Bernard ran until he was about six streets away from the house, then pulled out his phone. The phone’s log showed there were half a dozen missed calls from Maitland, and an equal number of text messages rising in temperament from mildly annoyed to frantic. He wasn’t surprised that his colleagues were worried; after all he’d just popped out for some milk over two hours ago. He absolutely needed to phone Maitland back, not least because his colleagues might phone the police, but he really didn’t want to answer any questions about the conversation he’d just had. The one thing he wanted right now was time to think about what had just happened. There had to be a way to deal with all this, there must be, if only he could get his brain into gear. He missed Mona more than he would have thought possible. Mona would know what to do.
He braced himself and pressed dial. ‘Maitland?’
‘Bernard, thank God.’ His colleague sounded genuinely relieved. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I . . .’ He wondered what to say to buy himself some breathing space. ‘I got a lead on my Defaulter.’
‘What? And you didn’t think to mention it?’ Maitland was sounding less relieved, and more back onto his usual home ground of irritation. ‘We were about to phone the police, for Christ’s sake. We’ve already phoned your landlady and your ex-wife in case they’d seen you.’
‘Were they both OK?’ He couldn’t stop the tone of anxiety in his voice.
‘They were fine. Why wouldn’t they be? Bernard, what’s going on?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Bernard, listen to me. This is not the time to be a go-it-alone asshole. Tell us what the problem is and let us help.’
‘No, I’ll be fine,’ he said quickly, and ended the call before Maitland could protest.
His phone immediately rang again. He turned it to silent mode and shoved it in his pocket. He had a lot of things to do. He needed to speak to Carole – well away from Maitland or anyone else from the office – and warn her about her son’s activities. He needed to speak to Megan, and warn her that her troubles may not be over. He needed to speak to his wife and persuade her that she needed to relocate, at least temporarily, to a place of safety, ideally in a different hemisphere. And he needed to track down Alessandra Barr and warn her . . . although he was pretty sure she’d already got the idea that she was in danger. Then, all of that groundwork done, he needed to walk into a police station, probably the one where PC McGovern worked, and explain exactly what had happened over the past day.
It would be the appropriate response. He would be covering his own back. He couldn’t be held responsible for any of the day’s events, not if he brought all this information directly to the proper authorities. And yet . . . the police were stretched thin since the Virus. Even if he could get them to take the threats to Megan and Carrie as seriously as he would like, there wasn’t the manpower to provide them with round-the-clock cover. It went without saying, too, that Carole would never speak to him again if he brought Michael into all this. Maybe the police would see him as a victim, a naïve fifteen-year-old who was caught up in something he didn’t understand. Maybe the whole experience would put the fear of God into him, and he’d be back to being a straight A student, who never gave his mum and dad a moment’s worry. Or maybe he’d get a criminal record and end up tied more closely to the kinds of people he was already involved with.
Then there was the one final victim of all this, the woman he was looking for. The woman whose voice he had never heard, whom he wasn’t sure he would recognise if he ever actually met her. If he found her, and delivered her to Kerr, would it buy some security for Megan and Carrie? A quick tip-off to Kerr and his wife would be safe. Chances were, Bernard would never know what happened to resolve the problem. But then he’d have to live for the rest of his life knowing that he’d possibly sent a woman to her death, and he knew he couldn’t bear that. So, if he couldn’t do what Kerr asked, and he couldn’t involve the police, there was only one thing he could do. He would have to find Alessandra Barr himself, and, one way or another, keep her safe.
A taxi appeared in the distance, and he stuck his hand out. Kerr had been right about one thing. Alessandra Barr had probably gone crying to someone – and he had a pretty good idea who. The woman who had been providing a shoulder to cry on to girls in trouble for more years than anyone could remember. If only she was prepared to talk to him.
‘Where to?’
‘Leith, please.’
Bernard had the taxi drop him off at the Shore. It would be easier to walk the last few yards to the Women’s Centre rather than let a taxi manoeuvre through the narrow streets. He ran the last few metres, and pulled up short at the sight of a police car parked outside the building. Was he too late?
He crossed the road and walked cautiously toward the centre.
‘You can’t go in there, sir.’ A very young-looking PC stopped him, stepping in between him and the front door.
‘Why? What’s happened here?’
‘There was a fire here yesterday evening, sir. It’s all under control now though.’
‘Oh my God.’ Bernard’s stomach flipped. ‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘I suggest you wait for the evening news, sir. I’m sure all the details will be in there.’
Bernard pulled out his ID. ‘I’m from the HET. One of our Defaulters was last seen here.’
‘Sorry.’ The PC relaxed a little. ‘I was worried you were the press nosing around. There were a couple of the tabloids here earlier trying to make something of it. You know how much they love a good story about prossies. Probably make their day if one of the girls set fire to the place while high on drugs.’
‘So, was anyone hurt?’
‘No fatalities, thank God, but the project manager hurt herself trying to escape.’
‘Do you know how badly?’
‘Walking wounded – I think she hit her head, and obviously she’d inhaled some smoke.’
‘Do you know where she is now? I need to speak to her quite urgently.’
‘I think they took her to the Royal. She might still be there, but I don’t know that she’ll be fit for visitors.’
Bernard nodded. ‘Sorry, one last question. Was the fire set deliberately?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish. Between you and me,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I reckon the girls got caught in the middle of this drugs thing. Hope you guys are treading carefully.’
He wished he could say that they had been. ‘Thanks for your help.’
He walked round the corner and hailed his second taxi of the day.
‘I’d like to know which ward Annemarie McDougall is on please.’ He held up his HET ID in one hand, and his Green Card in the other.
