‘Spit it out, then,’ Davie said. I initially thought that was deeply unhelpful, but it got the old man going.
‘I … I got a text message the day before they came for me … They … they have my wife.’ He broke off and wiped his eyes with a dirty handkerchief he’d pulled from his jacket pocket. ‘They sent me a photograph of her holding that day’s Scottish News. I … I spoke to her too. She was frightened, awfully frightened, but they hadn’t hurt her.’ He started to sob.
‘Your wife …’ I said, searching my memory for her name. ‘Lady Margaret. She stays in your house outside Oban, doesn’t she?’ I remembered hearing that from Billy, and it made me think. Could he have one or more of his fingers in this purulent pie? It didn’t seem particularly likely – he’d been worried about the Lord of the Isles’s absence from deal making – but with my lifelong friend-cum-enemy you never knew.
‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘There’s a small security detail, of course – clan members rather than ScotPol officers. It seems … it seems they weren’t up to the job. Either threatened or bribed – whichever, they absented themselves when Margaret was taken.’
‘And nobody noticed?’ Rory said.
Angus Macdonald shook his head. ‘It was done in the middle of the night. I was forced to cover the disappearance by telling the staff in the house up there that my wife had come down to Edinburgh.’
‘So what happened?’ said Davie. ‘You’re free. Judging by your demeanour, her ladyship isn’t.’
‘No, she isn’t.’ The Lord of the Isles was gasping for breath now. He really did need to be seen by a doctor.
I asked Rory if he had one in his team.
‘Aye, but she’s no expert. Battlefield medicine’s her strongpoint. She does have a medical qualification, though.’
‘Bring her here,’ I said. He went off to make contact. ‘So, what happened at Ainslie Place?’
‘They … they told me to get up to the rear bedroom on the third floor at three in the afternoon. I slipped away when Douglas was down in the kitchen.’
I thought about that. ‘The door to your room was locked on the inside.’
Angus Macdonald’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Obviously I didn’t do that.’
Someone must have turned the key after the door was broken down. That individual would either have already been broken by Hyslop’s sidekicks or would be soon. Maybe he or she had been bribed or threatened to do it in order to confuse the investigators.
‘There was a masked figure wearing black waiting for me,’ said the old man. ‘To … to my horror, I was forced to slide down a rope to the garden where another masked figure was waiting. The security squad was conspicuous by its absence.’
‘What happened to the rope?’ said Davie.
‘I looked round as I was led out of the garden. It was untied and thrown down. The figure in black came down on the drain pipes.’
One or more of the security people must have been in on the operation, but it didn’t matter, even if they were broken by Hyslop’s people. The abductors knew what they were doing. They’d have kept their appearances and identities hidden.
‘Then … then a hood was put over my head and I was shoved into the back of a vehicle, a large four-by-four, I’d say. My phone was taken immediately. We drove for over an hour. I was led out of the car and taken inside, up two flights of stairs and my feet cuffed. I pulled the hood off as soon as I could, but I was alone. The room was cold and damp, pale brown wallpaper peeling and the windows shuttered. I couldn’t hear any sounds except birdsong.’
‘Outside the city, then,’ said Davie.
I considered that. ‘They could have been driving in circles. There are parts of Edinburgh with minimal traffic noise and in proximity to parks, but you’re probably right.’ Then I thought of the outer suburbs. Some of them, especially the southern ones, had been devastated during the drugs wars and were only now beginning to be rebuilt. He might have been out there.
‘What did they want from you?’ I asked.
‘That’s … that’s confidential.’
I raised a finger to keep Davie back. ‘We’re your only hope.’
He eyed us dubiously. ‘How will you find Margaret?’
‘I’ve never failed,’ I said, which was true when it came to missing persons cases. My strike rate when dealing with homicidal maniacs was lower, though I usually still got them – but often there were fatalities along the way. The question was, were his erstwhile captors maniacs? There wasn’t much evidence of that so far.
‘But,’ I continued, ‘I need to know why you were taken. It obviously wasn’t because you tell side-splitting jokes.’
