Impolitic Corpses Page 16

  That was something not to look forward to. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Stay safe.’

  ‘You too, you old romantic.’ She cut the connection.

  Knee and Davie were studiously looking to the front as we went down the Pleasance.

  ‘Maybe you should call Eilidh,’ I said, elbowing him.

  ‘No, you’re all right.’

  ‘In case she has anything important to pass on.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He was handed another phone and made the call.

  I drifted away, trying to make sense of what was going on. Hel Hyslop, presumably with Andrew Duart’s approval and no one else’s, was squeezing the nuts of the people we’d gathered to interview – and no doubt more that she and her minions had tracked down. Why had the case taken such a turn? Were the two Bosch cults the surface-level manifestations of serious malefaction? It was when we began to find the links between the tree-fish attack, Rory’s upcoming play and the cults that Hyslop got her extra-judicial authority. The Lord of the Isles must have known something about the cults – maybe along with his fellow Highlander Matthew Barker. The latter was probably in serious pain right now. I’d be talking to the old man in the morning. In the meantime, what was going on in Newhaven?

  Davie gave the phone to the men in the back of the van. We were now heading down Broughton Street, not far from the Destructor in Powderhall. Many of the city’s illicitly executed drugs gang members had ended up in the giant incinerator, which was still operating despite its advanced age.

  ‘News from somewhere,’ Davie announced.

  ‘William Morris would be very proud.’ I was impressed that he knew about the Victorian writer and artist. The Council had regarded him as a frivolous thinker – maybe because News from Nowhere was a functioning as opposed to deeply flawed utopia.

  ‘What?’ the big man demanded. ‘I’m talking about HQ.’ So much for his cultural knowledge. ‘Eilidh says they’re all talking, the people we brought in, as well as others the boss-lady has picked up.’

  ‘Hope there aren’t too many finger and toenails scattered around,’ I said. We’d done a fair amount of the third degree ourselves over the years, but never resorted to torture. Well, rarely.

  ‘She didn’t say. One of the Lord of the Isles’s security detail admitted to turning the key in the lock of the bedroom door after it was knocked down. Said he was told to by the people who paid him, but he never saw their faces or heard their voices. Another one made sure there was no one on duty in the garden when the intruders came in through the back door, which had been left unlocked.’

  ‘So old Angus was telling the truth.’

  ‘Aye. Shit!’ Davie stuck his hands out as Bothwell hit the brakes on Goldenacre. I managed to follow suit; just as well, because the seat belts didn’t do much to hold us in our seats. A kid ran up the pavement, one hand and its middle finger raised. The future of Embra.

  ‘Can we maybe get there and back in one piece, Knee?’ I said.

  ‘Sorry. Running late.’

  I turned back to Davie. ‘What else?’

  ‘Matthew Barker. Apparently, he held out till this afternoon. Claimed that he and the Lord of the Isles had been friends since they were kids and don’t have anything to do with either Bosch cult. The old man was just homesick.’

  ‘Any news of Lady Margaret?’

  ‘Nope. Oh, and the heat’s off us. Hyslop’s been trying to get in touch to tell us we’re welcome back on the case.’

  ‘Balls to that, at least for the time being. What happened to Rory?’

  Andy Bothwell gave me a worried look.

  ‘He didn’t say a thing. Hyslop didn’t have the nerve to let the dogs loose on him. Lachie MacFarlane was in the building, creating havoc. They left together, not long ago.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Bothwell. ‘Hear that, boys? Rory’s OK.’

  There were shouts of approval from behind.

  ‘What about Daphne Nicol and Laurence Monteith?’

  ‘Talking, but not saying anything we didn’t know. I still think the fat man’s dirty.’

  ‘Me too, but there’s not much we can do while he’s off the streets. I take it he hasn’t been released.’

  ‘You take it correctly.’

  ‘Any sign of Jack Nicol?’

  Davie shook his head. ‘You think he’s a player?’

  ‘Could be. What about the other Bosch prop-makers?’

  ‘Clean. They’re not cult members.’

  ‘Right, gents,’ said Knee, as we went past the old merchants’ houses in Trinity. I had a flash of my old man when he lived in a retirement home down here, which gave me a stab to the heart. ‘We’ll be at the harbour soon. Balaclavas on.’

