Impolitic Corpses Page 12

  The second bedroom was smaller, with women’s clothes in the walk-in space and on the backs of chairs. This was where Gemma Bass laid her head. Billy would doubtless have paid plenty to be here.

  ‘Nothing,’ Davie said from the doorway. ‘There are men’s clothes in the room opposite but bugger all else.’

  ‘That’ll be the sidekick Lassiter’s place,’ I said, impressed that I’d remembered the surname, but disappointed the first name had fallen into the abyss. ‘Maybe they’re nomads and carry their gear wherever they go.’

  Davie pointed at the chairs. ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘No.’ I went to the nearer chair and lifted a black evening dress. What I saw made me bend forward and peer from close range.

  ‘What is it?’ Davie said, approaching.

  ‘A belt,’ I said. ‘Lady’s, brown leather, pretty poor quality, but look at the buckle.’

  ‘Is that a mermaid?’

  ‘It is,’ I confirmed. ‘Blonde hair, naked upper body, scaly lower abdomen and tail, the latter going over her head. She’s holding one end of the forked appendage with her left hand.’

  ‘Right.’ Davie straightened up. ‘Spit it out, then.’

  ‘Like the bird on the headbanger’s key ring, it’s from Imaginary Paradise, the central panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights.’

  ‘Bloody Bosch again.’

  I nodded, trying to get my head round what this meant. There was no sign of Angus Macdonald, which was good, but the Bosch connection was worrying.

  ‘Take a photo or six of that, will you?’ I said to Davie, who whipped out his phone and fired away.

  Of course, the Nor-English could still have taken the Lord of the Isles and stashed him elsewhere. As honoured guests, their movements would be monitored but not too much. Besides, they might have allies in the city, such as the tree-fish impersonator in Leith.

  Davie’s phone rang. ‘Shit,’ he said, after cutting the connection. ‘That was the guard on the door. The residents have returned.’

  We ran to the door and locked it behind us, then headed down the corridor in the opposite direction. There were convenient alcoves opposite each other, one with a large spiny plant that must have come from the Botanic Gardens – Davie went behind that – and the other with a bust of an ancient warrior with his helmet pulled back. There was enough room for me to hide. A loud voice came up the stairs, followed by a gust of laughter. I decided to risk a look.

  Nigel Shotbolt, at the front, was corpulent; his hair was like a hedge in a hurricane. The suit he was wearing was ill-fitting and blinding yellow. Geoffrey – I’d remembered – Lassiter was carrying a heap of files, his expression that of a dog that got beaten more often than fed, while Gemma Bass was even more of an eye-full than Billy had suggested. I pulled my head in before it melted. Then I heard the door bang and looked across to Davie. He must have looked at the woman too: his eyes were still wide.

  We waited and then went down the corridor at speed. Davie growled at the various service personnel and we were let out by the cowed security guard.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice,’ I said, as we got back into the four-by-four.

  ‘Whit?’

  The Enlightenment had banned the works of Lewis Carroll as over-imaginative and potentially subversive, so there was more than a generation of Edinburgh folk who knew nothing of the Red Queen, the Cheshire Cat or Humpty Dumpty. I was old enough to have read the Alice books before the UK fell apart. They were weird, but not as weird as what had been going on in the city for decades.

  ‘What’s her name?’ said Davie, sounding worryingly smitten. ‘Bass?’

  ‘Which,’ I said, the thought having just struck me, ‘sounds rather like Bosch.’

  Davie swore under his breath and slammed the brakes on at the Mound junction to shake me up.

  Had our illegal jaunt been worth it? We’d found nothing concrete enough for Hyslop – who in any case wouldn’t be able to get beyond our infraction of protocol – but the belt buckle was suggestive.

  ‘Bugger Bosch,’ said Davie.

  I could only applaud.

  Back at ScotPol HQ, we were met by Eilidh Mackay.

  ‘You did it again,’ she said reproachfully.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Davie, taking out his phone and turning it back on. I followed suit. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Hyslop’s waiting for you in her office.’ Eilidh drew closer. ‘The presiding minister’s with her.’

