Impolitic Corpses

by Paul Johnston

  Great. Little more than a day to save the leader of the opposition’s wife, then the country.

  ‘No problem,’ said Davie, with the gung-ho attitude he always displayed in such circumstances. ‘We’ll have everything fixed by teatime.’

  ‘What do you need?’ asked Rory.

  ‘Answers, but I don’t think any of you can provide them.’

  ‘Try us, Quint,’ said Katharine. ‘No more whisky for him,’ she ordered the waiter. Dougie scowled but kept his mouth shut. She’d always been able to do reginal.

  I took out my notebook. ‘All right.’ I decided to beard the lion, even though I didn’t know where her or his den was. I looked at Angus Macdonald. ‘Why was a severed finger left in the drawer under your bed?’

  His eyes shot open. ‘What? First I’ve heard of it.’

  I believed him. So it hadn’t been put there to frighten him – the abduction of his wife had been enough to do that.

  Katharine’s gaze was on me. ‘You know what I think, Quint. It’s something to do with you.’

  The Dundonian leaned forward. ‘Oh, aye. Why’s that?’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Katharine?’ I said. ‘That secreting the right forefinger of another male – who hasn’t yet been located – would pique my curiosity?’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘You have to admit it’s a curious … coincidence.’

  ‘Do I?’ I asked, though she was almost undoubtedly right. I didn’t want to consider that right now. Instead, I told them about the Hieronymus Bosch connection to the security guard Ricky Fetlar, and then went for gold. ‘We found a belt buckle with a Bosch design in the bedroom of the Nor-English representative Gemma Bass in Ramsay Gardens.’

  Lachie exchanged glances with Rory. ‘I take it you didn’t have authorization to go there.’

  ‘You take it correctly. Just as well we went, though. What are those people doing in Edinburgh?’

  The Lord of the Isles roused himself. ‘We’re negotiating energy supplies with them. They’re eager customers – or were. I hope my absence hasn’t put them off.’

  I turned to Davie. ‘Check if they’re still around, will you? As well as getting a general update. Also, see if your colleagues have found out who owns the warehouse.’ I looked at Rory, who shrugged his ignorance.

  ‘They took my phone, remember?’ Davie said.

  ‘Use the landline,’ said Rory. ‘They can’t trace it.’

  Davie left the room, followed by the waiter. I hoped the latter was trustworthy.

  ‘Any Bosch cults in Stirling or Dundee?’ I asked.

  Dougie laughed raucously. ‘We don’t have cults at all, pal. Bourgeois bollocks.’

  Katharine shook her head. ‘If there are any, we haven’t found them. I hear there are two in Edinburgh.’

  ‘So far,’ I said. Maybe there were cells of Bosch-related activists all over the place. Which made me think of Jack Nicol. We urgently needed to track him down. I had a feeling there was more to him than had met Tree-Fish’s eye.

  I looked at Lachie. ‘Are you sure the leaders of Aberdeen, Inverness, Fife and so on can’t be trusted?’ Perth didn’t need to be mentioned because it had become semi-feudal, despite the best efforts of central government.

  ‘Trust me, Quint,’ said Edinburgh’s leader. ‘We have people in all the regions.’

  ‘I still think involving parliament should be considered,’ I said.

  ‘No, it shouldn’t,’ said the Lord of the Isles. ‘My party will do what I say, while the government will do what Andrew Duart says. And my wife …’ He broke off.

  I saw his pain. We’d have to do it Lachie’s way.

  Davie came back. ‘The Nor-English are still here. Apparently, they’ve been threatening to leave, but the energy minister has been entertaining them.’

  ‘What about the warehouse?’

  ‘Get this. The owner is one Morris Gish, a.k.a. Morrie the Nut – so called because of his habit of smashing rivals’ noses with his head. Suspected gang boss, but nothing’s ever stuck, thanks to his lawyers.’

  ‘The Edinburgh kiss,’ said Dougie, sniggering.

  ‘Ever heard of him?’ I asked Rory.

  ‘Not a whisper,’ he replied.

  ‘Me neither,’ added Lachie.

  The Lord of the Isles shook his head when I turned to him. One large blank drawn.

