Impolitic Corpses

by Paul Johnston

  We got out at the junction where four churches were built. They’d been converted into a barracks during the Enlightenment and now were being turned into luxury flats. Davie gave the driver a big tip and winked. He looked around, then led me down Colinton Road. The street lights weren’t as bright or as frequent out here, even though the area was up-and-coming. We passed a large building site on our right. It had been part of Napier University, an institution that had been used as a Council education centre and was now re-establishing itself. Davie turned right. Napier Road had been one of Edinburgh’s most desirable streets, though the merchants’ and bankers’ houses had been turned into workers’ flats in the 2010s.

  Checking we were alone, Davie took out a set of keys and let us into a shared hallway, then into a flat at the back.

  ‘She never puts the chain on,’ he complained. After we were in and the door closed and secured, he turned on the hall light.

  ‘Is it you, David?’ The voice was high-pitched and croaky.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Oliphant,’ he said. ‘She insists I call her that,’ he whispered.

  Then more lights came on and a tiny figure with dyed red hair appeared at the end of the corridor. She was holding a rolling pin.

  ‘You didn’t put the chain on,’ Davie said.

  ‘Of course I did. Have you broken it?’

  Davie raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the old woman demanded, slapping the wooden implement against her hand. ‘It isn’t the famous Quintoliam Delrumple, is it?’

  I heard Davie stifle a laugh. Smiling, I advanced, my right hand extended. Not for long – she took a swing at it, missing my fingertips by millimetres.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Oliphant,’ I mumbled.

  ‘What?’ she screeched.

  I upped the volume and repeated the sentence.

  ‘Who said that’s my name?’

  Davie had his hand over his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘It was him, wasn’t it? That oaf of a son of mine. Well, what are you waiting for? The whisky’s on the table.’

  I gave Davie the full benefit of my death stare as he walked past me.

  We were handed large measures of a decent malt in chipped crystal glasses. I tried not to cut my lips but failed. At least the whisky was dark-coloured and the blood disappeared into it.

  ‘What do you want then, David?’ his mother demanded, emptying her glass.

  ‘Em, a bed for the night?’

  ‘I’m not having two men in the same bed,’ the woman squalled.

  ‘I’ll take the sofa,’ I volunteered hastily. ‘Mrs …’

  ‘Only my son is allowed to use my married name,’ she said sharply. ‘Ronnie Oliphant was taken into the Guard and wounded in the head on the border. He was never the same again. It was a mercy when the cancer took him.’ She closed her eyes briefly and I saw faint evidence of tears. ‘It’s Miss Lemon to you, son.’ She picked the rolling pin up again. ‘And don’t you dare laugh.’

  It was a challenge I just managed to pass. I wondered if she was an Agatha Christie fan.

  ‘So,’ she continued, pouring herself another dramatic dram, ‘what are you boys wanting to do? How about a game of poker? I’ve got the cards.’

  ‘No, Mrs Oliphant,’ Davie said. ‘I need to use the phone. And don’t worry, we’ve eaten. We’ll get to bed as soon as we can.’

  ‘Leave some money!’ Miss Lemon called after him. ‘Incredible, the cost.’ She looked at me through half-closed eyes. ‘Here, were you two down in Pilton earlier on? I saw there was a shootout and young David’s awfie keen on them.’

  I raised my shoulders. This was not a woman to be messed with. Nor was her flat. It was so tidy that the ornaments looked as if they’d been glued down and dust banned with extreme prejudice.

  ‘Em … we were following a vital lead.’

  ‘And now you’ve got that cow Hyslop after you, eh?’

  ‘That’s true, though we didn’t fire first.’

  ‘Hard to prove that kind of thing.’

  ‘Tell me, Miss Lemon,’ I said, taking my life in my hands. ‘What did you do during the Enlightenment?’

  ‘What do you think? I fought like everybody else.’

  ‘You were in the City Guard?’

  She squealed with laughter. ‘Of course not. I couldn’t be doing with all that discipline. Fascists they were at heart; you know that as well as anyone. I’ve read your books.’

