Bastard. I waited till my gut had stopped trampolining. ‘Need-to-know basis only,’ I said, in as normal a voice as I could manage.
‘Strange coincidence, though, isn’t it?’ he said, in full sly mode. ‘It’s the same one you’re missing.’
I kept quiet, confining myself to raising the stump at him. He didn’t know the truth about how I’d been mutilated, but he’d always had an active imagination.
I managed to talk Davie into letting the chauffeur go with a warning and a boot up the arse.
‘What did that bawbag want?’ he asked, as we continued down Jeffrey Street towards the building site that would become the reactivated Waverley Station next year.
I gave him the gist.
‘English from the North? Here? First I’ve heard of it.’ He drove through the gates of ScotPol, after activating them with a remote control. The uniformed personnel didn’t stand to attention or salute. Hel Hyslop had removed as many authority markers as she could. Davie didn’t approve.
‘Me too, but I suppose it’s inevitable that the government, not to mention the business-hungry opposition, would want to make money out of them.’
‘The Borders have been back in the Middle Ages for decades. Do you really think they’re under control on the English side?’ He pulled up in a space marked ‘D.L.’. ‘I know for a fact they aren’t on ours. The Defence Force is holed up in castles and forts and we haven’t any traction south of Kelso and Selkirk. From what I’ve heard, Hawick is in ruins.’
I got out of the vehicle and my legs almost gave way. I was too old for this kind of case. I had to get some sleep and told Davie so.
‘All right, you fader,’ he said, punching me what he thought was lightly on my arm. ‘Let’s see where the various lines of enquiry have got and make a plan. Then you can get to your bed.’ He laughed. ‘For a couple of hours.’
‘Even you need to get your head down,’ I protested.
‘Got a sofa in my office, remember?’ He slapped his belly. ‘As long as I fill the beast.’
We headed for the operations room on the second floor of the glass building. That was another of Hel Hyslop’s requirements – ScotPol officers had to be visible when they were at their desks. I hadn’t asked if the glass was bulletproof.
Davie was immediately surrounded by subordinates. I found a chair and watched him handle them. In five minutes he had a collection of brown folders. The younger staff all worked with portable computers but Davie and a couple of other old-timers from the City Guard preferred paper.
He waved me into his office. It was a soulless box with glass on all sides, though senior personnel were provided with blinds. It wouldn’t do for the populace to see them with their heads on their desks or crashed out on sofas. The only personal touch that Davie allowed himself was a photo of the Hume Barracks rugby team, which he’d captained for seven years. It had won the inter-barracks cup every time he led them out. I preferred darts.
‘So,’ he said, swinging round in a chair that looked comfortable, though nothing like as much as those in Billy’s car. ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘Matthew Barker.’
‘Insists he knows nothing about the Lord of the Isles’s disappearance and that the last time he saw him was a week ago.’ He drank from a large mug of coffee that a young female officer had brought him. I wasn’t touching the stuff as it would keep me awake.
‘What about the nature of his relationship with old Angus?’
‘Claims it was just friendship. When pressed, he said they both felt out of place in the capital and wished they were back in the northwest.’
‘Did he get the lawyer he wanted?’
‘Aye. We’ll have to cut him loose this afternoon.’
‘Cut him loose now, but put a tail on him.’
‘Right.’ He made a note.
‘Denzil Kennedy.’
‘The security guard at the warehouse?’ Davie opened another file. ‘He held firm under heavy-duty questioning. The feeling is that he’s clean. His record’s been checked and there’s nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Let him go too, with a tail.’
‘Right. He took over from one Ricky Fetlar. He’s being brought in as we speak – apparently, he went to visit a friend in Dalkeith.’
‘How did he get there?’ The town was seven miles to the south.
‘He has a motorbike. His record’s not so clean – a couple of drunk-and-disorderly arrests, admittedly over five years ago, and involvement in a hit and run. It went to court but the verdict was not proven. A witness recanted.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I’ll interview him myself.’
‘Check the warehouse records first. We need to know when the dead woman was brought in.’