  ‘Anything else?’ I asked Davie.

  ‘I’m keeping the best till last. A couple of hours ago, a ScotPol patrol found a guy on the pavement in Saughton. He recently lost his right forefinger.’

  That got me to my feet. ‘Is he in the infirmary?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Time for all of you to go,’ said Rory. ‘Katharine and Dougie are due in Newhaven in an hour. Detective Leader, will you accompany them with my people?’

  The big man nodded.

  ‘What about Margaret?’ Angus Macdonald asked plaintively.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find her,’ I said.

  My only hope was the man with nine fingers. Maybe he’d be a kindred spirit when he spotted my stump. Then I thought of another question.

  ‘Where were you released?’ I asked the Lord of the Isles.

  ‘My head was covered again and I was driven back – the trip was shorter that time. Maybe forty minutes. I was pushed out of the vehicle after being told not to take the balaclava off until I’d counted to a hundred. When I did, I found myself in a suburb I didn’t recognize. Fortunately, a taxi appeared. It was just before five in the afternoon. I got the driver to drop me on Causewayside. I kept the balaclava pulled low on my forehead to avoid being recognized. I walked to the rear door of the Theatre of Life, checking that I wasn’t being followed.’

  He would have been conspicuous in his red kilt – not many people in Edinburgh wore them, apart from young people of both sexes who took pleasure in letting it all hang out.

  I briefly wondered if the leader of the opposition went underwear-free, then got back to business. It was time to move.

  Downstairs, Davie got his cosh back, as well as a .45 Colt automatic that looked old but well maintained.

  Katharine came up behind me. ‘So this is farewell, Quint,’ she said, mouth close to my ear. ‘For the time being.’ Then she put her hand on my arm, pivoted and kissed me quickly on the lips. She walked to Davie and Dougie without looking back.

  I didn’t have time to think about the kiss because Rory arrived at my side.

  ‘What’s your plan?’ he asked.

  ‘Need to know—’ I broke off as I noticed an old man on crutches moving awkwardly along the pavement across the road, his head bowed. He was wearing a beret and his clothes were ragged. Something didn’t ring true.

  ‘Davie!’ I yelled, racing forward as best I could.

  The gunshots were rapid and loud. The old man had ditched his crutches and pulled out a large pistol. Dougie the Dundonian fell to the ground like a felled pillar, having not even managed to move his arms from his sides.

  ‘Don’t kill him!’ I screamed.

  The shooter – clearly not old at all – had set off down the street like a sprinter.

  Davie raised his weapon and fired once.

  The target crashed to the pavement and clutched his lower left leg. Rory’s people ran to disarm him.

  A pool of blood was already forming around Dougie’s head and upper chest. He wouldn’t be seeing the silvery Tay again.

  ‘Katharine has to catch that boat,’ Rory said, catching me up. ‘Inform your contacts in Dundee, please,’ he said to her. ‘Try to keep them calm.’

  ‘You know I can’t guarantee that.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ Davie said, opening the rear door of the van that had pulled up beside us. He and Katharine got in, the doors closed and the van departed at speed.

  ‘We need to clear the area,’ I said.

  Rory nodded. The other van had stopped to pick up the wounded assassin, while a black estate car arrived for Lachie and the Lord of the Isles.<
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  ‘Come on, Quint,’ Rory said. ‘Let’s get this piece of shit back to base.’

  We got in the front of the van, while five black-clad personnel leaped in the back with the captive. As we drove down Grange Road, we heard ScotPol sirens approaching from the north.

  After a couple of quick turns, we disappeared into the rapidly descending night.

  Once we were in the basement at Prestonfield, I used a flamer to call Sophia.

  ‘Can you talk?’ I asked.

  ‘I just open my lips and blow.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  I heard her rubber boots squeak on the morgue floor.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘That’s what just happened.’ I gave her a condensed version. ‘I hear there’s a guy missing you-know-which finger in the infirmary.’

  ‘Yes. I was asked to match the digit to the stump.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘Yes. Hel Hyslop arrived after he was treated and took him away.’

  ‘Shit. We may need you to look at the killer Davie shot.’

  ‘Have you forgotten the kids, Quint?’ There was ice in her voice.