The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a dour expression, glanced from one card to the other, and failed to look impressed at either of them. ‘Are you family?’
‘No, I’m—’
‘Then I can’t give that information out.’ She looked past him to the next person in the queue.
He took a sideways step, back into her line of vision. ‘I’m from the Health Enforcement Team. I am seeking a Health Defaulter, and this woman is a witness. You are obliged by law to give me that information.’
‘I’m not sure that I am.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s the law! Do none of you people go on training courses?’
‘Don’t raise your voice at me, young man, or I’ll have security remove you.’
Bernard tried to put a lid on his anger. ‘I’m sorry. Can you please phone your boss or someone to authorise it?’
She sighed, and looked pointedly at the queue that was forming behind him.
‘The quicker you phone, the quicker I’m out of here.’
His persistence seemed to have worked because she picked up the phone. Keeping her eyes firmly on him, she repeated his apparently ludicrous suggestion that he was entitled to know the whereabouts of a patient merely because he had a HET ID card . . .
‘I’m a Health Enforcement Team officer!’ he said loudly in the direction of the phone.
She waved away his intervention, and continued to listen to the person on the other end of the phone, before replacing the receiver rather more heavily than was necessary. ‘Ward 73,’ she said, sourly.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ said Bernard, trying to make up for his earlier assertiveness. The woman did not return his smile, deliberately looking over his shoulder at the first person in the very long queue that had formed behind him. He sighed and set off to look for the ward.
There was another police officer standing outside one of the single rooms. He flashed his ID at the officer. ‘I need to speak to Annemarie McDougall about a Health Defaulter.’
The policeman gave his ID the once-over, and fortunately, seemed better informed than the receptionist. ‘HET? No chance it can wait? She’s not looking too clever in there.’
‘Sorry – you know our work is pretty urgent.’
‘Well, it’s all right by me, if you can get a nurse to OK it. ’Scuse me.’ He waved over Bernard’s shoulder at a passing nurse. ‘My colleague here needs a quick word with Annemarie. Is that OK?’
‘Yes, as long as it is quick.’ She fixed her eye on him. ‘Ten minutes, tops.’
‘Best of luck,’ said the policeman, opening the door for him. ‘Every time we asked her a question she didn’t like she had a fit of coughing.’
Annemarie was tucked up in bed, leafing through a magazine. One side of her face was swollen, a greyish-purple bruise blossoming on her temple. He wondered what other bruising wasn’t visible.
‘Thought I heard my name being mentioned out there.’ Her voice was raspy and hoarse from the smoke. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ She peered at him, then her face contorted as recognition hit her. ‘Jesus, have I not suffered enough without the HET coming to arrest me?’
‘We don’t arrest people, we only have powers to detain them.’
‘I’m pretty much detained already, seeing as I can’t walk the length of myself.’
He sat down next to the bed. ‘Did you really do all this to yourself trying to escape the fire?’
She sighed, and flung her magazine down on the bed. ‘What do you think, son?’
‘Do the police know what happened?’
‘They have their suspicions. I tried to tell them it was a toaster fire, but they know my reputation for pissing off the wrong people, so I don’t think they entirely believed me.’
‘Is Alessandra, or whatever her real name is, OK?’
She shrugged. ‘I’d imagine she’s in better shape than me at this precise moment.’
‘Where is she?’
Annemarie looked up at the ceiling of her room and laughed. ‘Remind me what your name is, son?’
‘Bernard.’
‘And are you married, Bernard? Got any kids?’
‘Married, no kids.’
‘Now you just let me guess what happened since I last saw you. Scott Kerr and his pals paid you a visit, and threatened your wife if you didn’t tell them where to find Alessandra.’
He nodded. ‘You’re out on a few of the details, but your general thrust is correct.’
‘Aye, son, I’m seldom wrong.’ She stared at him, one eye big and bright, the other swollen half-shut. ‘So, now you’re here, looking for her last known address so you can get him off your back.’
‘No!’ Bernard was horrified. ‘I want to know she’s safe. I’m not about to offer her up as a sacrifice.’
‘Aye, son, of course not.’ She looked sceptical.
‘I give you my word. I’m here to try to help Alessandra.’
‘I wouldn’t entirely blame you if you were, son. As my current state of health shows, Kerr’s a nasty bastard. So was his grandfather, mind you, but I could work with old Og. I kept his girls healthy and out of the way of the police as much as I could, which was good for him because it kept them earning. Young Scottie doesn’t see it like that though. Too busy throwing his weight around to try and impress that Glaswegian lot.’
‘The Barrs.’
‘Aye.’ She started coughing. ‘Oh dear. The lot that gave poor Alessandra a kicking. You know, all these lassies think they are coming over here to be hairdressers or nannies. They don’t have a clue.’
‘Where is Alessandra actually from?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, son. One of them unpronounceable ones that used to be the USSR. If you want to help, can you not do the lassie a favour, and just quietly stop looking for her?’
‘We can’t. Once she’s on the Defaulter List, we have to keep looking for her until she’s found, alive or dead. And it’s not us that you have to worry about finding her.’
‘I know. Scottie is like a dog with a bone. He’ll not give up until he finds her.’
‘So how do we stop him?’
‘We? Not me, son. I’m done. One kicking too many, I’m afraid. If the Women’s Centre does reopen, it’ll not be with me running it.’
‘So how do I stop him?’
‘No offence, son, but you’re not cut out for this. Take your wife and get out of town until all this dies down.’
‘But you do know where Alessandra is? You can tell me?’
She started to cough. ‘That’s me poorly here, son. You’d better get the nurse for me. And close the door on your way out.’