Impolitic Corpses

by Paul Johnston

  ‘I’ll wake Jackie up,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’d like to talk to you.’ I introduced myself.

  ‘I remember you,’ she said, giving me a dispassionate look. ‘Haven’t read your books.’

  ‘You’re in the majority,’ I said, trying to put her at ease.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She led us down the dimly lit corridor into a room that took my breath away. She turned round when we were past the door and opened her arms. ‘Welcome to the Garden of Earthly Delights.’

  I took in the walls, which were covered in wallpaper patterned by various of the upbeat sections of Bosch’s painting. But they were only the beginning: on the floor were thigh-high models of the strange structures in the work – blue fruit pods, pink buildings with spiky excrescences and towers, naked figures of both sexes in unusual poses. There was a heavy smell of fruit-flavoured incense that almost made me sneeze.

  ‘You’re a fan of Hieronymus Bosch, then?’ I said.

  ‘A fan,’ she scoffed. ‘I worship him.’ She bowed her head and started speaking what I recognized as Latin. I didn’t have a clue what the words meant. My father, a classicist, would have been disgusted.

  ‘This is a shrine,’ Daphne Nicol said, pointing to the far right-hand corner, which appeared initially to be a heap of rubbish.

  I looked closer. There were objects I remembered from the central panel – fruit, mussel shells, fish (fortunately plastic), birds. On the top was a wooden panel bearing the letters H.B. above a mermaid. I instantly recognized the latter – it was the one on the belt buckle I’d found in the Nor-English representatives’ flat.

  ‘You’re a worshipper of Hieronymus Bosch?’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ she confirmed proudly. ‘He is the supreme prophet, not only of the life to come but the life we can live now if only we love our fellow humans and everything in the natural world.’

  I glanced at Davie, who was staring at the image of a male figure on the wall with his rear in the air and flowers sprouting from it.

  ‘Is this a personal belief or are you part of a’ – I paused, unwilling to use the word ‘cult’ – ‘a group?’

  Daphne Nicol looked at me solemnly. ‘I am one of the Followers of H.B. the Prophet,’ she said. ‘It’s been on the religions register since last February.’

  Reunified Scotland was home to many religions and cults, though the historical churches had shrinking flocks. The authorities’ attitude was generally benign but, aware of the dangers of sectarianism, required all faith-centred organizations to register and submit to regular inspections.

  ‘Are there many of you?’ Davie asked, having finally removed his eyes from the images.

  ‘Over thirty in Embra,’ Ms Nicol said. ‘Nearly two hundred and fifty across the nation. Would you like some tea?’

  I hesitated, wondering what kind of concoction she would serve, then decided to chance it. Daphne Nicol was providing information voluntarily and I wanted that to continue.

  ‘The woman’s crazy,’ Davie said, when she left the room. ‘Let’s get her son in.’

  ‘In due course, big man. Bull in china shop is not always the best move.’

  He glowered at me, then started taking photos of the room with his phone. The furniture was discomfiting – the sofa was covered in salmon-pink throws and had feet like testicles with short hairs on them. Everything was about fertility and fecundity. Not that there was anything wrong with those, as long as people kept their clothes on outside – something they had signally avoided in the painting.

  Ms Nicol reappeared, bearing a tray with cups shaped like birds’ heads – no hoopoe, unfortunately – and a round blue pot like one of Bosch’s edifices. She poured us a liquid that smelled strongly of fruit but had hardly any taste.

  ‘Jackie will be here in a minute,’ she said. ‘He loves his tea.’ She settled into what I’d learned was a lotus pose, though I couldn’t see exactly where she’d put her feet under the voluminous gown. Yoga, banned by the Council as mumbo-jumbo, was now a fad in Edinburgh. Sophia and Maisie went regularly.

  ‘So, what is it the Followers of H.B. do?’ I asked.

  ‘We spread the word,’ Ms Nicol said, as if that was obvious.

  ‘What word would that be?’ I said. ‘Bosch wasn’t a writer.’

  ‘No, but we derive our doctrines from studies we have made of the painting.’