  ‘No. By the way, Katharine’s gone back to Stirling.’

  ‘Good. I hope they let her past the Fife coast.’

  ‘It was all right on the way down.’ She had a point, though. The former Kingdom of Fife had always ploughed its own furrow and had a reputation for doing as little as it could for the newly reformed nation. Maybe Stirling’s women, who didn’t exactly play democracy by the rules as parliament expected, were kindred spirits.

  ‘Can I go now?’ Sophia asked.

  ‘Course. You know I love you.’

  ‘Define “know”.’

  ‘Later, darling.’

  She cut the connection.

  Rory gave me an amused look that I discouraged with a frown.

  All friends in the fight to safeguard the nation.

  The wounded man was put on a scrubbed table in what passed for a sickbay in the basement and curtains were drawn around. A female medic who looked as if she’d only just left school cut off the leg of his trousers and examined the wound, holding the limb down until other personnel strapped the struggling man down.

  ‘Straight-through wound,’ she said. ‘Was it a forty-five bullet?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I can patch him up, but he needs proper attention. Can we get him to the infirmary?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Do what you have to, but keep him conscious.’

  She didn’t look happy about that, but Rory gave her the nod.

  He took my arm and led me through a gap in the curtains. ‘Listen, Quint, we haven’t much time. Hyslop will be investigating what happened on Arden Street.’

  ‘She’s already got the guy with the missing finger.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth.’

  Neither of us laughed.

  ‘I may have to go back to ScotPol HQ and rejoin the official investigation,’ I said. ‘Davie, too. We’re too far out of the loop.’

  Rory nodded. ‘Let’s see what we can get out of the shooter first.’

  ‘He’s not the only lead we’ve got. Remember Morrie the Nut, the owner of the warehouse where you stored your creepy props?’

  ‘Aye. We’ve got untraceable access to ScotWeb, if that’s any help.’

  ‘It’s a start.’ I paused. ‘Tell me, Rory, why did you decide to use Bosch imagery in your play?’

  He shrugged. ‘The man was a genius. His vision fits perfectly into a satirical vision of the city under the Council.’

  I wasn’t buying that. There were plenty of other artistic geniuses he could have used – Brueghel, Goya, the moderns …

  ‘You were aware of the Bosch cults, weren’t you?’ I watched his face carefully – he was a consummate actor.

  ‘True enough. One of the company’s brothers was involved in the Church of Bosch. Said they were a bunch of lunatics, but persuasive ones.’

  Which made me think of Jack Nicol, even though he was attached to the other cult.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘The other guard at the warehouse – Denzil Kennedy. We reckoned he was on the level, but I don’t trust anybody now. We need to track him down too.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll lead us to Morris … what was his surname?’

  ‘Gish. He might. Take me to a computer.’

  I spent the next twenty minutes in front of a scratched and worn screen that must have been liberated from the old City Guard. But it and the tower worked well enough to tell me, via the Election Archive, that Denzil Kennedy lived in West Pilton. So, to my satisfaction, did Morrie the Nut. Then I realized what we were up against. I waved to Rory. He came over with Knee Bothwell, who was sporting his usual smile.

  ‘What do you need?’ said the latter.

  ‘This one you can trust,’ Rory said. ‘He’s been with us from the start.’

  ‘Kennedy and Gish both live in West Pilton.’

  Suddenly, Bothwell looked as happy as a man facing a firing squad.

  ‘You want to get into Edinburgh’s biggest no-go area?’

  I nodded. ‘Morrie Gish is a gang boss too.’

  ‘Hardly a surprise,’ said the tall man. ‘Everyone there either leads or is a member of some gang or other. ScotPol only patrol in daylight. At night the wolves come out.’

  I looked at Rory. ‘Very dramatic. We’ll have to think of a way to trap them.’ I hit the keys again. ‘Looks like young Denzil’s got another job on his nights off, this one working the door at a club on Leith Walk called Salt and Chilli.’

  ‘No doubt owned by Morrie the Nut or a proxy,’ said Rory. ‘Still, Leith Walk’s not so bad.’

  ‘The bottom end of Leith Walk,’ I said.