  Davie and I exchanged glances and groans.

  ‘Do you think she knows where we’ve been?’ I asked, as we walked to the lift.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ Davie said, his jaw protruding like the prow of a battleship steaming at full speed towards the enemy. He had no positive feelings for Andrew Duart whatsoever. I’d pointed out after the election that the alternative was the Lord of the Isles. He had thrown an empty beer bottle at me.

  We were whisked up to the top floor in the executive lift.

  ‘Say no more than you have to,’ I counselled. ‘I’ll take the heat.’

  ‘My hero,’ said Davie.

  We walked over the polished parquet floor towards a silver steel door. The white-haired officer at the desk outside got to her feet and opened it, giving us a look that made it clear what she thought of people who were late. I gave her my most winning smile, while Davie provided a scowl. Soft PI, hard cop.

  As we got closer, I saw from the rear the top part of a male figure on a sofa to the left of the desk. I recognized the balding head immediately. The Glaswegian presiding minister.

  Hel’s lair would have done for the biggest of dragons. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides of the space, looking up at the obelisk in the Old Calton Burial Ground to the north, the burgeoning station to the west and the shore beyond Musselburgh to the east. The only part of the capital that she couldn’t see was the Old Town, including the parliament building – which was highly appropriate as she regarded lawmakers as pains in the arse. Unless their name was Duart.

  The pair sat on white leather armchairs by the northern windows, a green slate table between them bearing a cafetière and cups, the latter adorned with the insignia of ScotPol – an open eye above the scales of justice. Hel Hyslop had changed into uniform, the dark-blue combat trousers and blouson clinging to her body more than must have been comfortable. She was also equipped with a pistol, in a holster on her belt – she had been granted an open-carry permit, the only officer on the force to have one. Even senior staff like Davie had to get permission every time they needed to be armed, thanks to parliament. She was sending a message I didn’t like and the fact that neither of them rose at our approach delivered another.

  ‘Detective Leader Oliphant,’ she said waspishly, ‘that’s the second time today you’ve been out of contact. What have you been doing?’

  Davie kept his cool. ‘Sorry, director. I didn’t get much sleep last night. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘It’d better not.’ Hel’s gaze was turned on me. ‘What about you, Dalrymple?’

  Andrew Duart raised a hand. ‘Quint isn’t a member of ScotPol,’ he said, giving me an expansive smile. ‘And we have a serious situation to deal with. There’s unrest in the western Highlands and Islands about the Lord of the Isles. He was supposed to be opening a resort hotel for energy workers on Lewis yesterday morning, as well as speaking to school head teachers in Oban in the evening. I’ve had several senior people from the opposition raising questions.’ His brow furrowed. ‘As you know, although Scotland has recently come together, there’s still a lot of suspicion between the regions. He must be found immediately.’

  Hyslop got to her feet. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve made your job easier. The presiding minister has provided me with an executive order authorizing the use of any and all kinds of force in the interrogation of witnesses, staff members and anyone else we deem worthy of investigation.’

  My jaw had headed floorwards. ‘You … you must be joking,’ I managed
to say.

  Predictably, Davie was more sanguine. ‘Just like the good old days.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can beat people within an inch of their lives,’ said Duart.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘How about two inches?’

  ‘There isn’t time for this,’ Hyslop said, going to her desk and pressing a button on the phone. ‘Keep your mouths shut, both of you.’

  The door opened and the lawyer Peter Adamson came in. He walked with his chest out like a male pigeon trying to attract a mate, his fleshy lips formed in a self-important smile.

  ‘Presiding minister,’ he said with an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Direct—’

  ‘Hands in the air!’ Hel shouted, her pistol in both hands and pointing at Adamson’s now suddenly less extended upper abdomen. ‘Detective Leader, cuff this suspect immediately and sit him on the floor.’

  Davie looked at me, shrugged, then did as he was told.

  Although I had history with the lawyer and didn’t trust him an inch, he was an officer of the court; unless Hel had found out something we hadn’t, he was entitled to due procedure, as well as a modicum of respect. There had been no mention of arrest and I suspected there wouldn’t be.

