‘You’re leaving?’
Annemarie looked up from tying her shoes. ‘You again?’ She broke into a chorus of coughing. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve here, son, but I’d be happier if you just left me in peace.’
‘Where’s the policeman on the door?’
‘They stood him down. Couldn’t find anything to suggest that the fire was caused by anything other than a faulty toaster, which I could have told them.’
‘But you know that it was started deliberately.’
‘I don’t know anything, son, other than now that PC Plod has been removed I’m free to make a run for it.’
‘You can’t leave!’ Bernard’s inner health professional asserted himself. ‘You’ve had a very traumatic experience, not to mention the physical effects of smoke inhalation. You are really in no fit state to go home. Has a doctor signed you out?’
‘I’m leaving, and that’s all there is to it.’
Bernard stepped in front of the door. ‘Why?’
Annemarie stood up and, wheezing as she went, came to stand in front of him. ‘Two reasons, son. Number one, I’m worried that my dog is starving to death while I’m in here. And, number two, if I don’t get a fag soon, I’m going to kill someone.’
‘A cigarette?’ said Bernard, with all the disgust of Lady Bracknell discussing accessories. ‘In your condition? Are you trying to kill yourself?’
‘Well, son, call me one of life’s risk-takers. So, here is the way it is.’ She held on to the bed, while she struggled to get her breath. ‘If you want to keep talking to me, you can give me a lift home, and you can stop on the way so that I can buy some fags.’
‘Buying you cigarettes in your current condition would be tantamount to committing culpable homicide!’
‘No fags, no chat.’
Bernard knew when he was beaten. ‘This goes against every principle in my body.’
‘Stick your head out, son, and see if the coast’s clear.’
‘Menthol? You really are trying to kill me, son. I asked for Benson and Hedges.’
Bernard ignored her complaint, and tried very hard not to complain in return when she immediately lit up. He failed. ‘We’ll be at your street in literally two minutes. Could you not have waited?’
She blew smoke in his direction. ‘Apparently not. Anyhow, time to grab a parking space if you see one.’
He did as he was told. ‘Which of these flats is yours?’
‘The ground floor one on the corner.’
Bernard scanned up and down the street. ‘OK, we better be a bit careful here. We don’t know if anyone will be vigilantly awaiting your return.’
‘“Vigilantly awaiting my return.” I love the way you talk, it’s like you’re a walking poem. You should be on at the Festival, you and Pam Ayres. But relax, son. Kerr and his pals have made their point to me; they’re not going to be here. Now, let’s get in and check on Sheba.’
Annemarie took his arm as they crossed this road. Her gait was slow, and she stopped for a fit of coughing halfway across, bringing traffic to a stop in both directions. Bernard was vaguely aware of some angry hand signals from the motorists.
‘Nicotine patches are really very good these days.’
‘Shut up.’
The intercom was broken, so Bernard pushed open the stair door and ushered Annemarie inside. She grabbed his arm. ‘The door to my flat is open.’
‘What do we do?’
‘It’s probably just my brother.’
‘I thought you lived on your own? You were worried about your dog?’
‘I am worried. Alec has a habit of going off on benders so I can’t rely on him to feed Sheba. He’s maybe just left the door open.’
‘Do you want me to go in first and check it’s OK?’ said Bernard, a tad reluctantly.
‘Obviously, son, I’m a lady in need of your protection.’ She started to laugh at what appeared to have been a joke, then the giggles turned into a fit of coughing. Despite this, she pushed past him into the flat. There was an immediate cacophony of barking. He followed her in and found her kneeling with her arms round a large Doberman. ‘Thank God she’s all right. I thought the bastards might have killed her to stop her barking.’
‘Have they been here?’
‘They will have been, to look for Alessandra. Come into the living room.’
‘I hope your brother’s OK.’
‘Aye, well.’ Her tone suggested that she was a lot less concerned about his well-being than she had been about Sheba’s. ‘Take a seat.’
The room stank of stale smoke and essence of dog. He gingerly picked a pile of Daily Records off an armchair and sat down.
Annemarie caught his expression. ‘Try living with an alcoholic, son. It kills your motivation for housework.’
‘Sorry.’
She curled up on the sofa, the dog lying happily across her lap. ‘Right, son, you’ve done your bit. Now say your piece and get out.’
‘OK. My team can’t stop looking for Alessandra, unless we are authorised to do so by someone extremely senior. We never actually close a file; it will remain open until she has a Health Check, or until we have evidence that she has died. We’ll de-prioritise it after a while, but I can’t guarantee that my team, or someone else, won’t start looking for her again.’
‘I think your team is a big waste of taxpayers’ money, if you don’t mind me saying so, son.’
‘I don’t. I don’t agree with you, but you are entitled to your opinion. Anyway, Kerr wants Alessandra off his patch. Now at the HET, we have procedures for dealing with people who are, for example, experiencing domestic violence . . .’
‘That’ll not be enough to stop Kerr looking for her. Alessandra’s a tough cookie; she’s had run-ins with Kerr before when she’s tried to stand up for herself. As long as she’s in some programme with you guys there’s a danger that she’ll shout her mouth off about her experiences.’
Bernard nodded. ‘That’s what we thought. But what if we can arrange for her to die?’
‘You can fake her death?’
‘We thought perhaps a suicide, somewhere well out of Edinburgh. We’ll have all the official paperwork, and I’ll keep Kerr updated as our “investigation” unfolds.’
‘And your bosses are going to OK this, are they?’ She looked sceptical.
‘My colleague is speaking to our superior right now. We can help you get Alessandra to a place of safety, but obviously we will need you to take us to her.’
Annemarie thought this over, momentarily stopping petting Sheba, who gave a soft growl of annoyance. ‘And why should I trust you?’
‘Carrie McDonald, 14d St Matthew Court, Edinburgh.’
‘And who’s that, son?’
‘That’s the name and address of my wife. We’re separated, but she remains the person that I love most in the whole world. She’s the person I would least like to have a visit from Scott Kerr. And now you know where she lives.’
They stared at each other. ‘I need to talk to Alessandra.’
‘Of course. I’ll be outside in my car. With all the windows wound down.’