He gave me a sharp look. ‘Amazingly, my people thought of that and are on it.’
I smiled. ‘You run a tight – no, sober ship.’
Two fingers were raised in my direction. ‘The other prop-makers have been located and are waiting to be spoken to. Their records are clean.’
‘I’ll talk to Rory Campbell later on. According to Hyslop, he’s involved in talks with the Nor-English. Lachie MacFarlane might be too.’
Davie grimaced. ‘Rather you than me.’
I thought about the local leaders. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that they wanted the Lord of the Isles out of the way. Leith, Edinburgh’s port, was being redeveloped as an oil and gas facility for tankers, much to the chagrin of Angus Macdonald, who wanted to run pipelines all over Scotland. Perhaps he was also thinking of extending them into Nor-England, not that Billy had said anything about that. As ever, he knew more than he’d told me.
‘What about the tree-fish case?’ I asked.
‘It was back-burnered, as you know, but I put a competent team on it after we found the dead woman. That witness, Ann Melville, is sticking to her story, but not saying anything more. And she’s got a lawyer.’
‘She was scared, I remember.’
‘Guess who her lawyer is.’ His grim look gave it away.
‘Not that tosser Adamson.’
‘The very one.’
Since the Truth and Reconciliation Hearings, the law had allowed suitably qualified individuals to work as both solicitors and advocates. The fact that Peter Adamson was willing to take on a seemingly minor client like Ann Melville was suggestive. Then again, he’d had a fall from grace.
‘I didn’t think the booze had destroyed his professional standing to that extent,’ I said. I was disappointed it hadn’t after what he put me through.
‘It did, but since last year he’s been working for some big guns again.’
I wondered about that, then moved on. ‘What about the assailant? Any other sightings?’
Davie shook his head. ‘I suppose it could be a coincidence. Or someone having a go at the Theatre of Life. After all, the costume’s from a different painting.’
‘Hm.’ Rory Campbell was popular with the voters of Edinburgh, but his role in the revolution meant that the more extreme supporters of the Enlightenment hated his intestines.
Davie got up. ‘I’m going to eat. Coming?’
‘No, thanks. I’m going to run home.’
That provoked a belly laugh. ‘You’ll do yourself an injury.’
‘It isn’t far.’
‘Far enough. Remember, maintain an even pace and keep your breathing regular.’
‘That’s rich, coming from a guy who never runs.’ His knee didn’t allow that.
‘I exercise in other ways,’ he said with a wink as he walked out. Within seconds he’d started talking to a statuesque blonde officer in plain clothes. Typical.
Then again, there was a blonde waiting for me in our bed. Not that she’d showed much interest in inter-sheet exercise recently.
I was panting hard, my calves and thighs on fire and my mouth drier than the deserts that had reportedly swallowed Las Vegas. I came round the corner of Great Scotland Street at a li
mp and was confronted by two individuals I knew to my cost.
‘Quint,’ said the female member of the pair, her brown hair pulled back and her medium height enhanced by heels that must have hurt even more than mine. ‘Good morning.’
I stopped, caught my breath with a struggle and looked at my watch. ‘It’s five thirty, Miss Thomson,’ I said.
‘In the morning, aye.’ She smiled, her lips painted a bright purple. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to call me Charlie?’
‘Twenty-three million,’ I said, taking out my keys. ‘Now, if you don’t mi—’
‘The Lord of the Isles,’ she said. ‘I hear he’s disappeared and you’re looking for him.’
Not for the first time, someone in ScotPol had leaked. Or maybe someone in the missing man’s staff. The Scottish media had deep pockets these days. Charlotte Thomson worked for SignalScotland, a group that owned a TV channel, numerous radio stations, both national and local, and a long list of news platforms, print and online. Her byline often appeared on the front page of the Scottish Observer, a paper that purported to be highbrow but filled its Sunday magazine with scantily clad models of both sexes.
‘No comment,’ I said, slipping the key into the street-door lock.
