Impolitic Corpses

by Paul Johnston

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he said, ‘I love his lordship. I’d do anything for him.’

  There was an admission, but I wasn’t going to use it yet. ‘You must know a lot about your employer.’

  The skinny man gave me a dubious look. ‘What d’ye mean?’

  ‘Well, you help him dress, you collect his dirty clothes …’ I paused meaningfully. ‘You go through his pockets.’

  Dinwoodie looked outraged. ‘No, I don’t!’

  ‘Calm down,’ I said emolliently, then dug my heels in. ‘But you do.’

  He looked down, displaying thin hair and a pockmarked scalp. I wondered if he’d been in an explosion. There was nothing in the file. Then again, most Scots had been through the wars one way or another over the last thirty-five years.

  ‘Well, it’s my job. I didnae like the way you put it. I’m no thief.’

  I’d got to him. Time to row back. ‘Of course you’re not, Dougie. But you see things, don’t you?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Did you see anything that would help us find your beloved master?’ I leaned over him. ‘Do you know what happened to him?’

  The valet started quivering like a terrified rabbit. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I was outside his room till they came and broke the door down. He never came oot.’

  I held his gaze. He was scared, but I wasn’t sure if he was lying. ‘Did you not have a cup of tea at all? Make yourself some toast? Go to the toilet?’

  Now he looked guilty. ‘Well … aye, but I wasn’t away for more than five minutes.’ His head went down. ‘Twice.’

  Bingo times two. I held off for a while.

  ‘So his lordship could have slipped out or been abducted without you noticing?’

  Dinwoodie started to sob. ‘Find him, Mr Dalrymple, please, find him.’

  ‘I need your help, Dougie. Is there anyone in the house you’ve got suspicions about? Is everyone loyal?’

  He wiped his eyes with a very clean handkerchief. ‘I don’t know. The political types dinnae pay attention to me. They were all with his lordship before we came to Edinburgh, but that disnae mean they haven’t been corrupted in this city of vice.’

  ‘What about your master’s pockets? Did you come across anything that would help? A piece of paper with a name or address or phone number?’

  He kept his eyes off me.

  ‘What about his mobile phone?’

  Dinwoodie looked up. ‘He had two. I had to plug them in to recharge overnight.’

  ‘Did you hear him say anything suggestive when he was speaking on them?’

  He gave me a puzzled look. ‘Suggestive?’

  ‘Well, did he get angry? Mention names? Sound as though he was being threatened?’

  He thought about that, then shook his head.

  I repeated the piece-of-paper question. This time he cracked.

  ‘All right, Mr Dalrymple. One day last week … I think it was Friday – aye, it was definitely Friday, I remember because …’ He broke off when he realized he was wandering. ‘I found a card, one of thae index cards with lines on them, in his inside jacket pocket before I hung the suit up.’

  ‘What was written on it? What did you do with it?’

  Dinwoodie scratched his head. ‘I didn’t register it at first, then I realized it was a name and address – in his lordship’s handwriting. He always uses a fountain pen and green ink. Matthew, it said. And the address …’ He squeezed his eyes shut and then raised a finger. ‘Aye – seventeen Craigs Road, Drum Brae South.’

  ‘And—’

  ‘What did I do with it? Put it on his lordship’s dressing table. It had gone when I went in after he left on the Saturday morning. He was playing golf at Gullane.’

  ‘And you didn’t see it again?’

  ‘Naw.’

  I looked at my notes. Drum Brae was a longish road that ran north/south in the far western suburbs – an area that had only become adequately crime-free for people to inhabit in the Enlightenment’s later years. The houses were a far cry from Ainslie Place.

  ‘I don’t suppose the Lord of the Isles mentioned visiting the address?’

  ‘Naw. Hey, can I get a cuppae tea?’

  I nodded and left, passing his request to a surly uniformed officer in the corridor. I went to the room where Davie was interviewing Hamish Macdonald, tapped on the door and went in.

  ‘Mr Dalrymple,’ the tall man said, his face wet. ‘Thank God. This madman’s accusing me of involvement in Angus’s – in his lordship’s – disappearance.’