  Davie and I exchanged looks, then put on the woollen hats we’d been given, pulling them over our faces. It wasn’t impossible that ScotPol officers might turn up.

  Bothwell turned on to Starbank Road and parked. The snow had stopped, but down here on the shore the wind was stronger, whipping the last leaves around the windscreen.

  ‘Me and my men need to check what’s going on in the harbour,’ Bothwell said. ‘If the boat’s arrived, I’ll come back for the van.’

  ‘We’re coming too,’ I said.

  ‘Your funeral. Do you want handguns?’

  ‘No,’ I said, getting a thump from Davie, who missed the weapons he’d had access to in the City Guard.

  ‘No problem, we’re carrying plenty.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I muttered, wondering what we’d got ourselves into, but – as ever – overwhelmed by curiosity. What was Rory up to?

  We took cover behind a heap of empty fish boxes. The harbour was still used by Edinburgh’s fishermen, though a new dock had been finished for them to the west at Granton. Apparently, old habits died hard with the salty canines.

  For a quarter of an hour nothing happened, apart from my hands losing circulation, even though they were gloved. A few cars drove along the road to our rear, but most locals were in their beds by now. Then a light flashed three times over the water.

  ‘We’re on,’ said Bothwell, beckoning us forward.

  The pier was narrow and slick, and Davie grabbed my arm to stop himself skidding. That did nothing to slow my heart rate. There was a single lamp at the end of the dock, but we didn’t get that far, stopping behind Knee and his men. Davie and I held back. Gradually, out of the murk appeared a small fishing boat showing no lights.

  I looked over my shoulder. No vehicles had pulled up, though that didn’t mean ScotPol weren’t waiting in the backstreets. I didn’t think that our welcome back to the case would last long if we were found with smuggled goods, whatever they were.

  The sound of the boat’s engine, low and thrumming, came through the cold air. I watched as it passed the pier end and swung towards the quayside near where we were standing. Then the engine was cut and the old tyres on the side of the boat squeaked against the fenders on the wall. Lines were thrown ashore and Bothwell’s men ran to tie them round bollards.

  There was now a dim light in the wheelhouse, but it was hard to see what was going on. A pair of figures in dark clothes, one of them hooded, was led to the side of the boat by a long-haired crewman in yellow waterproof gear. Knee Bothwell extended a hand, only for it to be ignored by the first figure, who stepped up to our level in a rapid movement. The other almost fell over and was grabbed by the sailor, who got him or her ashore with a shove. Then the lines were loosed and the boat reversed away, disappearing round the end of the pier and into the night.

  So much for smuggling goods. Rory was dealing in people, which was curious as there was free movement across the country. Then it struck me. Maybe these individuals were from beyond Scotland’s borders; maybe they were from Nor-England. But I dismissed the thought. The border to the south was notoriously porous, despite the presence of numerous Scottish Defence Force squads. Going by boat was the worst option.

  Bothwell and the pair came up to us.

  ‘Who are these, then?�
�� said Davie, his jaw dropping as soon as the words left his mouth. ‘Jesus.’ He pulled up his balaclava.

  My voice went AWOL for longer than was polite, then I revealed my face too.

  Andy Bothwell gave a low laugh. ‘Rory said you’d be surprised.’

  He’d be even more surprised the next time I saw him.

  ‘Hello, Katharine,’ I said, taking off my glove and extending my hand.

  My former lover hesitated, then took off her own glove and squeezed my hand – hard.

  ‘Quint,’ she said, her voice huskier than it had been when I last saw her six years ago. ‘I didn’t expect to run into you here.’

  ‘Join the club.’

  ‘Move, please,’ said Bothwell. One of his men went past us at speed.

  As we passed the fish boxes, the van came towards us. In a few seconds we were inside, Katharine, Davie and I having got in the back.

  ‘Well, Davie,’ she said to her old partner in bickering. ‘Your muscles have run to fat.’ She pulled back her hood.

  ‘Want to test that assertion?’ he said with a growl.