  ‘The three panels of The Garden of Earthly Delights?’

  ‘Yes. For us that is the only source.’

  Which again raised the question of the tree-fish and its origin in another Bosch painting. I turned to Davie and inclined my head towards the door. He moved with surprising speed.

  ‘There’s another group that follows Bosch, isn’t there?’ I said, catching and holding Daphne Nicol’s gaze.

  ‘They are heretics,’ she said, her voice suddenly shrill. ‘One of our founders left because he thought we were too hedonistic.’

  There was a pounding of boots and Davie reappeared.

  ‘He’s not here and there’s no other way out unless you can fly.’

  Ms Nicol was unperturbed. ‘Perhaps he never came back, though I thought I heard the door. That boy, he uses this place like a hotel.’ The smile she gave us suggested that she was happy playing hotel keeper.

  ‘What’s his work?’ Davie demanded.

  ‘The clubs,’ she said. ‘That’s why he keeps irregular hours.’

  ‘What does he do in the clubs?’ I asked.

  She raised her elegant shoulders. ‘I don’t know exactly. Sells drinks, acts as host, helps people enjoy themselves. He’s good at that kind of thing.’

  ‘Does he preach the word in these clubs?’

  ‘No, Mr Dalrymple, he does not. Such places are not appropriate for sensitive work.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Davie, his patience clearly having run out. ‘Your Jackie got himself attacked by a strangler dressed as a tree-fish. He obviously got up somebody’s nose.’

  Daphne Nicol glared at him. ‘The Church of Bosch. It can only be them.’

  ‘Did your son tell Mr Adamson about that?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘We both did. He said not to involve ScotPol because he was still gathering evidence.’

  ‘Which is our job, not his,’ Davie growled. ‘We need names. Who runs this Bosch Church?’

  ‘Church of Bosch,’ Ms Nicol corrected. She paused. ‘Och, all right. Jackie kept his mouth shut, but it’s about time you heard about his attacker. His name’s Monteith, Laurence Monteith. It isn’t hard to find him. He runs a café on Baltic Street. Of course, he won’t have been the tree-fish himself – he’s in his sixties and a lard bucket. But he’s got some very nasty members. Ex-gang headbangers.’

  ‘Charming,’ I said. ‘Tell me, Ms Nicol, do you have any connections with the Theatre of Life?’

  She looked at me blankly – a pretty convincing blankly. ‘Never been there. I don’t go to the theatre or cinema. They’re corrupting influences.’

  ‘So,’ I said, watching her closely, ‘you’re unaware that an upcoming play will have props based on images from The Garden of Earthly Delights?’

  Daphne Nicol went white and then bright red, which was a rare talent. She spluttered for a while and then gave up trying to speak.

  I stood up and said to Davie, ‘Stay here while I have a look at the son’s room.’

  The notable feature was that there was hardly anything related to Bosch on the walls or elsewhere. The posters were of Scottish power-folk bands – that was the current hot listening potato – and fantasy novels; they were popular too, especially in Edinburgh, where reality had been grim for decades. I looked out of the window. Although it wasn’t as far to the ground as the Lord of the Isles’s bedroom, you still wouldn’t get away with your bones intact. There was no sign of a rope having been used. Maybe his mother really had been confused about when he came in, though I doubted it.

  ‘I need the names of the clubs where Jack works,’ I said, going
back into the sitting room.

  ‘The Hermitage and the Whiteout.’

  ‘Both in Leith,’ Davie said.

  ‘Thank you, Ms Nicol,’ I said. ‘We may need to speak to you again.’

  ‘Mr Adamson will be the judge of that.’

  I let her go on believing that. The only thing Peter Adamson would be judging in the near future was the distance between the dung pail and his bed. But his involvement with the Nicols, the witness Ann Melville and members of the Lord of the Isles’s staff nagged at me. He wasn’t the kind of lawyer to take on low to medium earners. Someone had put him up to it. That person’s name was probably being beaten out of him right now.

  The afternoon was swiftly being eaten by night, even though it wasn’t much past three. Far too early to hit the clubs, so our next target was obvious.