  I sat down next to Davie. ‘Bad detective leader.’

  He grinned.

  I looked at the chief of staff. ‘Matthew,’ I said. ‘Mean anything to you?’

  His eyes dropped. ‘The gospel?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Would that be relevant to your boss?’ I asked, remembering that there was a copy of the Bible on a bedside table.

  ‘Matthew the gospel-writer doesn’t live off Drum Brae,’ Davie said. ‘If he ever lived at all.’

  ‘His lordship is a practising member of the Church of Scotland,’ Macdonald said, ‘as am I.’ The church had reformed nationally in the last couple of years, having fared better than its rivals in the Highlands and Islands in the stone years.

  ‘So what goes on at that address?’ Davie demanded. ‘Sermons on the Craigs?’

  I stifled a laugh.

  The tall man looked at Davie in disgust. ‘Freedom of religion is sanctioned by the new constitution, and worshippers are protected from bigotry.’

  ‘I know the law,’ Davie growled. ‘Did his lordship go to the address? Did you go with him?’

  ‘I don’t know to the first question, no to the second.’

  ‘He never mentioned it to you?’ I said.

  ‘He didn’t – doesn’t – tell me everything he does. I’m not involved in his private life.’

  That seemed unlikely, but I let it go. We needed to get out to the western suburbs pronto.

  Davie drove on to Princes Street and took advantage of the ban on all traffic except buses and official vehicles like ours to cut across the city centre quickly. Snow was falling but the asphalt and pavements weren’t cold enough for it to lie. Although it was past one in the morning, there were plenty of clubs and restaurants still open, people wandering about in the state of inebriation that turns legs to rubber.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Davie said, swerving round a large man in a bright yellow tartan coat who gave him the finger. ‘Tourists!’

  He was right. No Edinburgh local would wear a tartan overgarment. Glaswegians would be wary too – their city was a longstanding hub of the fashion industry. I didn’t know about other Scottish cities. Perth, run by survivors of the landed gentry that had held sway before the UK fell apart, might be hot on the kilt. I hadn’t been anywhere in the reunified country since road links were restored. The two Forth Bridges were due to reopen in 2039, although it was said that the laying of new railways was behind schedule. Those who could afford it – such as the Lord of the Isles – flew. Which made me think.

  ‘Get someone to check the airport,’ I said. ‘Maybe old Angus is hundreds of miles away.’

  Davie grunted. ‘Already done. His name isn’t on any flight lists and my people are scanning the security camera footage – nothing so far. I think he’s still in Embra.’

  I nodded. Under the Enlightenment, local dialects and vocabulary had been banned to reduce nationalist sentiments, and the city had been called Edinburgh, along with ‘the perfect city’, ‘Garden of Edin’ and other such propagandist handles. Embra was popular now.

  Street lighting, which had been patchy to non-existent the further you got from the centre, was better now and there were plenty of cars on the roads. The capital of Scotland ran on a twenty-four-hour basis, which was great for night owls like me and hellish for people – the overwhelming majority – without double-glazing.

  Davie’s phone rang and he listened. ‘Barker,’ he said to me, ‘Matthew Barker is the registered own
er of the house we’re heading for. My people are digging for more about him.’

  I looked to the left. What had been Murrayfield stadium, home of Scottish rugby, was now a rusted ruin awaiting development as the biggest ice rink in the country. The Council had been keen on rugby’s ethos for both male and female auxiliaries – Davie had been a fearsome player till his knee had said that’s more than enough, thanks – but even before the regime fell, football had taken over.

  The traffic began to thin as we got further west. ScotPol four-by-fours were stationed at potential trouble spots, usually pubs and clubs. Drum Brae was a dormitory area and there weren’t many people about. Davie turned off the main road and then into Craigs Road. I counted the house numbers.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said.

  He pulled in smartly behind a battered German estate car. Glasgow car dealers had offloaded their superannuated stock on to Edinburgh citizens with their limited budgets.