Davie guffawed, adding to the aristocrat’s discomfort. I felt sorry about his wife, but this wasn’t the time for prevarication.
‘All right … all right. You’ll be aware that my companies provide Scotland and several other countries with energy of various kinds. There’s been heavy competition for extra oil and gas supplies because of the much severer winter that’s hitting most of the northern hemisphere. I’ve been scrupulous about sticking to the terms of signed contracts. But some countries have started to play dirty. First it was attempts to talk down the companies’ share prices, but rather to my surprise ScotExchange proved strong enough to resist such tactics.’
I remembered something about that in the papers a few months ago, but I’d paid little attention, assuming that the Lord of the Isles and his people, paragons of capitalist efficiency, would sort things out. As, apparently, they had.
‘Then … they went right over the top.’ The expression sounded strange coming from the old man’s cracked lips.
‘Who’s they?’ asked Davie.
Angus Macdonald gave him a searching look – he was probably wondering how much a detective would understand about such matters, forgetting that detectives were past masters at the comprehension of greed in all its manifestations.
‘At first we thought it was the South Africans – with the approach of the icebergs from Antarctica, the country’s mean temperatures are dropping fast.’
‘Except it’s summer down there now,’ I said.
‘Indeed. Then we looked at the recently reformed state of Finland. There was some evidence of malfeasance, but we took the appropriate steps.’
‘Who was it, then?’ Davie said, his impatience manifesting itself in bulging eyes and a furrowed forehead.
Rory rushed in. ‘ScotPol vehicles at the main entrance. Get out the back now! The driver’s waiting. Brown van.’
I took the Lord of the Isles by the arm and led him to the stage door, Davie pounding behind. I opened the door and had a look. The police hadn’t arrived yet. We went down the narrow passage to Buccleuch Street. The van was on the other side of the road. I pulled the old man in front of a bus, which slewed to the side, and got him in the open side door. A few seconds later we were moving southwards.
It was dark and the snow was coming down again, making a mockery of the streetlights. With any luck we’d get away unnoticed.
Then what?
The driver was a young woman with a black woollen hat pulled down to her eyebrows. Wisps of light brown hair had escaped. She had a striking nose, bent high up and longer than most men’s. It was curiously attractive, as were her high cheeks and full lips. Unfortunately, they were pressed tightly together in a straight line that smacked of serious disapproval. I was in the back with Angus Macdonald, so I left Davie to charm her.
After five minutes he gave up. She declined to give her name or say where we were going. When he asked if she knew who we were, she let out a long sigh and nodded once.
She took a left off Causewayside and drove around the side streets.
‘None of you have phones that are turned on, I hope,’ she said, her accent not local. It wasn’t rough enough to be Glaswegian, so I guessed at somewhere between the cities.
‘We’re all completely turned off,’ said Davie, which prompted not even the slightest response.
> Then we were on Dalkeith Road and heading south at speed, until she took another left and headed for what had once been Prestonfield, a flash hotel and restaurant; my parents had taken me there once when I won the English prize at school. Since the drugs wars it had been a ruin. As we pulled up in front of the old lodge, I saw in the headlights before they were doused that it was still in a state of devastation.
‘Out,’ said our driver, moving to the side of the collapsed walls and disappearing into the murk.
‘Charming young lady,’ said the Lord of the Isles.
‘If you’re lucky, she won’t turn out to be a class warrior,’ I said, immediately wishing I hadn’t. The old man looked as if he’d just seen a guillotine in the light of the torch that was approaching us.
‘Gentlemen,’ said a bearded man in dark coat and pulled-down balaclava. In his other hand he was holding a pistol. ‘Let’s get you inside.’
Other figures appeared to our sides and took our arms gently. We were led to the right, then down uneven steps. We went through an open door into pitch darkness. When the door was closed and bolted, lights came on.
‘Plato’s bollocks,’ said Davie, looking around in astonishment.