  ‘Laurence—’

  ‘Monteith,’ Davie completed. ‘I’m not thick.’

  ‘Except of muscle. Anyway, how did you know I wasn’t going to say “of Arabia”?’ I got into the four-by-four.

  ‘Was he a follower of the prophet H.B. too?’ He slammed his door and started the engine.

  ‘No idea. I think he was a follower of himself. This is the wrong side of outlandish, big man. One band of Boschites I could accept, but two warring factions?’

  ‘It isn’t just them,’ he said, skidding across the snow, which was indeed drifting. ‘Why is Rory Campbell interested in the artist? And the Nor-English woman? And the Lord of the Isles?’

  ‘We don’t actually know that the old man is a Bosch fan, though it’s obviously a possibility. Maybe one of the sects grabbed him. But why?’

  ‘His pal Matthew Barker might know.’

  ‘In which case Hyslop’s goons will get it out of him.’

  Davie nodded, turning on to the main street in the old centre of Leith. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, peering through the windscreen.

  ‘Baltic Barracks,’ I said, similarly taken aback. ‘It’s now Monteith’s “Coffees and Cakes”.’ The building had been a City Guard base during the Enlightenment, and we’d had several cases connected with it. Leith had gone up in the world since the end of the regime, but it was still a roughhouse on Friday and Saturday nights.

  ‘What a waste,’ Davie said, shaking his head as he parked with the near-side wheels on the kerb.

  ‘You haven’t even tried the coffee and cake,’ I observed.

  His expression lightened. ‘Good point. Come on.’

  I followed him in. Laurence Monteith’s café took up the whole of what had been the barracks’ ground floor. There must have been at least fifty tables and most of them were taken. I wondered what was in the coffee.

  I joined Davie at the end of the cool cabinets. He’d sent a waitress off in search of the proprietor, having first managed to obtain two slices of cake and an éclair. He was already digging in.

  He said something.

  ‘Pardon?’

  After swallowing, he repeated, ‘It’s good. This fruitcake is really good.’

  I got a fork and tried it. He was right, but I still smelled a rodent. A massive café in Leith with high-quality products and dozens of customers? The area wasn’t that upmarket.

  A large man in baker’s whites appeared, wiping his hands. Daphne Nicol was right about the lard he was carrying, but if he was eating what he made, I couldn’t blame him for expanding. There were worse ways to go.

  ‘Detective Leader Oliphant,’ he said, squinting at Davie’s ID through small, round glasses. ‘An honour.’

  Davie introduced me and that produced more protestations along the lines of not being worthy. I waved them away.

  ‘What’s the secret?’ I asked.

  The café owner looked alarmed for a second. ‘What do you mean, Mr Dalrymple?’

  ‘Call me Quint.’ I’d got that from Moby-Dick. Then again, Quintilian was an even weirder name than Ishmael. ‘Is there somewhere private we could go?’

  Monteith’s doughy face fell. He was either as guilty as hell of something or he was expecting a shakedown. He raised the counter and led us to the rear of the café. There was a large office with the barred windows that had been a feature of the barracks.

  ‘Something stronger, gentlemen?’ he said, lumbering to a side table covered with bottles.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly, raising a hand to Davie. ‘We’re investigating a serious crime.’ I wasn’t going to go into detail yet as I wanted to see how he would react.

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Laurence Monteith had poured himself a large measure of a dark liquid. He downed it in one, which suggested nerves. ‘What crime would that be?’

  ‘Attempted murder,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ He managed not to pour himself another drink, but his right hand was on the bottle. ‘What’s that to do with me?’

  I moved closer and cast a single word at him.

  ‘Bosch.’

  He almost stood to attention, but his face remained impressively impassive. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Don’t extract the urine!’ Davie yelled, moving quickly across the room. ‘You’re in charge of the Church of Bosch, aren’t you?’

  We waited till the fat man nodded.

  ‘I have nothing to hide. The church is registered and has passed all inspections.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Davie stepped up to the café owner. ‘So have the Followers of the Prophet Hieronymus Bosch. How would you describe the church’s relations with them?’