  I got out and looked at the semi-detached house. The row was new, as was often the case in the suburbs. Many buildings had been destroyed during the drugs wars. This one was solidly middle-of-the-range – not the kind of place you’d expect the Lord of the Isles to visit.

  Davie joined me on the pavement. He was holding an extendable truncheon. The electric Hyper-Stuns used by the City Guard had been banned and only special units carried firearms. I was glad the big man was with me.

  He walked up the paved path and looked through the round piece of glass in the front door. The curtains were tightly drawn on all the upstairs and downstairs windows.

  ‘What do you think?’ Davie said. ‘Polite knock or thunderous hammering?’ The former was ScotPol’s compulsory method, but former Guard personnel struggled to forget the past.

  I walked up and knocked three times on the glass. No one came, though there was a light on in the hallway. I looked in. The place was tidy, with a multicoloured rug on the floor. The stairs had been varnished and there were Rothko prints on the walls. Abstract expressionism had been frowned upon by the Enlightenment – too much freedom of, well, expression – and was having a rise in popularity. We’d put up a dark-red Rothko print in the sitting room.

  I knocked again. ‘Mr Barker? Anyone at home?’

  We waited but there was no response.

  ‘Bugger this,’ said Davie, lowering his shoulder.

  I opened my mouth and then thought again. Sometimes it was best to give him his head. I knocked one last time.

  We stood in silence, waiting for a response. Nothing.

  Davie gave me a baleful look. ‘I smell a trap.’

  ‘Call back-up.’

  ‘Not yet.’ His hand went inside his jacket and came out with his City Guard knife, its blade well honed.

  ‘Glad to see senior ranks paying attention to ScotPol regs.’

  ‘Screw you.’ He pulled on a latex glove and put his left hand on the door knob next to us. ‘One, two … three!’

  He burst in. I waited before following.

  ‘Clear!’ he called. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  I looked at the bizarre sight before us.

  ‘No,’ said Davie. ‘It’s the other guy, or one of his sidekicks.’

  Standing by a black leather sofa was a clarsach, a triangular Celtic harp. I knew that because there was one in the newly refurbished Museum of Scotland. But this version was larger, as tall as Davie, and a spread-eagled human form, naked with its back towards us, was attached to the strings.

  Davie circled round the object. ‘That’s not a real man,’ he said. ‘It’s a plastic figure, Quint. What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s for the Theatre of Life,’ said a deep voice to my rear.

  I turned and saw a muscle-bound man of below average height walk into the room.

  ‘Matthew Barker?’ Davie said.

  ‘Aye. Who the hell are you? What happened to my door?’ His tone was irate, but I had the feeling he was putting it on. The sly smile that appeared on his thick lips suggested I was right.

  Davie identified himself. ‘We knocked, called your name. Are you deaf?’

  ‘I was in the back.’

  ‘Knocking up another exhibit from Hieronymus Bosch?’ I said.

  ‘Very good. Then again, The Garden of Earthly Delights is pretty well known, even in this benighted city.’

  I ran my eye over the man. His hair was black and curly, his eyes dark brown, and his nose had been broken more than once.

  ‘You’re not from here,’ I said.

  ‘Heaven forbid.’

  Davie came up. ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Have you got a warrant? I’m going to call my lawyer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I said in a low voice. ‘This is a high-priority case. Your house is about to be searched from top to bottom and side to side. Is there anyone else in?’

  Matthew Barker shook his head, glowering at me. ‘Who are you?’

  I told him.

  ‘I know you. I’ve read one of your books.’ He grinned. ‘Shite, I thought. Still, it confirmed my worst fears about Edinburgh. Can’t understand why it got made capital again.’

  Davie’s phone rang. He listened and then laughed humourlessly. ‘So, you’re Matthew Duncan Barker, born Stornoway, December the fourth 1986, maker of theatrical props.’

  That was interesting. Stornoway, centre of the oil and gas industry in the northwest, was the biggest city in the Lord of the Isles’s domain.

  ‘You make stuff like this?’ Davie said contemptuously. ‘Surely it doesn’t pay well enough for you to afford this place.’