  I waited for criticism, but she obviously wasn’t interested in my literary talents.

  ‘No, I was in the fire brigade. I drove the trucks and crawled into the places the big men couldn’t manage. They gave me a row of medals, but I sold them to a collector after the revolution. No time for that kind of thing.’

  Davie came back.

  ‘Right, out with it, David,’ said his mother. ‘What did the lassie say?’

  He gave me a dejected look. ‘She’s been sidelined. Hyslop must have guessed she was in touch with me.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Miss Lemon said. ‘Did she say she loves you?’

  I’d never seen Davie so awkward. His face was red and he struggled for words.

  ‘Aye,’ he said eventually. ‘She did.’

  ‘Then she’s a romantic with cotton wool for brains. Dump her before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.’

  Davie’s head dropped. ‘It’s my life,’ he muttered.

  That went down like a barbed-wire sandwich. His mother stood up and moved towards the door.

  ‘You can both spend the night in here,’ Miss Lemon said. ‘I cannae be bothered to clear the clothes off the spare bed.’ She smiled tightly. ‘You can arm-wrestle for the sofa; loser gets the armchair. The eejits in the fire service did that. I always won – by kicking them in the shins.’ She departed with all the dignity a woman in fluffy pink slippers could manage – which in her case was sufficient to silence any laughter.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, after the door to what I assumed was her bedroom was closed.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Davie hissed. ‘She’ll be listening at the door.’

  ‘I need a piss.’

  ‘Do you really want to face her again?’

  I braced my bladder. I’d taken the armchair because I’d never beat Davie at arm-wrestling. I could have pulled rank, but I hadn’t had one for decades.

  Davie quickly fell asleep. I was haunted by the battle of West Pilton before my mind shut down.

  ‘You awake?’ came a whisper.

  I hadn’t been. I looked at my watch, a flash number that Sophia had given me when I got my first publisher’s advance from Billy.

  ‘It’s half past four, big man.’

  ‘Can’t sleep any more. This sofa’s made of a whole horse, not just its hair.’

  I swallowed laughter and nearly peed myself.

  ‘I’ve got to get to the bog.’

  ‘Go ahead, she takes sleeping pills.’

  I went to the freezing bathroom and pumped ship for over three minutes.

  ‘Why doesn’t she have the heating on?’

  ‘Doesn’t need it, she says. The last thirty years made her hard.’

  ‘So why does she treat you like a schoolboy?’

  ‘Because that’s what I was the last time we spent time together. I only tracked her down a month ago. At first she didn’t want to let me in – said I was part of the past she didn’t want to remember. Our relationship’s what you might call a work in progress. All work and no—’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. She seems to care about you – admittedly, deep down.’

  ‘Deeper than the Titanic.’

  I pulled my coat around me. ‘Since we’re awake – thanks for that, I can’t imagine what your mother would have done to me if I’d soaked her chair – we should formulate a plan of action.’

  Davie switched on the small reading lamp on the sideboard. In the chill, his breath exited his nostrils like smoke from a
dragon’s.

  ‘We should ask my mother,’ he said. ‘She’s much smarter than me.’

  I decided against pointing out how difficult that wasn’t. ‘What’s her first name, by the way?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘You really … oh, all right, but don’t ever say it to her. It’s—’

  ‘Squeeze My?’

  ‘Grow up. No, Clementine.’

  I managed to control myself. Just. ‘And Lemon’s her real surname?’

  ‘Her mother’s. My grandfather ran off and is never spoken about.’

  There was a silence that was ended by more sniggers. Then I got down to business.

  ‘Right, the Nor-English. Did you believe anything they said?’

  ‘Only the bit about the guy in the hall with the gun.’

  ‘That – and the fact that they know Edward Sebastian. That name put the wind up Nigel Shotbolt.’

  ‘As did your mention of the Bosch belt buckle with gorgeous Gemma.’

  ‘True. So we don’t trust them?’