  Monteith was duly goaded. ‘They’re heretics. They have twisted the old master’s message. They deserve …’ The words trailed away.

  ‘Strangulation?’ I suggested.

  ‘I don’t know what—’ He broke off, realizing there was no way we’d believe he hadn’t heard about the attack on Jack Nicol. ‘Oh, you mean the tree-fish?’

  This was promising.

  ‘I’m all ears,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all I know,’ he said, pouring another huge measure and gulping it down.

  ‘Davie,’ I said, stepping back. Monteith needed the third degree. While Davie got into the zone, I looked around the room. The desk was covered in piles of paper and a large hand calculator, suggesting the café hadn’t taken advantage of the minimal-interest loans banks were offering for business development. Then again, someone who worshipped Hieronymus Bosch was unlikely to be a digital whizz. On the wall at the rear of the room were team photographs of young men in green-and-white shirts. The legends proclaimed them to be the Hibernian Third Development XI. Monteith was present, wearing a tracksuit that had got tighter as the years passed. In the most recent photos, he was in a suit and the team’s shirts bore the strapline of Monteith’s Coffees and Cakes. He seemed to have gone from trainer to sponsor. Then, in the 2037 photo, I saw someone else I recognized. I looked closer. There was no doubt about it. The woman in the back row in a green tracksuit and carrying a bag marked Doctor I’d last seen in the mortuary, and previously in the warehouse with demon-hands around her and her chest pounded open.

  ‘Davie!’

  The shouting from the other end of the room stopped.

  ‘He’s admitted he set his dogs on Jackie Nicol.’

  I took the photo off the wall and carried it to the fat man. Monteith was wiping his mouth with a cloth. The blood kept flowing.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I said, pointing to the woman.

  He smiled, despite the onslaught his ears had sustained. ‘That’s Janey, my daughter. Love of my life since her mother, Hilda, died. Well, that’s no’ true. She was the love of my life the second she came into this bastard world. She’s not really a doctor; she just looks after the players’ strains and bruises.’

  I was avoiding Davie’s eyes. ‘And … when did you last see her?’

  ‘Last week. She comes round every Wednesday for her tea.’

  ‘I see. What does she work at?’

  Monteith’s smile disappeared. ‘She never really found her way. She used to work here, but last year she went travelling around the
country. Met some people … some people I don’t like.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I think they were taking drugs. Not Janey, she’s no’ that stupid. I bawled them out and haven’t seen them since.’

  ‘Can you remember what they looked like?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Naw. Young, spotty, hair all over the place. Two of them were from Glasgow.’ For many Edinburgh locals the big city was still the den of iniquity the Enlightenment had proclaimed it to be. ‘Janey,’ he continued, ‘she’s smart. She just needs a bit of support. Won’t take it from me, of course. Too proud.’

  ‘Was she a member of the Church of Bosch?’ I asked.

  The fat man nodded. ‘Aye, but these last few months she’s not been turning up to services. She’s been different since she came back to Embra.’

  He was either covering up her drug use or he didn’t know about it. In any case, a decision had to be made. Davie stayed in the background, waiting for me to make the running.

  ‘Mr Monteith, I need to ask you to come with us,’ I said, speaking quietly.

  ‘What for?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve got a business to run.’

  ‘I have to insist,’ I said. ‘You’re not under arrest, but that can change.’ I hoped that would nip his resistance in the bud.

  ‘Och, all right.’ Monteith took off his apron and threw it on a chair. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  He’d forgotten admitting that he’d authorized the attack on Jackie Nicol, but that could wait. We’d have to put out a search order on the young man – I was certain he knew more about the Bosch cults than he was saying. It also seemed likely he would have known Janey. Could he have been involved in her murder?

  We put him in the back seat of the four-by-four and headed back to the centre. He’d only start wondering what was going on when we drove past ScotPol HQ on the way to the morgue.

  Sometimes what we did made me sick.

  Monteith was wailing by the time we pulled up outside the morgue. I couldn’t make out the words that were spilling from his quivering lips, but it wasn’t hard to get the gist.