The Blood Tree Page 20

  I glanced at Hel Hyslop. “This guy was in solitary confinement for years. He’s used to keeping his mouth shut.”

  Haggs pulled out a cosh and measured up a swing at Leadbelly’s jaw. “Don’t worry, I’ll open it for him.”

  Hel put her hand on his arm. “Leave it, Tam. This is why Quint was brought in.” She turned to me. “So he’s got a record, has he? Right, I’m giving you half an hour.” She moved to the door.

  “Wait a minute, woman.” Leadbelly’s voice cracked when he raised it. “I’m not thick. You’ll be recording everything we say.”

  The inspector looked back, her face blank – for me that was more worrying than a scowl.

  “So I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” the prisoner continued. “Get us a disc with some music on it and stick it in the machine over there.” Leadbelly grinned loosely. “And no lip-reading through the windows.”

  Hyslop’s expression hadn’t changed. “Any particular kind of music you’d like?” she asked.

  “Aye.” Leadbelly’s grin widened. “The blues. Quint and me are big fans.”

  Hel Hyslop’s eyes rested on me, long enough to imply that she wasn’t much of a twelve-bar enthusiast. “See to it, sergeant,” she said, stepping away briskly.

  Leadbelly kept quiet until Haggs came back with a disc, a thunderous look on his craggy features.

  “Later on I’m going to stick this up your arse, you shite,” he hissed, brandishing the disc and lifting his heavy boot over Leadbelly’s bare foot.

  I pushed him off before he could do any more damage, feeling solid muscle in his arm when I made contact.

  “Watch yourself, Quint,” Big Tam said. “Nobody pushes me around.” He moved towards the player.

  “Nobody except Hel Hyslop,” I said, giving him a mocking smile when he looked back.

  Leadbelly laughed.

  Haggs didn’t say a word, he just turned on the music and left. It was Whistlin’ Alex Moore singing the “Ice-Pick Blues”. Brilliant choice.

  “So what’s the story, Leadbelly?” I asked after a short break to enjoy the track and to make sure that Hyslop and Haggs had moved away from the glass.

  He lifted his battered head. “Give me some more of that coffee,” he said. “Better than anything we ever got in Edinburgh, isn’t it, man?”

  I held the mug to his lips. They were scabbier than a late-twentieth-century politician’s reputation. “Is that why you came to Glasgow?”

  “Shit, yeah,” he said, sitting back and shaking his chains. “No rationing of booze, decent food, clubs with blues bands playing every night, plenty of grass—”

  “And plenty of opportunities for the professional criminal?”

  The former drugs gang member shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve gone straight.”

  I sat on the desk opposite him and gave him the eye. “That’s not what I’m hearing, Leadbelly. Christ, I never had you down as a serial killer. Hyper-violent, dope-trafficking scumbag, yes, but cold-blooded psycho, no. Or did your time on Cramond Island drive you right over the edge?”

  “No, it fucking didn’t,” he said, staring up at me with rheumy eyes. “You’ve got to help me, man. I never murdered that woman. They’re going to slaughter me for something I didn’t do.”

  “Slaughter you?” It seemed to me he was in need of a tranquilliser dart. “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to what Hyslop and Haggs say. They’re just trying to put the shits up you. Successfully, it appears.”

  Leadbelly was shaking his head desperately. “No, Quint, that’s not what I’m talking about.” His hands were shaking too. “They’ve got capital punishment in this city. Each ward chooses its own method. In Kelvingrove murderers get hanged, drawn and quartered.”

  “Jesus.” I leaned back and thought of the carousing ward representatives I’d seen earlier. Duart and his hard-edged charm came to mind as well. “So much for the civilised state of Glasgow.”

  The prisoner stared at me. “It’s not that much worse than Edinburgh, pal. At least they don’t treat you like a slave here.”

  “There’s more than one way to achieve that end, my friend.” I leaned forward again. “You’d better tell me what you’ve been up to, Leadbelly.” I raised a finger. “And no bullshit. My return ticket depends on you. I’m meant to get a confession out of you.”

