Impolitic Corpses

by Paul Johnston

  ‘Have you put the chains on and bolted the door?’

  ‘Yes! I’m not an idiot!’

  ‘I know, my love. I’m sorry. It’s been a seriously weird case, but it’s over. I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘I’ll stay up for you.’ The anger in her voice disappeared. ‘I want to see you, Quint. You’re my man and I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ I said, suddenly teary. ‘See you soon.’

  I handed the phone back to the cleaner, who was smiling broadly.

  ‘Very nice, son.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I dinnae hear that often maself.’

  I gave her a quick embrace and gambolled down the corridor like a winter lamb.

  Davie insisted on driving me home.

  ‘Isn’t Eilidh waiting?’ I asked, as we got into a ScotPol four-by-four that he’d commandeered.

  ‘Waiting while asleep. A brief delay won’t hurt.’ He grimaced. ‘Don’t know about me, though. I’m knackered.’

  So was I. The vehicle slid round the corner on to the North Bridge. The snow was melting. Maybe the worst of winter was over.

  ‘You saved the day again, Quint.’

  ‘We saved it, big man.’

  ‘Aye, sure we did. Who’d have thought it? Most of Scotland’s ruling elite are money-grabbing traitors.’ He laughed grimly.

  ‘Lucky that Lachie and Rory are trustworthy.’

  He glanced at me. ‘You sure about that?’

  Wind duly taken from sails, a tsunami of exhaustion crashed over me and I spent the rest of the drive trying to stay awake. The way I managed that was thinking about what I’d have to change when I wrote the novel about the case. Impolitic Corpses – that might work as a title. I wouldn’t be including the twins in the story, though – they were too closely linked to the great gap in my life that was the ENT Man.

  ‘Want me to come up,’ Davie said, as he pulled up on Great Citizen Street.

  ‘Sophia’s awake.’

  ‘I’ll leave you lovebirds to it, then. Tweet tweet.’

  I waved him away.

  This time I didn’t even try to run up the stairs. I was panting as I reached the second floor. I bent over to catch my breath and only noticed that the door was ajar when I stood up. Adrenaline instantly coursed through my body.

  ‘Sophia!’ I shouted, pushing the door open. The chains swung impotently and one of the bolts was on the floor. ‘Maisie!’

  Our bedroom was empty, the duvet half on the floor. I ran to Heck’s room. No sign of him. No Maisie either. Fucking hell. I careened into the sitting room and stopped immediately.

  Pages from my Hieronymus Bosch book had been torn out and laid over the carpet and the furniture. The Garden of Earthly Delights had been carefully placed on the coffee table.

  Then I looked at the mirror above the fireplace. Words bigger than my hands had been written on the glass in what looked very like blood – drops had run down to the bottom of the frame:

  THE THRILL IS GONE

  The title of B.B. King’s most famous song polluted my family home and mocked my impotence. In a cold fury I thought of the twins and rang Davie, then the airport, then Lachie and Rory.

  Amber and Penny had been taken from the ScotPol vehicle transporting them to the airport. Five ScotPol officers were dead and three seriously injured.

  We searched for the twins across the city and the borderlands. We searched all over Scotland, but we found no sign of them.

  Or of Sophia, Maisie and Heck.