  ‘What … what are you doing?’ Adamson said, still defiant, though his cheeks were flushed deep red. ‘I’m a—’

  ‘You’re nothing,’ Hyslop said, re-holstering her weapon. ‘The presiding minister has issued an executive order, as he is entitled to do.’

  ‘Only in time of national crisis,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘This is one,’ Duart said, coming closer. ‘Tell us what you know about the Lord of the Isles.’

  ‘Like this?’ Adamson said, looking up. ‘On the floor in handcuffs? You can whistle.’ He turned to me. ‘Are you part of this, Dalrymple? I thought you had some honour.’

  I wouldn’t have made such a claim, but he had a point. ‘I’m not sure this is the best way to proceed,’ I said, catching Andrew Duart’s eye. ‘Mr Adamson will cooperate when he understands what’s going on.’

  ‘He’s a suspect,’ Hel said, coming closer, hand on the butt of her pistol. ‘He has two choices – spill his guts or I’ll do that for him.’

  I wouldn’t say Duart looked hugely enamoured with the situation, but he had great faith in Hyslop.

  Adamson started to laugh, stopping abruptly when Hel squatted in front of him, racked the slide and jammed the muzzle of her weapon into his soft belly.

  ‘What do you know about the Lord of the Isles?’ she said, her voice softer but no less threatening.

  ‘I … I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  The lawyer started to pant. ‘The Lord … of the Isles … is the elected leader of the opposition and—’

  Hyslop whipped the pistol away from his abdomen, held it about twenty centimetres from his left ear and pulled the trigger. It was no blank – the bullet ricocheted around the room, making the rest of us duck. This was getting way out of hand.

  ‘Hel,’ I said, stepping closer. ‘Let us take him to an interview room. This will have consequences.’

  She glanced at Duart and smiled. ‘The only consequence will be that Mr Adamson stops talking shite and tells us what we need to hear.’

  I knelt by his other side. ‘Do what she says,’ I advised. ‘She’s deadly serious.’

  He nodded, tears falling to the floor, but he was gasping so much that he couldn’t get any words out.

  ‘Here’s another question,’ I said, hoping that Hyslop kept off. ‘You’ve been hired by a number of people that have come to our attention.’ I took out my notebook and turned pages. ‘Ann Melville and Jack Nicol.’

  Adamson relocated his voice. ‘The … the latter was attacked by a person in a tree-fish costume. He’s a victim. So’s the witness. They’re both in fear of their lives.’

  Hel was looking at a typed page. ‘What about Ronnie Lyall, Amanda Dunure, Gerald Wills, Alexander Buccleuch and others?’

  I recognized those names.

  ‘Many of the Lord of the Isles’s staff feel they are unjustly suspected of knowledge of or involvement in his … in his disappearance.’ The lawyer seemed to have got his confidence back until the stutter at the end.

  Hyslop raised her weapon again and placed the muzzle against the side of Adamson’s head. ‘I do hope you haven’t been talking to anyone else about the leader of the opposition.’

  ‘No … no, I haven’t. Honestly.’

  I believed him, even though lawyers and honesty were a problematic pairing.

  ‘Very well,’ said Duart, signalling to Hel to lower her pistol. ‘I’ll leave this with you.’ He headed for the door. Having dropped his executive order, he didn’t want his hands dirtier than they already were.

  I glanced at Davie. He was looking less enthusiastic than he had done.

  ‘Detective Leader,’ Hyslop said. ‘I’m taking personal control of this case. Mr Adamson will be helping me with my enquiries indefinitely. You and Dalrymple – who’s only still here on the presiding minister’s express wish – will follow up the lines of investigation you have initiated. Update me by phone every four hours. Dismissed.’

  I could have argued, I could have told her that extreme methods of interrogation were counter-productive, I could have refused to serve. But the truth was that we were suddenly back in Enlightenment Edinburgh, where anything was permitted if it produced results. I didn’t condone such methods in democratic Scotland, but I’d let them go in the past – in fact, I’d taken advantage of them, and I would do so again now. There went whatever honour Adamson thought I possessed.

