Impolitic Corpses

by Paul Johnston

  ‘At last,’ said McKirdy, looking up from the desk that was at the entrance to the cutting room. ‘Though I hear we’re about to have a new customer from ScotPol HQ. Tut-tut, Detective Leader – very careless of your people.’

  Davie scowled and pulled up his surgical mask. I smiled at Sophia before doing the same. She was at the second table, on which lay a small object that didn’t make me feel great. Neither did the blank look she gave me.

  ‘Doctor McIlvanney,’ said McKirdy – it occurred to me I didn’t know his first name and had never tried to find it out – ‘Sophia … have you reached any conclusions about the finger?’ He led us over.

  I followed, trying to disguise my reluctance.

  ‘I have,’ said Sophia sharply. It was obvious she had little time for her superior. ‘Right forefinger of a male aged between thirty and forty, severed three-quarters of a centimetre from the proximal interphalangeal joint by a sharp, non-serrated blade that widens from the initial cut in the epidermis. Sufficient pressure applied to cut through the bone. Likely to be a chef’s or a hunting knife. Blood tests show no presence of drugs or alcohol. The cut was made between twelve and eighteen hours before the discovery of the digit. The condition of the nail and skin suggests that the victim engaged in manual labour. There is also sustained exposure to a petroleum product that I have narrowed down to heavy fuel oil.’

  ‘As used in ships?’ I asked.

  ‘I believe so.’

  Davie and I exchanged glances. Was the victim a sailor? The Lord of the Isles owned oil tankers.

  McKirdy was looking over the papers on the clipboard he had taken from the table. ‘That seems in order, Doctor.’ He turned to Davie. ‘Are there still no reports of people missing said finger from hospitals or clinics in the city?’

  Davie looked at the file he’d been given by Eilidh Mackay. ‘None – that includes East, Mid and West Lothian facilities.’

  ‘Perhaps the victim was given first aid by someone who’d been trained but isn’t a medical professional,’ I said. I couldn’t repress the memory of what happened when I lost my finger. I’d gone to the infirmary after cleaning myself up and was vague about what had happened, feigning drunkenness. The doctor was suspicious and alerted the City Guard, but I was lucky. The investigating officer had served under me during the drugs wars and buried the report when I told him I’d been attacked by a tourist. He didn’t believe me, but that didn’t matter, thank Plato. Afterwards, I said I’d been hyper-careless with a kitchen knife. Anything but the truth …

  The senior pathologist’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or perhaps he was tortured, and more digits will turn up. Strange place that this one was found.’

  Davie and I didn’t pass comment.

  ‘Very well, let’s look at the unfortunate woman,’ said McKirdy, moving to the other table. ‘Doctor McIlvanney, will you take the lead?’

  The bastard was trying to catch her out in front of Davie and me. I hoped Sophia wouldn’t give him the opportunity.

  As it turned out, she didn’t. She performed the necessary preliminary checks, examining and photographing the corpse all over, noting the needle marks between the toes, and pointing out older tracks on her inner forearms. The woman was in the same position as when we found her, still stiff from rigor mortis. The four-fingered hands were around her midriff, one on her breast and the other pointing to her groin. They were carefully removed and placed in transparent plastic bags. They appeared to be wood that had been painted black. Again, I wished I had my Bosch book with me. Heck had distracted me as we left the flat.

  Sophia was leaning over the woman’s upper abdomen, looking at the round wound in the sternum. The body had been washed so there was no blood around the edge any more, but there was something odd about it, something related to the colour inside the deep hole. Sophia adjusted the magnification of the surgeon’s glasses she was wearing and picked up a retractor.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Let me see,’ said McKirdy, bending forward. ‘There’s something inside.’

  Between them they tried to lever out whatever it was, without success.

  ‘We’ll have to make an incision,’ Sophia said, and her superior nodded agreement. She took a scalpel and cut a circle in the skin about five centimetres from the edges. Then she clamped the flaps of skin and bared the hole.

  I peered in and saw something black, with spots of white on it. I had no idea what it was, but I felt sweat erupt all over my body. Something from the Bosch book was hovering just beyond the limits of my memory.