‘Which means you are,’ the journo said. ‘You getting all this, Andy?’
The man with the camera on his shoulder nodded.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ I said, pushing the door open.
Thomson came up the steps. ‘What were you doing in ScotPol HQ half an hour ago, then, Quint? Traffic offence?’
‘Correct. They kept my car.’
She turned and looked at our battered four-by-four, then faced the camera and pointed out that I was being frugal with the truth.
I took the opportunity to close the door. Shit. With the press on my back, the job just got even more difficult. I laboured up the stairs and tried to get into the flat. The keys turned but the chains were all engaged. Sophia was making me do this the hard way. I called her name as softly as would carry to the bedroom. Eventually, she arrived, gave me a sharp look and closed the door. I heard the chains being undone.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘For nothing,’ she replied, turning away. ‘Heck’s just woken up.’
I went into the wee lad’s bedroom and picked him up. He promptly kicked me in the gut. At least he was barefoot.
‘Let’s play cars,’ I wheezed.
‘Yay, Dad!’ he trilled, writhing around till I put him down. He then emptied a box of toy racers on the carpet.
I managed ten minutes, before Sophia rescued me and pointed to the bed. I managed to get most of my clothes off, then burrowed under the quilt and sank into the abyss of Morpheus.
I awoke, shaking all over, thanks to Sophia, Maisie and Heck.
‘Wake up!’ said our son.
‘You look like a corpse,’ said our daughter.
‘Can you take Heck to playgroup?’ said my wife.
My body creaked as I sat up. They scattered, with a mixture of laughter and groaning. I stumbled into the kitchen.
Sophia was putting her coat on. ‘I have to go. I gather there’s a new …’
‘I’m not a fool,’ Maisie said. ‘You’ve got a fresh cadaver.’
Heck sniggered. ‘Cad … a … ver,’ he said, over and over.
‘Thank you, Maisie,’ said Sophia, with a disapproving look. She turned to me. ‘I imagine I’ll see you shortly.’
I nodded and watched her walk out with her head high. What had happened between us? She’d been known as the Ice Queen when she was first appointed Medical Guardian, but I’d broken through to the soft and generous woman below. Now I was being frozen out again.
‘Cars, Dad!’ Heck said, wiping jam across his face with the back of his hand.
Maisie sighed and got a wet cloth.
‘I’ll watch him while you shower,’ she said. ‘You need one. Have you been smoking?’ Her voice was almost as chill as her mother’s.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Billy tracked me down.’
‘Billy Geddes?’ It sounded as if she was chewing a slug. ‘I don’t know what you see in that awful man.’
I didn’t bother trying to explain. After I’d cleaned up and put on fresh clothes, Maisie kissed my cheek on her way to the door.
‘Come on, old man,’ she said with a smile. ‘Make her feel wanted.’
So it had come to this: marriage guidance from an eleven-year-old, admittedly one with the wisdom of a professor.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered. ‘Have a good day.’
She departed with a wave, her schoolbag covered in patches with the names of ancient blues bands. At least I’d managed a degree of indoctrination.
‘Cars!’ shrieked Heck.
‘All right!’ I screamed back.
We collapsed in hysterics.
I walked to ScotPol HQ after I’d taken the wee man to playgroup round the corner from the flat. My legs were still complaining, but at least the snow, which had nearly brought me down numerous times when I was running, had melted. The pregnant clouds over the city suggested there would be more of the white stuff along soon.
I found Davie crashed out on his sofa, boots on the floor next to him. His mouth was open and he was snoring like a grampus. I noticed his flies were open and wondered who was responsible for that. The blinds were down on all sides of his glass box and he could have had company. I decided not to enquire. He was less open about his dalliances with staff now, not least because inevitably they were all junior to him and regulations were strict. Unless he’d been dallying with Hel Hyslop … No, not even Davie would do that.
I held his nostrils shut and waited for the explosion, stepping back when it happened.
‘Bastard,’ Davie said, when he’d caught his breath. He looked at his watch. ‘What are you doing here so early?’