  I was studying Katharine Kirkwood’s face. We’d been together for over ten years until she’d drifted away, first from me and then from the city. The skin was drawn tight over her high cheekbones and her once-full lips were cracked, revealing yellow teeth. Her hair was short and grey, making her look even more etiolated. But her green eyes flashed brighter than ever in the glow from the streetlamps. It was obvious she had a cause to believe in.

  ‘Are you back in Stirling?’ I asked. ‘I heard you had a hard time before reunification.’

  ‘Fucking feudal land-grabbers from Perthshire,’ she said. ‘They drove us out for a time, but we gave better than we got and now we’re back. Dougie here’s from Dundee. They gave us asylum when we needed it.’

  ‘So feminism still rules in Stirling,’ Davie said snidely. ‘And anarcho-syndicalism flourishes in Juteopolis.’

  ‘Been a long time since we had anythin’ tae dae wi’ jute. Anyways, what are you? A servant of capitalism?’

  Davie’s chest swelled.

  I tapped his arm. ‘We’re all friends here,’ I said. ‘I hope. What’s going on?’

  ‘None o’ your business, pal,’ said the Dundonian.

  ‘How about we introduce ourselves?’ I said. ‘Quint Dalrymple. And this is Davie Oliphant.’

  Fortunately, there was no comment about Davie’s surname, which Katharine wouldn’t have known.

  ‘Dougie. We don’t have surnames.’ He was in his mid-thirties, with a pasty face, unwashed long black hair and a wispy beard, though any impression of fragility was dispelled by his unwavering dark-brown eyes and heavy accent.

  ‘No surnames?’ I said. ‘How do you avoid confusion?’

  ‘Everyone knows each other in each syndicate and that’s facilitated by single names. Self-activity and management mean that everyone has equal responsibilities and equal rewards.’

  Davie grunted. ‘Aye, but you still take handouts from the Scottish state.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we? Capitalism owes everything tae the workers.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s leave the politics for a while. What are you both doing here?’

  ‘Need-to-know basis,’ said Dougie, with a sharp grin. ‘I’m dealin’ with Rory Campbell and no one else. Besides, I’ve remembered who you are. Your books aren’t banned in Dundee, but they’re no’ popular either. You served the fascists here.’

  Again, I put my hand on Davie. ‘No politics, remember?’

  ‘Politics are everywhere, Quint,’ said Katharine. ‘You of all people know that.’

  ‘Look, Rory arranged for me to be here. That must mean something.’

  ‘Could mean he’s givin’ us a look at the enemy,’ said the Dundonian.

  ‘Indeed it could,’ I said, resisting the temptation to let Davie loose on him. I turned to Katharine. ‘Where are you staying?’

  Andy Bothwell looked over his shoulder. ‘Rory thought you could sort that out, Quint, given your, er … history with Ms Kirkwood.’

  ‘Did he, now?’ A splinter of ice entered my heart. If Sophia laid eyes on Katharine, whom she knew of old, my marriage would be flimsier than Andrew Duart’s conscience. ‘Why can’t she stay in one of the city’s numerous hotels?’

  Katharine let out a long sigh. ‘We’re not here officially. In fact, if we’re identified, the consequences will be severe.’

  ‘All right,’ Davie said. ‘I can go to Eilidh’s. She’ll no doubt have more to tell me from HQ.’ He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of keys. ‘You know your way around.’

  I nodded. There had been several late-nighters in recent months that ended with me on his sofa, replete with malt whisky.

  ‘But I’m not having that long-haired anarchist in my place.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Knee Bothwell said, ‘Rory’s looking after Dougie. Where to, then?’

  ‘Dean Village,’ said Davie.

  ‘Oooh,’ said one of the revolutionaries up front. ‘Made a mint and bought a duplex, have we?’

  ‘I pay rent for a one-bedroom ground-floor flat,’ said Davie, glowering.

  I leaned towards Katharine. ‘I’ll come in and get you settled, but I have to get back to the family afterwards.’

  She gave me a tight smile. ‘Don’t worry, I know you married Sophia. I’m happy for you, and that you have a child. A daughter would have been better, of course.’

  ‘I have one of those too.’

  ‘But she’s not really yours.’

  ‘Yes, she is. Have you got kids?’ She’d never been interested in the past.