  He let out a scornful laugh. “You’re in a dumper truck full of shit then.”

  I nodded. “I’m not the only one. They found you stoned and covered in blood at a murder scene. How are you going to talk your way out of that?”

  “Simple,” he said. “I’d was framed. I don’t do the big H, I never did. You remember that, don’t you?”

  I cast my mind back to Leadbelly’s record. He was right. I couldn’t recall any mention of him being an addict. Drugs gang members in Edinburgh tended to smoke grass and avoid the real thing – they preferred to make as much profit as they could on heroin, cocaine and the new designer drugs rather than waste them on themselves.

  “So what?” I said. “Maybe you started after you got here. Soft drugs might be legal but what kind of a hard drugs scene is there in Glasgow?”

  He laughed darkly. “What kind do you think? This place has got a history. You can get anything you want. From what I’ve heard, the operators in each ward have got the representatives in their pockets.”

  I saw the city’s top rank round the dinner table again, their flash clothes and jewellery glinting under the chandeliers. Wherever you go, excrement floats.

  “Are you sure that isn’t what you’ve been doing, Leadbelly? Working your old trade?”

  He shook his head. “No way. I couldn’t have muscled in on the business even if I’d wanted to. Those guys are serious headbangers.”

  There was a gap between songs. During the silence I studied his wrecked features and decided he was probably telling the truth. He’d always been smarter than your average heavy.

  “Have some more coffee.” I held the mug to his mouth. “What have you been doing over here, Leadbelly? Why did you come to Glasgow?”

  He cocked an ear. “Do you know this one, Quint?” he asked.

  “Peetie Wheatstraw, ‘Gangster’s Blues’.”

  He nodded, grinning. “Are those cunts trying to tell us something?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why did I come here?” Leadbelly pushed against his shackles. “I wish I hadn’t. But I’d had enough of Edinburgh to last me a lifetime. After you got me off the island, I tried to buckle down.” He laughed bitterly. “The Welfare Directorate wasn’t much help. They recommended me for a job in the Sewage Department. I got the message.”

  “So you took your chances with the border guards?”

  “That was no problem. I hadn’t forgotten all my tricks. I met some Glaswegian smugglers on the other side of the line. They brought me back with them.”

  “Very decent of them. They didn’t by any chance suggest a line of work for you over here, did they?”

  Leadbelly looked at me thoughtfully. “I’m glad I asked for you, Quint. You’re still sharp.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m still so sharp I got myself kidnapped.” I bent over him. “And all because of you. Spill your guts or I’ll let the executioner do it for you.”

  He jerked back. “All right, all right. Listen, man, there’s something really big going down. Pretty soon you’ll be kissing my dick for the in I gave you.”

  “At this rate it won’t be long before your dick’s being waved around by the man with the chopper. What’s going down? And what were you doing at that murder scene?”

  The prisoner stared at me then nodded slowly. “Okay, here’s how it was. I’d had a few whiskies—”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Aye, all right,” he said, dropping his eyes. “I was pissed. But not so bad that I don’t remember what happened, you fuck.” He clammed up.

  “Spare me the sensitive soul act, Leadbelly. I’ve been pissed myself occasionally
. Like three times a week since I was seventeen.”

  He laughed. “Is that all? Okay, so I was in my local all night.”

  “Where is your local?” I asked.

  “Parkgrove Terrace, next to Kelvingrove Park. The pub’s called the Paddy Field. They grow rice in the flooded bits next to the river there.”

  I shook my head. Rice in central Glasgow? We had the Big Heat in Edinburgh too, but the city hadn’t turned into Shanghai.

  “Who were you with?” I asked.

  Leadbelly raised his shoulders. “No one special. Just the regulars.”

  “You haven’t got a circle of scummy friends who share your interest in the blues?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. I keep myself to myself. Seven years in the slammer doesn’t make you very sociable.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does.” I found myself thinking of Katharine. She’d done three years on Cramond Island and it had left its effect on her. I wondered where she thought I’d got to, then banished her from my mind and turned back to the prisoner. “What time did you leave the pub?”