  ‘I have a patron who looks after me. If it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Oh, it is, my friend. What’s his or her name?’

  We waited while Barker chewed his lips.

  ‘Not telling,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. We know who he is. The question is, when did you last see him?’

  For the first time Matthew Barker looked worried. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You tell us,’ said Davie.

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a week.’

  Davie’s expression was neutral. ‘How long have you known him?’

  Barker turned to me, but I wasn’t giving him any encouragement.

  ‘We’re … friends. Have been since Angus – his lordship – and his clan warriors drove the gangsters out of Oban. Nearly fifteen years.’

  There it was – confirmation that Barker knew the missing man. I wasn’t sure how long it had taken the Lord of the Isles to extend his rule to the north-western Highlands and Islands, but I’d heard he started on Mull and crossed to the nearest town on the mainland.

  ‘A week?’ said Davie, turning up the volume. ‘Details!’

  ‘Like I say,’ Barker replied nervously. ‘Last Sunday. He came round about four – we had high tea. I found some kippers – not that they were up to much.’

  ‘Just for tea?’ Davie said, with a leer.

  ‘Fuck you! It’s nothing like that. I’m an artist and Angus likes my work.’

  I looked at the human form on the clarsach.

  ‘Into bondage, is he?’ Davie said.

  Barker looked down and kept his mouth shut.

  ‘What’s that piece of art about?’ I asked.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ its creator muttered.

  ‘Don’t get cute, shithead,’ Davie said, fingering the handle of his truncheon.

  ‘I told you, I want my lawyer.’

  ‘Why have you got a lawyer?’ I asked. People in Edinburgh were still unused to instructing the inevitably expensive professionals who had flooded the city since reunification.

  ‘My contracts need vetting.’

  That might have been true, but would that kind of lawyer be able to help him now? And if Barker was as pure as the driven white stuff, why did he need help?

  Davie was on his mobile, calling in a SOCO team. I decided against pre-empting the experts.

  ‘You say this piece is for the Theatre of Life,’ I said.r />
  ‘Aye. They’re rehearsing a play about the hell that was Edinburgh over the last thirty years.’ Barker gave me a snide smile. ‘You’ll love it.’

  ‘The hanging figure’s in the right-hand panel of Bosch’s triptych, isn’t it? The one showing the tortures of the damned. What sin had the man on the strings committed?’

  ‘I don’t know – composed terrible music?’

  ‘Or allowed himself to be tempted by the devil? It used to be said he had all the best tunes.’

  ‘Still is by the Bible thumpers where I come from.’

  ‘I’ve heard the Lord of the Isles is a practising Christian.’

  ‘Aye, but not that kind. We had a good malt with our tea.’

  Davie had finished his call. ‘Did you, now? Where is it?’ He glanced around the room. There were bottles on a small table in the corner.

  I went over. ‘No malts, here. Not even any blended whisky.’

  Matthew Barker shrugged. ‘We finished the bottle.’

  Davie got in the man’s face. ‘See, I don’t believe you, pal. The Lord of the Isles is no friend of yours. For a start, no one in his staff has mentioned your name, let alone any visits out here.’

  ‘He came … on his own.’ Barker’s eyes were down again.

  ‘Very likely,’ Davie said. ‘No official car, no chauffeur, no security detail. He could no more slip away unnoticed from Ainslie Place than fly over here on a magic carpet. You’re a liar!’

  I couldn’t make my mind up. I motioned Davie to the hall and told him where I was going. He gave me the keys to the four-by-four, saying he’d get a lift back with the suspect, who’d be interrogated with extreme prejudice, lawyer or no lawyer.

  I drove on to St John’s Road and headed back to the city centre. If I was lucky, Rory Campbell, Big Lachie’s deputy on the Municipal Board but also director of the Theatre of Life, would be in his office behind the stage. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen him with the Lord of the Isles. I reckoned I had, on the TV news – Edinburgh politicians inevitably rubbed up against their national counterparts at events. The question was, did Rory know the old aristocrat better than that? Could he have had something to do with Angus Macdonald’s disappearance? Surely not …