  McKirdy took over, waving Sophia back, and dug at the hole with forceps. Then he levered the object out.

  There was a general intake of breath, drawing the fabric of the masks into our mouths.

  ‘Is that … is that a frog?’ Davie said.

  ‘Toad, I think,’ said the chief pathologist. He moved the creature, which was motionless, into a kidney bowl. ‘It appears to be dead.’

  ‘I hope it was in that state when it was inserted,’ said Sophia, shaking her head.

  ‘It’s been painted,’ I said. ‘Those white spots aren’t natural.’

  ‘Correct, Dalrymple,’ said McKirdy.

  Then I remembered the close-up from the third panel in the Bosch book. The skeletal hands round the woman belonged to a black demon, while there was a toad sitting on her upper chest. It came to me that toads were seen as demonic forms in the Middle Ages.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ asked the chief pathologist.

  I decided to leave him guessing. I’d tell Sophia something of what I knew later.

  After an hour we were armed with the knowledge that the woman had died of shock from an overdose of heroin that had been cut with an as-yet-unknown ingredient. The time of death was between twenty-four and twenty-six hours, meaning she’d been delivered to the warehouse during the day shift, before Denzil Kennedy was on duty. She was malnourished and had undergone at least one abortion. Her teeth were in poor condition, the black fillings dating from Enlightenment times when dentistry was very basic. There were no distinguishing marks – scars, tattoos or disfigurements – so initially we’d be relying on someone reporting her missing.

  The toad. It gave me a very bad feeling – though not as bad as the finger.

  Eilidh Mackay was waiting for us in the vestibule.

  ‘You haven’t been answering your phones,’ she complained. ‘The director sent me to find you. She’s going …’

  ‘Round the U-bend?’ I suggested.

  ‘And down the cloaca maxima,’ Eilidh said, with a tentative smile.

  ‘You did the Latin option at school in the old days,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Davie said, walking on. ‘Cloaca what?’

  ‘The main sewer,’ Eilidh said.

  Davie grinned. ‘I love it when you talk dirty. Now get back to HQ.’

  As we exited in two four-by-fours, an ambulance crew was unloading a covered body on a stretcher. The remains of Ricky Fetlar, I presumed. I didn’t envy Sophia having to examine the head. Maybe McKirdy would bag it.

  Hel Hyslop was pacing about the ops room when we arrived.

  ‘Ten o’clock, I said,’ she hissed, looking at her watch. At least she hadn’t torn a strip off us at high volume. She knew that would have been seriously counter-productive.

  In Davie’s office she sat on the sofa, which made me smile. The cover had been replaced – presumably by Eilidh – but the thought of the ScotPol director’s posterior in close proximity to where there had been flagrant dereliction of duty was delectable.

  ‘Something amusing about this mess, Quint?’ Hyslop demanded.

  ‘Someone, more like. Someone’s having several laughs at our expense.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Hold on a moment.’ I went to Davie’s desk and logged on to his computer. He’d given me his latest password some weeks ago – ?EatDRINKBEMERRY69! – and I found it strangely memorable. I accessed ScotNet and found an image of T
he Garden of Earthly Delights, then swung the screen round to Hel and Davie.

  ‘Bosch?’ she said.

  ‘Hieronymus of that ilk, yes.’ I took the plastic bag from my pocket. ‘See this?’

  They scrutinized the three-headed bird on the key ring I’d taken from the duty officer at the cells.

  ‘This belonged to Ricky Fetlar,’ I said.

  Davie grunted. ‘The headbanger.’

  ‘That’s inappropriate, Detective Leader,’ said Hyslop.

  ‘It’s accurate,’ I said. ‘But not what I’m getting at. Why would a security guard have a key ring with an unusual and unusually well-made figure from the Imaginary Paradise panel?’ I zoomed in and pointed to the strange bird with my middle finger.

  Hel Hyslop got up and examined the screen. ‘You’re right. It’s the same. What does it mean?’

  ‘In terms of late medieval iconography or the investigation?’

  ‘Don’t be a smartarse, Quint,’ she snapped.