  “I’m not sure. Late. They stay open till three here.”

  “Very good of them. Then what happened?”

  The former drugs gang member looked away. “Em . . .”

  I grabbed his clammy chin. “What happened, Leadbelly?”

  He shied away. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “That’s convenient,” I said, turning his face back towards mine. “If you’re into personal disembowelment.”

  He shivered. “I’m no’ bullshitting you, Quint.” He shook his head hopelessly. “I don’t know, honest. I stopped for a piss down the road and that’s all I remember. I reckon some bastard took me from behind.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a flat round the corner from the Paddy – in Royal Crescent.”

  “Sounds up-market.”

  He looked at me shiftily. “It’s not bad.”

  “I’m not very hot on Glasgow geography, Leadbelly. Is Park Terrace Lane where you and the body were found on the way from the pub to your place?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. Park Terrace Lane’s about five minutes’ walk to the north-east of the Paddy.”

  “And there’s no way you could have wandered up there in a drunken stupor?”

  Leadbelly took offence. “Listen, you. I can take my drink, okay?”

  I leaned over him. “The victim was a young woman. You sure you didn’t fancy your chances with her?” I had a sudden flash of Caro lying on the barn floor in Soutra surrounded by members of the gang Leadbelly used to belong to, a rope round her neck.

  He must have realised what I was thinking about. He twitched his head. “No, man. I’m not like that. I wasn’t even like that when I was with Howlin’ Wolf. The others thought I was bent.”

  I sat back, nodding. I believed him. He’d informed on his arsehole colleagues more than once. So what the hell was going on?

  “If you can afford a flat, you must have a source of income, Leadbelly. What is it?”

  He looked round, straining against the chains to check that no one else was in sight. “Turn that music up, Quint,” he said.

  I went over to the machine and increased the volume, not enough to attract attention.

  “What’s the big secret?” I asked when I got back to the chair. “And what’s this big deal you mentioned?”

  Leadbelly motioned his head to get me even closer. “I’m not telling you everything, Quint. I’m not that stupid. I need an insurance policy.”

  I glared at him. “When did I ever let you down? I sent you blues tapes when you were inside, I got you out when you helped me.”

  “Aye, I know that. But this is bigger than you. This is a fucking nightmare.” He looked down. “Believe me, you don’t want to know the whole of it, Quint.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot, Lead. You get me kidnapped, you pull my dick and then you go all coy.” I stood up. “Time to call in Hyslop and Haggs.”

  “No, no.” Leadbelly was looking round again, his eyeballs popping. “I need you to get me out of here, Quint.”

  “So help me to help you, for Christ’s sake.”

  He got his breathing under control. “All right.” One last glance over his shoulder. The outer office was dimly lit and there didn’t seem to be anyone near the glass door. “All right. When I got to Glasgow a couple of years back, I stuck with those smugglers I told you about for a bit. They weren’t exactly professional criminals, more like traders trying to open up new areas of business. The wards here support budding entrepreneurs, especially when they’re looking to sell Glasgow produce. My guys were mostly into cigarettes and grass.”

  “There’s plenty of black market potential for those commodities in Edinburgh.”

  “True enough.” Leadbelly scraped his chin on his shoulder to deal with an itch. “Anyway, it was all pretty minor action and the money was shite. So I headed into the centre and checked out the employment agencies.” He gave a sad smile. “Reckoned it was time I cleaned up my act a bit. Then I got myself interviewed by this handy-looking bird in an office in Sauchiehall Street. She offered me a job before I even finished telling her the working history I’d made up. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” He shook his head. “I should have known that the other place was the only destination for someone with my record.” He looked over my shoulder to the desk. “Coffee.”

  I gave him another drink and watched him lick his chapped lips.

  “Thanks, man. Well, this bird – Melanie was her name – turned out to have a major client on her books.”

  “Who was that?”

  Leadbelly glanced round again. “I’m getting to that. She was a smart lassie, had a doctorate in psychology or something. After we went out for a drink, she came clean. She was looking for guys to work on a special project. Guys with dead eyes, she said.”