‘Heck,’ I said, starting to pull up the blinds to show we were open for business.
‘Oh, aye.’ He pulled on his boots – City Guard-issue steel-toe-capped clodhoppers that he’d managed to find in a surplus shop. ‘Breakfast,’ he said, his expression lightening.
There was a knock on the glass door.
‘Come in!’ Davie shouted. ‘Ah, Eilidh. I mean Officer Mackay. You know Citizen – Mr Dalrymple?’
We nodded to each other. I reckoned Eilidh – who must have been in her late twenties – and the zip were intimately connected, the spots of red on her cheeks a dead giveaway.
‘Several things, Detective Leader,’ she said, looking at her clipboard. ‘The pathologist is most insistent that you attend the post-mortem he’s carrying out in … eighteen minutes. Director Hyslop wants a briefing at ten a.m. And’ – she took a deep breath – ‘there’s been a suicide in the holding cells.’
My heart skipped a beat. ‘Who?’ I said.
Officer Mackay checked her notes. ‘Ricky Fetlar.’
‘The security guard at EmbraSafeStore who was on before Denzil Kennedy.’
‘Shit,’ said Davie. ‘You should have woken me, Eilidh.’
‘It was only discovered twenty minutes ago, sir. The doctor’s still in there.’
We headed for the stairs at speed.
‘Eilidh?’ I said.
‘Piss off.’
I let it go.
Davie cleared a path through the gathered officers and went through the open cell door. He swore loudly.
I managed to contain myself, taking in the heavily built man lying on the floor, his head hard against the wall, the cranium misshapen and blood, bone and brain matter around it. There were marks on the white-painted bricks above, as if he’d lowered his head and run into the unforgiving surface.
The doctor was an elderly man I’d worked with in the past.
‘Dalrymple,’ he said, with the weariness of one who had seen it all but could still be surprised by the actions of his fellow humans.
‘Craigie,’ I responded. ‘You think he rammed his head into the wall himself?’
&n
bsp; ‘Almost certainly. There are no signs that he’s been held or swung like a battering ram, though we’ll have to wait for the PM to be sure. Bruises might still appear, but I doubt it.’
‘Who was on watch?’ Davie yelled.
A tall young officer stepped forward. He told his tale. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He had checked all cells, as required, every half-hour, and the dead man hadn’t been on suicide watch. No sounds had travelled to his desk in the middle of the corridor, but the walls were thick and the doors heavy.
I left Davie and went to the gate through which prisoners were brought in. A female officer opened it for me and I went to the office beyond.
‘Mr Dalrymple,’ said the middle-aged male officer behind the desk, getting to his feet.
‘Tom,’ I said. He used to be in the City Guard’s gang unit but was injured in the shoulder by a spear. Edinburgh’s criminals had used any weapons they could fashion before guns became available. ‘Can I take a look at Ricky Fetlar’s personal possessions?’
He opened a filing cabinet and took out a brown envelope, then emptied the contents on his desk.
I ran my eye over them. Watch, belt, shoelaces, wallet – containing twenty-five poonds in notes, a few coins and a bank card – they had been introduced the previous year, but credit was still only available to those better off than me. There were two bunches of keys, the first with a ring bearing the name of the warehouse. The second ring had three keys on it and made me think. I’d forgotten to bring my Hieronymus Bosch book from home so I couldn’t check, but I was almost certain that the three-headed brown bird delicately moulded in plastic was from the central panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights.
What the paradise was going on?
SIX
I told Davie about what I’d found as we drove the short distance to the morgue. It was a new facility in the Cowgate, near where the pre-Enlightenment one had been. A serendipitous circularity, one typical of Edinburgh across the years.
We were led through the vestibule and given pale-blue scrubs. Although the facility was municipal, ScotPol provided part of the funding, giving it more sway than most of the staff, including Sophia, liked. Then again, the pathologists were paid by Hel Hyslop’s outfit when crimes were involved, so complaints were sotto voce.
Impolitic Corpses Page 10