  ‘What about Charlotte Thomson?’ I asked, remembering the journalist outside my door.

  Hyslop gave a lupine grin. ‘She’s been read the cease-and-desist act.’

  So much for freedom of the press in the new republic.

  ‘Notice she’s keeping us away from the interview rooms,’ I said, as we went towards the lift.

  ‘Worried about your conscience, no doubt,’ Davie said, grinning.

  ‘It wasn’t me who twisted people’s arms and other things,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Anyway, Hyslop’s effectively cut off our arms and our legs – we haven’t got anywhere with the leads we’ve followed.’

  Davie pressed the call button and then looked at me. ‘We haven’t followed them all up completely, though, have we?’

  I thought about that. Matthew Barker had a lawyer – not Adamson – but maybe Hel would drag them both in. She was going to question Rory Campbell, which put the Theatre of Life off limits. She was dealing with the Lord of the Isles’s staff. What else was there?

  ‘The tree-fish,’ I said.

  ‘What about it?’

  We were now moving downwards at speed, which struck me as a perfect metaphor for the investigation.

  ‘Your boss has deprived Jack Nicol and Ann Melville of their lawyer. Maybe they’ll be more inclined to talk to us now.’

  ‘Aye,’ Davie said, ‘it’s worth a shot.’

  We checked in with Eilidh Mackay, who, for a change, had nothing for us. I asked her to find Jack Nicol’s address. She nodded, then gave Davie a look I envied. It was some time since I’d had one like that from Sophia – or directed one towards her.

  We got into the four-by-four under lowering grey-black skies.

  ‘No wind,’ Davie said, starting the engine. ‘If it dumps now, there’ll be drifts everywhere.’

  ‘Have you heard the forecast?’

  ‘You don’t pay attention to that, do you?’ It was the case that ScotMet, a government agency, was notoriously inaccurate. Then again, with climate change all bets, even educated ones, were off.

  My phone rang.

  ‘Two/three Henderson Street,’ Eilidh said. ‘He lives with his mother, Jennifer Nicol.’

  I thanked her, rang off and told Davie. He knew the street.

  We pulled up outside a row of tall tenements that would once have been decent ho
using but, after three decades of Enlightenment spending restrictions, were now in serious disrepair. The odd flat had obviously been bought by the residents under the Transfer of Ownership scheme set up after the end of the regime, and the window frames of those had been replaced and were freshly painted. I had a feeling Jack Nicol and his mother didn’t live in one of those.

  I was wrong. They lived in paradise.

  SEVEN

  The street door was open, the lock mechanism absent. Leith and neighbouring Portobello had been the breeding grounds for violent gangs in the later years of the Enlightenment. ScotPol had cracked down, but it would take years for the damage to properties to be repaired. Meanwhile, the gangs had become more sophisticated.

  We walked up to the second floor on worn stone steps that smelled less than salubrious. Flat Three was impossible to miss. It had a red door, with a tree the height of Davie on each side. I looked at them. They were surprisingly green for deciduous specimens, despite the change in the temperature. They turned out to be plastic – there were even small oranges among the luxuriant pseudo-foliage.

  Davie peered at the door knocker, before using it. It was a large brass strawberry. I was beginning to pick up a theme.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said the voice belonging to a woman who was presumably observing us through the spyhole.

  ‘ScotPol,’ Davie said, holding up his ID card.

  ‘Is this about Jack?’

  ‘It is, Mrs Nicol,’ Davie confirmed.

  ‘Ms. You have to talk to his lawyer.’

  ‘We just have,’ he said, glancing at me.

  ‘Och, all right.’

  There was the sound of locks being undone. The lack of one on the street door had obviously driven at least this resident to invest in her own security. The door opened at last and we were invited in. Ms Nicol – she introduced herself as Daphne, an unusual name in Scotland – was tall and slim, her blonde hair pulled back tight, the long ponytail falling nearly to her backside. She was wearing a white robe-like garment that almost reached her feet. They were bare – the temperature in the flat must have been in the mid-twenties.