  ‘Bugger that.’ Knee Bothwell stepped back. ‘Do we have to do what this jumped-up snooper says, Chief?’

  Rory’s gaze was unwavering. ‘If I go with him, yes.’

  For a moment I thought Bothwell was going to question that, but he held back. Still, I wasn’t sure how trustworthy he was.

  ‘Mr Dalrymple?’ called the medic.

  We went back through the curtains.

  ‘What have you got, Angie?’ Rory asked, re-establishing the pecking order.

  ‘Like I said, this man needs hospital treatment. I’ve managed to control the bleeding and given him pain medication. The bone’s smashed. I doubt he’ll be running in the future.’

  I gave her an inquisitive look.

  ‘Andy told me what he did,’ she said, her cheeks colouring. It was pretty obvious they were a couple.

  ‘Anything in his clothes?’ I asked.

  Angie shook her head. ‘No ID, no phone, no helpful pieces of paper.’

  ‘Right, let’s get the bastard to talk,’ said Rory.

  I raised a hand. ‘That’s my area of expertise. Stand back, all of you.’ I went to the head of the bed and squatted down. The man had blond hair and his face was suntanned – he definitely wasn’t a local. His eyes were a piercing blue and his nose looked as if it had been repeatedly broken.

  ‘I’m Quint. What’s your name?’

  His lips formed into a malignant smile and he made a strange sound, almost as if he was being strangled. I checked that his neck wasn’t constricted.

  ‘You knew who you were shooting, didn’t you?’

  Again his mouth moved, but only the grating sound came out.

  ‘As you’ve probably gathered, we aren’t the police.’ I glanced at Bothwell’s waist. He got the message and pulled his combat knife from its sheath. ‘This can only end with you losing more blood.’

  Angie the medic opened her mouth to protest but shut up when she saw the look on Rory’s face.

  ‘But why not be civilized?’ I said. ‘We can get you to hospital and then back to your people. Who are your people?’

  The same noise came out, but this time louder. Then the wounded assassin opened his mouth and roared as best he could. All that remained
of his tongue was a shrivelled stump.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Rory, when we were back at the computer. ‘Shall we take him to the infirmary?’

  ‘After I’ve gone through his clothes. Get Angie to check if he’s got any tattoos or other marks.’

  I called Davie on a flamer. He told me he was on his way back in the rebels’ van, having seen Katharine’s boat disappear into the dark. I could only hope that the Scottish Coast Guard and Navy’s patrol ships didn’t pick it up on their instruments. Then again, maybe Lachie had pulled strings.

  Rory came back with a plastic bag and emptied the contents on a nearby table. Angie was right. There were no tell-tale clues. The clothes and work boots could have been picked up at any second-hand shop in the city. And there was nothing of interest in the pockets or sewn into the seams. Which made me wonder. Without money, how had he intended to make his escape? Perhaps he’d resigned himself to capture or death, which suggested he was a serious hard case.

  Angie called for me. We went over and found her and two male rebels holding the shooter down on his front, not that he was struggling particularly hard. He started to roar again, defiance in spades.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Rory.

  ‘Nope,’ I said.

  Tattooed across the centre of the man’s back was a grotesque image that I recognized immediately. The blue bird-headed figure was stuffing a naked human figure into its open beak, while black birds flew from the figure’s smoking backside. The main bird was wearing a cauldron as a helmet and sitting on a wooden chair that obviously had a hole in the seat, because in a blue balloon the birdman was excreting more naked human figures into a pit. Another human had its arse bent over the pit and was shitting out gold coins. I pulled up The Garden of Earthly Delights on my phone and zoomed in. Yes, there was no doubt about it – the assassin had the Prince of Hell, as some scholars posited, inked on to his back. Just below the birdman’s thin legs, which ended in green pitchers, was the woman with the toad on her chest and the four-fingered hands wrapped around her.

  This case was stranger than truth, but at least there was some consistency emerging.

  Davie came back soon afterwards. I told him about West Pilton. He was up for a fight, which was typical but not hugely helpful.

  ‘What do you think about rejoining the ScotPol investigation now we’ve stopped being Typhoid Quint and Plague Davie?’ I asked.