my knee. OK, fire away.’
‘Can you search for Alessandra Barr’s death being registered?’
‘Her death?’ He laughed. ‘Do you now have so little faith in the HET’s admin system that you’re worried they’ve got you chasing after dead people?’
‘Something like that.’
He listened to the sound of Marcus typing.
‘Only finding one dead Alessandra Valentina, and I’m afraid that was a six-year-old girl back in 2001.’
‘Can you check the birth date of that Alessandra?’
Marcus read the date to him. ‘Ooh, that’s a little bit interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly is. Thanks, and sorry again for disturbing you. Enjoy your remaining vampires.’
Bernard returned to the hall, double-checked the view from the peep-hole, then dithered outside Maitland’s room. He would probably be furious at being disturbed, but right now he didn’t care. ‘Maitland.’
He was answered by a snore. Apparently his colleague was not having the same difficulties falling asleep that he was. He pushed open the door and crept in. In a slightly louder voice he said, ‘Maitland.’
This still failed to rouse him, so he knelt by the bed, and gave his colleague’s shoulder a shake. He woke up with a start, his arms flailing.
‘What?’ He switched on the bedside lamp. ‘Bernard, what the fuck? Is somebody here?’
‘No.’
Maitland sat up, the duvet falling off him to reveal a lack of nightwear. ‘Then you better have a very good reason for waking me up.’
‘I need to tell you something.’
Maitland smirked, and pulled his duvet back up to his neck. ‘Is it that you’ve been madly in love with me since the moment we met, and made this whole story up just to get access to my bedroom? Because, no offence, but I’m really not interested.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Maitland. I’m not gay, and even if I was and you were the last man on earth, it’d still be no.’
‘It’d be easier to believe you if you weren’t kneeling semi-naked at the side of my bed.’
Bernard glared at him.
‘OK, I’m done. What do you want to tell me?’
‘Alessandra Barr.’
‘Yep.’
‘She’s only had a Green Card for six months.’
‘Uh-huh. So?’
‘So how was she surviving without one?’
He shrugged. ‘Cash-in-hand economy.’
‘But you need a Green Card for everything – shopping even.’
‘Maybe she got busted, and that’s what made her get a card.’
‘Or maybe she’s only been in the country six months.’
Maitland finally looked interested in the discussion. ‘You’re thinking trafficking?’
‘I think it’s a possibility. I just got Marcus to check to see if the death of an Alessandra Barr had been registered. There was the death of a six-year-old girl registered in 2001, with exactly the same birth date as our Alessandra. They could have used her birth certificate to get the Green Card.’
‘And you think the Barrs did this?’ Maitland yawned and scratched his chest while he thought. ‘A bit callous recycling their dead child’s name for one of their tarts.’
‘And it still doesn’t explain why she’s working in Edinburgh, and not on their home turf. But I think there’s definitely something in it.’
‘Right. Tomorrow, we deal with the old bag Carmichael, get in touch with that Police Scotland liaison bloke, then you get hold of Marcus again. See if he can find anything else out about her on the system.’
‘OK.’
‘Now get out, close the door behind you, and no sneaking back in for another look at my perfect physique.’ He turned off the light and plunged them both into darkness.