  ‘In triplicate. I’ll get that tosser for holding those submachine guns on me.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. But exactly how will you achieve that? We can hardly go storming in and arrest them. I’d rather not cause a diplomatic incident, let alone a war.’

  ‘True enough. What do we do, then?’

  ‘First, we question the father of the dead woman from the warehouse again. I bet we’ll find a connection to Morris Gish.’

  ‘He doesn’t live in Pilton; I remember that from the file.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Why don’t you put Eilidh on it?’

  ‘Good idea. She’s sick of filing.’

  ‘Tell her to be careful. Morrie the Nut was connected to Sebastian. If the gang boss provided the dead woman to whoever killed her, maybe he also provided live specimens for the surgeon. Who may well be her murderer.’

  ‘I’ll get Eilidh to take a squad.’

  ‘Making sure Hyslop doesn’t notice.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Shotbolt got nervous when I gave him my made-up message from the Lord of the Isles. Do you think the Nor-English have got the old man’s wife?’

  ‘We’re not exactly drowning in other suspects.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So do we tail them?’

  ‘I doubt they’ll go anywhere near where she is.’ I broke off and gave that some thought. ‘But they also said they’d be leaving soon. I need to talk to Lachie again. Do you think Clementine will mind?’

  The door opened at speed.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Miss Lemon.

  ‘I don’t feel well,’ I said, putting my arms round my midriff. ‘Can I call a doctor?’

  She glared at me, then shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘Make sure you leave money.’

  I looked at Davie, trying to get across to him that he needed to detain her as long as he could. As I left the room, she started on him, complaining about his manners. Maybe I’d have time after all.

  ‘You’ll be wanting breakfast, I suppose,’ Miss Lemon said, after I came back from the phone.

  I was about to decline, but Davie got in first.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Oliphant, that would be wonderful,’ he said.

  We were led into the kitchen.

  ‘Bacon in the fridge, eggs in that basket, bread in the bin,’ the old woman said, pointing at a large clay container with a wooden lid. ‘Nothing for me, thank you.’

  She sat at the small table as we prepared the meal. I nudged Davie to make him hurry.

  ‘You’re right, he eats far too much,’ Miss Lemon said, mistaking my action. ‘I’ve told him to watch his weight.’

  I reduced the fried eggs to two each and the bacon to three rashers between us. There was no toaster, so I sawed at the less-than-fresh loaf with a blunt knife, ending up with two doorstoppers.

  ‘No butter, it’s far too expensive,’ said Davie’s mother. ‘And I cannae eat margarine. Reminds me of the rubbish the Supply Directorate produced.’

  We ate in silence and rapidly. As we were wiping our plates, she dropped a large bombshell.

  ‘You know, Quintessence,’ she said, ‘your books leave out more than they tell. For instance, the finger you supposedly cut off with a sharper knife than mine – I never bought that line.’ She fixed her gaze on me and I was aware that my lower jaw had dropped, even though there was still food in my mouth. ‘See, I was at a fire in Leith – must have been in the early Twenties, after you’d been demoted from the Guard. This guy – he was a gang leader, we found out after – he was trapped by collapsed roof beams and the fire was heading towards him. We couldn’t move him, there was just too much weight on his legs. “Kill me,” he says. I told him I couldnae – we didn’t do that kind of thing, especially not for criminals. So he told me.’ She looked at me with a mixture of triumph and pity. ‘He beckoned to me as the others were leaving and I put my ear close to his mouth. “That piece of shit, Quint Dalrymple – Bell 03, he used to be – he’s a murderer,” he says. “I saw him kill Little Walter … in the gardens under the castle … knifed him and buried him in the concrete.” Then another beam fell, this time on his chest, and he was done for.’ Miss Clementine Lemon looked at me, then at her son. ‘I never told anyone. You know what it was like. Sometimes wee acts of rebellion were all that kept you going. Besides, Bell 03 was a hero; the city would never have beaten the drugs gangs without him. Tell you the truth, I forgot about it. Till David here mentioned that he worked with you.’ She smiled hollowly. ‘What do you think about that, big special investigator man?’