  ‘We share childcare duties, so I’m not an ignoramus on the subject. But no, I haven’t birthed.’

  The verb grated, but I couldn’t resist smiling. One of the reasons I’d loved her was her commitment to what she believed in, even when I – and many others – couldn’t agree with those beliefs. That had been one of the reasons we’d eventually parted.

  ‘So you don’t have any men at all in Stirling,’ Davie said. That provoked a snigger from Dougie.

  ‘Oh, we have men,’ Katharine said, piercing him with her gaze. ‘After all, our eggs need fertilizing, though IVF is being phased in. Plus, we prefer to contract out our heavy labour – we have better things to do.’

  ‘Drop me here,’ Davie said, as we approached Queensferry Road.

  ‘Aye, run away, yah big chicken,’ said Dougie, unaware of how close to obliteration he was.

  ‘Got any more of those flamers?’ I asked. Four more were handed over from the front seat. I took two and gave the others to the big man. ‘Call me in the morning.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Don’t wreck the place.’

  I bit my tongue. A minute later we crossed the Dean Bridge and turned down towards the village. What had been mills and warehouses were being turned into flats that ranged from luxury to comfortable.

  ‘Here will do,’ I said.

  The van stopped and Katharine slid the door open. I followed her out and stopped as she sniffed the air.

  ‘Edinburgh. Still smells of beer.’

  ‘You thought reunification would make people teetotal?’

  ‘It has in Stirling.’

  ‘Just how authoritarian is your regime?’

  She ignored that and kept silent as I led her down the narrow street towards the Water of Leith. It was flowing fast over the rocks.

  Davie’s flat was in one of the first buildings. I let us in through the street door and then turned the keys in his own. Fortunately, the heating was on, a wave of warmth washing over us as we stepped inside. There was also a less than healthy odour.

  ‘Socks,’ Katharine said authoritatively. ‘Not washed properly.’

  I tried to remember when I’d last had a shower. As a metaphor for the case, it did the job.

  We went into the main room. She immediately removed the socks and other garments from a drying frame. I picked up newspapers f
rom the sofa and plates from the table. At least the goldfish was still alive. I went into the kitchen, found an extra-large pizza in the freezer and turned on the oven. Then I raided Davie’s whisky supplies, taking two decent malts and a couple of reasonably clean glasses.

  Katharine had removed her coat and over-trousers. I was shocked. She was as thin as a libertine, her legs in tight jeans particularly hard to look at. Of course, she realized what I was doing.

  ‘What is it? The gentleman doesn’t like what he sees?’

  ‘Come on,’ I said, putting the bottles and glasses down. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘We have doctors and hospitals in Stirling, you know.’ She pulled the cork from the fifteen-year-old Macallan and poured herself a large measure. ‘I work all the hours I’m awake, Quint. Unlike when I was here, there’s a purpose to my life.’

  ‘Obviously not looking after yourself,’ I said, helping myself to the other whisky, the standard Laphroaig.

  She grimaced as she sat down. ‘That’s not how we think. If you really want to know, I have a stomach ulcer. And don’t say whisky’s not a good idea. I don’t have many indulgences.’

  I sat back and looked around the living room. There was a wall covered in Hume Barracks rugby XV photos, and a framed print of the famous portrait of David Hume. A one-track mind, Davie’s.

  ‘Why are you in Embra,’ I asked, ‘and why are you sneaking in the back door?’

  She looked at me but didn’t answer.

  I began to feel uncomfortable. ‘Yes, I know I’m fat and old. Are we even?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘We don’t encourage the reading of fiction, just as we’ve restricted access to television – they both rot people’s minds. But I’ve been through your novels.’

  ‘Ah.’ This wasn’t going to be pleasant. I’d reduced Katharine’s role in the action, partly because I didn’t want to draw attention to her but also because I knew Sophia would be on the lookout.

  ‘I don’t blame you for minimizing my role,’ she said. ‘In fact, I wish you’d cut me and my brother out completely.’

  Things hadn’t ended well for Adam Kirkwood. I’d considered creating a replacement, but eventually I left him as recognizable, at least to people who’d known him. I rationalized that it was a kind of immortality, but I wasn’t going to risk telling Katharine that.