We were in the basement of the old building, which had sustained little damage and was done up like a military base, with dark-green paint on the walls and metal bunk beds all over the wide space. Desks had been placed by the brick support columns and people in dark clothes were working at computer terminals.
A tall man with short white hair came up to us.
‘Quint Dalrymple,’ he said, extending his right hand. ‘I served with you in the Tactical Operations Squad.’
That was a blast from the distant past. I tried to get my memory into gear. A ghostly figure with lustrous black hair appeared before me.
‘Andy Bothwell,’ I said, shaking the proffered paw. He had very large hands.
‘That’s right, sir.’ He laughed. ‘Bet no one’s called you that for a long time.’
‘The last man who did was Jimmy Taggart.’
Bothwell’s face fell. ‘Shame what happened to him.’
I nodded. ‘Though he’d probably have wanted to go down fighting.’
‘Right enough. Christ, the TOS. Brings back a lot of memories.’ Andy Bothwell’s cheeks reddened. ‘Sorry, sir, shouldn’t have mentioned that.’
‘Don’t worry – just seeing you had that effect.’ I looked around. ‘So, what have you got going on here exactly?’
A young woman with a friendly face had approached the Lord of the Isles and led him away.
‘Manda will look after the old man,’ Bothwell said. ‘Besides, he doesn’t need to hear this.’ He gave Davie a sceptical look. ‘Nor does the detective leader.’
‘Hume 03, as was, has been at my side since 2020. You can rely on him. Besides, we’ve been given the arse’s rush by Hel Hyslop.’
The white-haired man was studying Davie. ‘Hume 03. I remember you. Thunderboots.’
I put a hand on Davie’s arm. ‘That nickname’s not a favourite,’ I said. ‘Remind me, which barracks were you in, Andy?’
‘Raeburn, of course,’ he replied, with a grin. I might have known. That barracks was located in the old Lothian and Police headquarters by the ruins of Fettes College. Its proximity to the wild northern suburb of Pilton led to it being staffed with the City Guard’s most enthusiastic headbangers. ‘I was known as Knee Tae The Nuts. Knee for short.’
‘Knee it is,’ I said. ‘So, what’s going on here?’
‘Lachie and Rory set up this base in the year before the revolution. I deserted two years before that, so I’ve got more experience underground than most.’
‘But why do they need a hidey-hole and a bunch of washed-up revolutionaries?’ said Davie. He was still smarting from the use of his nickname, as well as being confronted by a former Raeburn auxiliary. Hume Barracks fancied itself as the toughest in Edinburgh. I’d seen some epic rugby matches between the two, with Davie very much to the fore. I had a vague recollection of Andy Bothwell playing on the wing, not a real position for a steamrolling forward like Davie.
‘We’re not washed up,’ Bothwell said, smiling as he refused to take offence. ‘Lachie isn’t a hundred per cent convinced that democracy will hold across Scotland, so we’re the backstop. Edinburgh can survive whatever comes at her.’
I glanced at Davie. He showed no sign of knowing about this nest of freedom fighters. I felt a fool for not having suspected its existence. The truth was that Scottish democracy was vulnerable because of the uneasy cohabitation of regions that were run in very different ways. And then there were the Nor-English. If they were wealthy enough to be doing energy deals, they might be eyeing Scotland with an acquisitive eye. It wouldn’t be the first time in recorded history.
Then I saw a stocky man in camo gear walking across the basement. My eyes moved automatically to his right hand, which was holding a green file. The forefinger was missing below the lower joint. My gut did a passable imitation of flung dung.
‘Who’s that?’ I said to Knee Bothwell.
‘That’s Jinky MacGuphin. Used to be a hell of a football player.’
‘Is that how he lost his finger?’ I was doing my best to keep my voice level.
Bothwell laughed. ‘No, he was a builder. Had a run-in with some kind of power tool years ago.’
It had been obvious from the start that he hadn’t provided the recently severed finger that had been found in the Lord of the Isles’s four-poster. I considered asking the old man if he knew anything about it – or if fingers were removed in the Highlands and Islands as punishment. I’d heard worse.