  I was having trouble keeping my breakfast down. I felt Davie’s eyes on me but couldn’t look at him. No one said anything for a time, and then Miss Lemon did a strange thing.

  ‘Don’t worry, son,’ she said, touching my cheek with a scaly palm. ‘I’m sure the bastard deserved it. I wouldnae tell anyone after all this time.’

  I had a small amount of fight left in me. ‘Thanks, Clementine,’ I said, getting up and moving rapidly to the front door.

  We stopped fifty metres down Napier Road.

  ‘Jesus, Quint,’ Davie said, putting a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  I looked round at him. ‘I know, I should have told you.’

  ‘No! You called her Clementine! You’re out of your mind, man.’

  I glared at him. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  Snow was falling, even more heavily than in previous days.

  ‘Course I do.’ He put his arm round my shoulders. ‘Look, I always knew there was something off about how you lost your finger, but I was a kid when I first knew you and you were a legend. Or leg end. After that, I let it lie.’ He smiled. ‘You really did kill that murderous fucker?’

  ‘Yes! But shut up about that. I spoke to Lachie. Rory and his guys are going to pick us up at the end of the street in the next few minutes.’ I hurried on, thoughts flashing across my mind like shooting stars. We had to focus on the case before things got seriously out of control. Fortunately, I’d had a lot of experience of that during the Enlightenment.

  A van, this one blue, pulled up not long after we reached Colinton Road and the side door slid open.

  ‘Quint,’ Rory Campbell said, from the front seat. ‘Detective Leader.’

  ‘Morning, Spartacus,’ Davie said, referencing one of the actor-director’s most successful roles.

  ‘I’m Spartacus,’ said Knee Bothwell, from behind the wheel, provoking laughter from the three men with us in the back, two of whom I’d seen at the base.

  ‘Everyone got out?’ I said to Rory.

  ‘Just. Lost a lot of equipment, though.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  He shook his head. ‘We took what we had. We have other stockpiles.’

  ‘Good,’ said Davie.

  I disliked guns, but I could see they might be needed again before the end of the case. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘L
achie wants to see you. All of you back there, put on balaclavas and turn them back to front. Stop the van, Andy, and join them. I’ll drive.’

  He was right to be secretive. If any of us were taken, we’d be broken easily by Hyslop or any of her people skilled in eliciting maximum information with maximum pain.

  It must have been about twenty minutes later when we stopped. I couldn’t tell if Rory had doubled back; we could have been beyond the suburbs, though not by far. The door slid open and we got out gingerly. Waiting hands led us up a short flight of steps and inside a building. A heavy door slammed and we were told to uncover our heads.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Lachie, standing across a tiled hall at the bottom of a curved ceremonial staircase. ‘Welcome to the house with no name.’

  I looked around. There were portraits of men in kilts and women in long tartan dresses.

  ‘Late Victorian?’ I asked.

  Lachie nodded. ‘Follow me. We’re running out of time.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Andy, take your men downstairs. There’s food.’

  We did as were told. Lachie moved upstairs with surprising speed and opened a panelled wooden door.

  ‘Nice,’ said Davie, once we were inside.

  Instead of antique sofas and armchairs, there was a collection of plastic outdoor furniture. In front of the ornate fireplace, in which a heap of logs was ablaze, stood a long table that was ten years old at the most. It was piled with papers, and as I got closer, I made out a map of the city and the surrounding area, its corners held down by wax-encrusted candlesticks. Light came from naked bulbs dangling from the ceiling.

  ‘Not your official residence, then,’ I said.

  ‘Well spotted,’ Lachie smiled beneath his extravagant moustache. ‘Right, it’s decision time. I’ve been advised that the boat carrying the Dundonians is still in Anstruther, but it can get here in a couple of hours. Rory, you’ll need to stand by here and then get down to the shore as soon as we know their ETA. Let’s hope you can talk some sense into them. I’ll give you a note for their leader.’ He thought about that. ‘If they have one. Whatever – a note for all of them.’