  I stared at him, only vaguely aware that the musical accompaniment was now Leroy Carr’s “Six Cold Feet in the Ground”. “Guys with dead eyes?” I repeated.

  He nodded. “And I definitely fall into that category.”

  I couldn’t argue with him there. “What was the special project for this major client?”

  “Security work,” Leadbelly said in a low voice.

  “What kind of security work?”

  He was shaking his head.

  Through the glass I saw Hel Hyslop coming towards us at high speed. “Tell me, Leadbelly. Tell me before it’s too late.”

  He saw where I was looking and jerked round. “Oh shit,” he groaned.

  “What kind of security work?” I insisted.

  He slumped forward and mumbled something I didn’t catch.

  I took hold of his chin again and forced his head up. “Tell me, for Christ’s sake.”

  He blinked a couple of times, his eyes damp but still vacant. “Security work at the Rennie Institute.” He shook my hand away. “The people who work there call it the Baby Factory.”

  I stared at him. “The Rennie Institute? It’s not something to do with David Rennie, is it?” I was remembering the ward representative with the piercing blue eyes from the banquet.

  Leadbelly stared back. “He founded the place. He’s some kind of professor. Do you know him?”

  “Why’s it called the Baby Factory?” I asked, disregarding his question.

  For a moment it looked like he was going to tell me, then he shook his head and slumped in the chair.

  Hyslop arrived a second or two later, closely followed by Tam Haggs. They both looked agitated.

  “You’ve had your half-hour and more,” she said. “And the shit has just got deeper. Come with me.”

  I shrugged at Leadbelly and followed her into the squadroom. She didn’t show any sign of stopping.

  “What’s the rush?” I called after her.

  “Another body’s been found,” she said over her shoulder. “There are signs of mutilation.”

  “Christ. Whereabouts?�
�

  “You’ll find out. Duart wants you in on it.”

  I could tell what she thought of that by her tone of voice.

  “What about Leadbelly?”

  She pushed open the door and held it for me. “Don’t worry about him. Haggs will stay in charge here.”

  “Now I’m really worried.”

  She gave me a sharp look and headed for the lift.

  Glasgow nightlife had a lot going for it.

  We were hurtling down the road in Hel’s Llama, the siren screaming like a soprano on a window-ledge.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, my fingers clutching the bottom of the seat.

  “Benalder Street,” the inspector said, her eyes fixed on the road and her hands moving the wheel skilfully. “There’s a bridge over the River Kelvin.”

  I found a map in the glove compartment. “Benalder Street,” I repeated as I found the reference. Interesting. It was to the west of the Kelvingrove Park, less than half a mile from the pub where Leadbelly had been drinking. It was also between two large hospital complexes. The caption told me that the Rennie Institute was based in the southern complex, a few minutes’ walking distance from Benalder Street. I thought about asking Hyslop about David Rennie then decided against it.

  “He didn’t do it, you know,” I said, closing the map book.

  “Who didn’t do what?” she asked in clipped tones, swerving to avoid a group of drunken locals. I could hear the abuse they shouted after us. Glaswegians obviously didn’t fear the police like Edinburgh folk fear the City Guard. Then again, Edinburgh folk can’t lay their hands on firearms.

  “Leadbelly. He didn’t kill that woman.”

  We were out of the lattice of central streets now, the street-lamps to our right shining against the park’s trees. The paddy fields must have been behind them.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Believe me, I’m sure. Leadbelly was once a piece of shit – he may still be for all I know – but he was never into mutilation. Or heroin, for that matter. You can’t throw him to the executioner for something he didn’t do.” I gave her a disapproving look. “By the way, hanging, drawing and quartering went out in the Middle Ages.”

  Hyslop glanced at me. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about your role in this, Quint. We’ve been after a multiple murderer for months. Now we’ve found him. Duart and his team want a copper-bottomed case to present to the Procurator Fiscal, whence our trip to Edinburgh to locate the only person our suspect will talk to. That’s what you’re here for. No social analysis required.”