‘Come and have something to eat,’ said Andy Bothwell.
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Davie. ‘I could eat a moose.’
‘None of them here, though I’ve heard they’re trying to breed them somewhere up north. Here, what’s this with the Lord of the Isles? Rory told us to look after him.’ He led us to an alcove at the rear, where there was a wood-burning stove with a large pot on it. ‘Stew.’
Davie craned forward. ‘Smells all right. Any meat in it?’
‘Shug?’ said Bothwell to the man in a dirty apron, who was brandishing a ladle.
‘Aye, there’s loads ae meat in it. Squirrel, rook, rabbit …’
I forced down a small bowl while Davie wolfed three big ones. Twas ever thus. Maybe this would be the first time he got gut rot, but I wasn’t counting on it. Barracks fare had been pretty dire in the early days of the Council.
‘What now?’ said the big man, after we’d retired to a pair of battered leather armchairs. ‘Sit on our hands?’
I shrugged. ‘At least Hyslop can’t get her hands on us here. We need to talk to the Lord of the Isles at length, but that’ll have to wait till tomorrow.’ The medic had told us the old man was suffering from exhaustion and was out for the count.
‘Copulate this for a game of revolutionaries,’ Davie said. ‘I want to go home.’
‘To meet Eilidh?’
He smiled. ‘Possibly.’
I thought about Sophia and the kids. I had to get a message to them.
Knee Bothwell appeared at Davie’s side. ‘Fancy going out with us?’
‘Naw,’ Davie said. ‘You’re so, so far from my type.’
I gave him the eye. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Rory wants us to go down to Newhaven. There are some smugglers to be dealt with.’
Davie sat up. ‘That’s a job for ScotPol.’
Bothwell laughed. ‘No, no, I mean dealt with in the sense of doing a deal with.’
‘You taking the pish?’ Davie demanded.
‘Mildly. Hume people never did have a sense of humour, ha.’
‘All right,’ I said, raising a hand. ‘It’s a bit late to be holding grudges from the Enlightenment. Are you saying that the deputy convenor of the municipality of Edinburgh is receiving illicit goods?’
‘Kind of.’
I glared at Davie,
who looked as if he was about to blow his cranium. ‘Why? What are these goods?’
‘Wait and see.’ Knee shrugged. ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t fancy it.’
Rags, red, bulls for the baiting of. We got up swiftly.
Whatever transpired, it had to be better than a smoky crypt filled with snoring revolutionaries. But on that, as so often in recent days, I was completely wrong.
We set off in another van, this one black with small white letters claiming it belonged to a bespoke house painter called R.W. Forsyth. Bothwell was driving, with Davie and me making the front seat a tight squeeze. There were a couple of guys in dark-coloured overalls in the back.
‘I’ve got to get in touch with Sophia,’ I said to Davie.
‘We can’t reactivate our phones,’ he replied. ‘The woman from hell will nail us.’
‘You want to make a call?’ Knee said. ‘Hey, Ralphie, give them a flamer.’
‘A what?’ I asked.
‘Phone with a temporary number. Untraceable.’
I took the device I was handed and rang Sophia.
‘Hello?’ she said uncertainly, not recognizing the number.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘I … I won’t be back tonight.’
‘What’s going on, Quint? Hel Hyslop was at the morgue, asking where you were. At least I didn’t have to dissemble when I told her I had no idea. Have you done something?’
‘Other than get up her nose? No. But there have been developments. There’s something rotten in the state of Scotland.’
‘Amazing. I don’t suppose you can talk about it.’
‘Better not, so you can carry on not having to dissemble.’
‘Fine,’ she said sharply.
‘Can I talk to the kids?’
‘Is that a good idea? You’ll only upset them.’ She was right. Heck would demand my presence immediately, while Maisie would tear numerous strips off me for what she called ‘doing my dirty business’.
‘All right.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I love you.’
‘What?’ She may have been playing deaf.
I said it again, louder.
‘Really? I love you too, but you’re driving me round the bend. We have to talk when you get back.’
Impolitic Corpses Page 15