  I deserved that. The problem was that I didn’t know the answer on either count. Then again, I could speculate, not least because seeing the painting again had reminded me of elements I’d read about.

  ‘According to some scholars, the central panel is a utopian vision of life on earth – not paradise as represented on the left-hand panel. As you can see, people of all races are engaged in various pleasurable activities, in complete harmony with the animal world. Look, there’s a hoopoe, Upupa epops, one of my favourite birds. They haven’t reached as far north as Edinburgh, but with the Arctic ice cap almost completely gone it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Davie demanded.

  ‘Sorry. I think the three-headed bird – and those other weird creatures – would normally be seen as monsters, but in the Imaginary Paradise they’re as natural as any other being.’

  Hyslop had sat down during my homily. ‘Fascinating. Why’s it on the dead man’s key ring?’

  I wasn’t so keen to speculate on that, but I had a go. ‘Figures from this painting are all over this case, or concatenation of cases. The Lord of the Isles’s friend Barker made copies of figures, the dead woman was posed as one …’

  ‘And there was a toad in her chest,’ added Davie.

  Hel raised an eyebrow and he told her about the post-mortem.

  ‘That’s in the painting, too,’ I said, zooming in on the Hell panel, ‘though the toad’s on rather than in her chest. Don’t ask me what that’s about.’

  ‘And Rory Campbell’s putting on a show using these props?’ Hyslop said, her tongue flicking between her lips like a boa constrictor’s. She’d be very happy to nail Edinburgh’s deputy leader and former revolutionary leader.

  ‘I don’t think his connection to this is suggestive,’ I said, ‘though of course we’ll be talking to him.’

  ‘No,’ said Hel firmly. ‘I’ll do that.’

  I looked at Davie and then shrugged. ‘Whatever you think will do the job. Of course, Rory will clam up with you and you’ll get—’

  ‘I said, I’ll do it. Now, back to this Bosch bollocks.’

  I gave her a tight smile. Alliteration was an advance for her. ‘Then there’s the attempted strangling in Leith by the tree-fish from The Temptation of St Anthony.’

  ‘Anything on why a different painting’s involved?’ Hyslop asked.

  I shook my head. ‘It could be a coincidence. Maybe there are two sets of Bosch fans at loose in the city.’

  Hel gave me a dubious look. ‘You don’t really believe that.’

  ‘We need to find out.’

  She looked at her notes. ‘The finger that was found in the Lord of the Isles’s bedroom?’

  Here we go, I thought. I told her what Sophia had found, speaking clearly but at speed. She didn’t seem to notice the unease I was disguising.

  ‘And still no men lacking a right forefinger reported?’ Hyslop asked.

  Davie stepped out, then returned quickly – Eilidh Mackay was standing outside with a large folder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Checks are continuing.’

  ‘What are you going to prioritize?’ Hel asked, looking from Davie to me.

  I wasn’t going to tell her, and I had the perfect distraction.

  ‘There’s been a leak,’ I said. ‘Charlotte Thomson was outside my place early this morning. She knows the Lord of the Isles is missing. I claimed ignorance.’

  ‘Fuck and shit,’ said the director of ScotPol. ‘I’ll talk to her editor.’ She stormed off.

  ‘Right, let’s get out of here.’

  Davie peered at me. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Magical mystery tour.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ he said, having been on the receiving end of several such calamities.

  This one might turn out to be the worst of all.

  ‘Ramsay Gardens?’ Davie was driving up the High Street in second gear. There was only one vehicle lane, the rest of the road being used by stalls selling tourists local specialities – lowland whisky in old ale barrels, anyone? – and even more serious tat such as hats in the shape of the castle’s half-moon battery. Perfect for assault and …

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘One hundred per cent proof sure.’

  ‘The Nor-English?’ His voice lacked its usual vigour. ‘Hyslop will go Vesuvius.’ The Italian volcano had erupted a year earlier, destroying much of Naples and killing thousands.

  ‘You can drop me off, if you like.’

  ‘Piss off.’ He accelerated past the Heart of Midlothian, where some tourists were following the old tradition of spitting on the stones set into the surface, to the applause of a flouncing guide in a kilt. ‘Are you sure it’s worth breaking protocol? We’re not supposed to go near official guests.’

  ‘That’s why I’m curious.’

  Davie parked on the steep side street.

  ‘Let’s see. They sound like people of interest.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, opening his door. ‘Get intae them.’ He went over to the black door that isolated what was once among the most expensive living spaces in the city. Under the Council it had been turned into luxury guest accommodation and was now owned by the Scottish state, much to the irritation of Lachie MacFarlane, who wanted to use it for poor Edinburgh citizens to experience how the nobs had lived.

  The door was opened by a hulking security guard in black clothes.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  Davie showed him ID.

  ‘Aye, but you cannae come in here withoot a government permit.’

  The guy, who looked as if he’d been in the City Guard, was in his fifties and out of condition. Davie went up close and spoke into his ear. That was only going to end one way.

  ‘Come in,’ the chastened guard said, looking up and down the street. ‘I’ll need you to sign in.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said Davie.

  ‘There’s CCTV in the reception area.’

  ‘Turn it off and wipe the recording.’ Davie ordered. ‘We were never here.’

  The guard nodded keenly, making we wonder what Davie had said. I asked as we headed to the suites on the first floor. He just gave me a slack smile.

  ‘Gently does it,’ I counselled, knocking lightly on the newly painted green door marked Number One.

  Nothing happened. I tried again. Zilch.

  ‘So much for that great idea,’ said Davie, turning to leave.

  My mind had gone into hyper-drive. ‘Get the master key from reception,’ I said, ear against the green panel. ‘Not necessarily gently. While you’re there, check the records for any appearance by his lordship.’

  Even his large boots made little noise on the thick carpet. I listened intently but could hear nothing from inside the suite.

  Davie reappeared, brandishing a large key. I took what was either a real Georgian specimen or a convincing copy. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘No one will talk. And old Macdonald hasn’t been here since this lot arri
ved last Wednesday.’

  ‘You like threatening people far too much,’ I said, as I slipped the key into the lock. It turned smoothly. I pushed the door open. The pile of the carpet in the suite was even thicker and there were paintings on the walls that I was sure I’d seen in what had now become the National Gallery again.

  We moved into the main room. It was so large that Heck and I could have played hide-and-seek for hours around the antique furniture and aspidistras. Then there was the view. Even in the dull winter light, the gardens below and the New Town straight ahead was eye-grabbing.

  ‘Here,’ Davie said, handing me a pair of latex gloves. ‘Wouldn’t want to leave any prints, would we?’

  The carpets were dark-coloured, including a particularly fine one with lions leaping on deer against a dark-blue background, so our damp boots weren’t leaving obvious traces.

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  I glared at him. ‘Has Eilidh Mackay melted your brain? The Lord of the Isles, of course.’

  ‘What? You think the Nor-English are behind his disappearance?’

  I shrugged. ‘Now we’re in, it’s definitely worth checking. You go left, I’ll go right; one of us should make it.’

  He snorted and headed away.

  ‘Not just him,’ I called. ‘Anything Bosch-oriented, anything …’

  ‘Aye, got it.’

  I went round the living room, checking the presses – shelves behind locked doors where Edinburgh burghers once stored their prized possessions. Fortunately, they were all unlocked. Plenty of alcohol, board games, poker chips and so on, but nothing germane to the investigation. The paintings – David Wilkies, Allan Ramsays, Henry Raeburns – were magnificent, but not Bosch. I went back to the hall and into the first bedroom on the right. It was furnished with a large bed and looked out over the inner courtyard with its trees and bushes. There were large walk-in spaces, which could easily have contained a suitably restrained lord – but didn’t. There were some extra-large suits in agricultural colours that I guessed belonged to Nigel Shotbolt, the leader that Billy Geddes had mentioned. But there were surprisingly few personal effects. Even his toilet bag was small and contained only a shaving brush, soap and a cut-throat razor. No toothbrush, and the suite’s complimentary one was still in its wrapper. I looked under the bed and the mattress, as well as behind the paintings – a standard place to stash papers. Nada.