Impolitic Corpses

by Paul Johnston

  ‘Oh, aye? Whit do ye want?’

  ‘It’s about your son.’

  ‘What about him?’ The woman was showing no emotion.

  ‘My condolences,’ I said, following her into the living room. It was poky and smelled of cats. She sat in the tattered armchair and picked up a magazine. She was either in denial or she was Scotland’s most callous mother.

  Above the fireplace was a photo of Ricky Fetlar that I recognized from the file. He must have been about twenty when it was taken, his hair short and shoulders broad. I couldn’t help noticing that his head was unusually square.

  ‘If you don’t mind, how come he didn’t have your name?’

  ‘Changed it himself aboot a year ago; don’t ask me why,’ she said, drinking from a plastic flask. I caught a whiff of cheap whisky. ‘Anyway, who are ye? Whit de ye want?’

  There wasn’t a single book in the room. Maybe she was one of the Enlightenment’s citizens who’d resented being required to attend evening classes. Lifelong education meant lifelong tedium for many.

  ‘Insurance,’ I said, hoping she didn’t have my novels on her bedside table, or was about to remember me from appearances on TV, radio and in the press.

  ‘Is there money in his death?’ Her face was instantly transformed. Now she was lusting for life.

  ‘There may be.’ In fact, there definitely would be, as some money-grabbing lawyer would soon tell her. Suicide in custody was on ScotPol. I was surprised a queue of the bastards hadn’t formed outside. The death obviously hadn’t been made public. ‘I need some information, though.’

  ‘Fire away, son,’ she said, smacking her lips.

  I glanced around the room, guessing that she’d lived here for a long time.

  ‘Do you own the property, Mrs Duff?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said proudly. ‘Had a windfall.’

  ‘Good for you. What happened?’

  She was suddenly suspicious. ‘Is this … whit de ye call it? Relevant?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I insisted, with a smile.

  ‘Right, well, aboot six months ago Ricky came home wi’ a cheque for fifty thousand poonds. Whit de ye think ae that?’

  I was definitely interested, but I looked at her impassively. ‘Where did he get that?’ A cheque suggested a reasonably legitimate source.

  ‘He wis a bit … a bit vague aboot that. Said it was a deposit ae some kind. From his work.’

  I studiously noted that down, wondering if Hyslop’s team had pulled in the warehouse owner.

  ‘Mrs Duff, forgive me, but you know how your son died?’

  ‘Course. Ran himself intae the wall.’ Definitely Mrs Callous 2038.

  ‘Did he have a history of behaviour like that?’

  ‘Naw, he wis a tough guy. Nivver backed doon in a fight.’

  ‘Did you ever meet anyone from his work?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How about his friends?’

  ‘I knew his pals when he wis wee, but after he left school he nivver brought anyone hame.’

  ‘He did live here?’

  ‘If ye call dropping in frae time tae time wi’ his washing that, aye.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have a look at his room?’

  ‘Naw. But ye willnae find anything. I’ve cleared it oot. Got a lodger comin’ tomorrow.’

  I went to the back of the flat. When Maureen Duff said cleared out, she meant exactly that. The room was completely empty, the walls freshly painted pale blue, the smell making a pleasant change from that of cat elsewhere. All the floorboards were solid – no places to hide stuff that I could see. Then I had a thought.

  ‘Did Ricky have anything on his walls?’ I called.

  The woman snorted. ‘For a start, they were red – the colour ae blood, kin ye believe it? Took the painter three coats to cover it. Then there was the muckle great poster.’

  That got my attention.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Some old painting,’ Mrs Duff said scathingly. ‘Religious, it was, and ah dinnae hold wi’ that. Some kindae gardens – paradise, ah suppose – and the pits ae hell on the side.’

  I accessed the photo archive on my phone, went back into the front room and showed her Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Awfie nonsense. Ah tore it up and put it in the bin.’

  ‘Did he have anything else like that? Maybe a belt buckle?’

  She shook her head. ‘Ah put him right from the start. He could have the poster but nothin’ else.’

  ‘When did he put it up?’

  ‘Och, I dinnae ken. Not long after reunification, it must ae been. He used to have that framed photo of the City Guardians. Proper wee wannae-be auxiliary, he was.’

  After establishing that she had no time for the Enlightenment, the conversation meandered and I rapidly lost interest. I was tempted to tell her who I really was. Still, the link to Bosch had made the visit worthwhile.

  She didn’t get up when I left. It was good to escape the stench of cat piss and greed.

  ‘Bosch again,’ said Davie, as he drove back to the centre. ‘Doesn’t explain why Fetlar boshed his brains out. See what I did there?’

  ‘Very funny. What was it that Rory said?’

  ‘To get you over to Arden Street sharpish. There’s a big meeting about to take place.’ He sniffed. ‘Doubt I’m invited.’

  ‘I’ll insist.’ I took out my phone and accessed ScotWeb. ‘The dead guard changed his name a year back. Ah, right – Fetlar’s one of the Shetland Islands. The word comes from Norse, meaning “shoulder-straps”.’

  ‘Very illuminating.’

  ‘What was it I heard about Shetland on the news last year?’ I rummaged in my memory as we turned on to Kilgraston Road.

  ‘No oil up there any more,’ said Davie.

  The clutter in my mind disappeared. ‘That was it. Apparently, a South African company has found new reserves. Not huge, though.’

  ‘I never heard that. Anyway, what could that have to do with Bosher changing his name?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea. Aye, aye, what’s going on here?’

  There was a wooden barrier blocking the entrance to Arden Street. The brown van that we’d been in was on the left, black-clad personnel toting machine pistols standing on the asphalt. Which made me wonder. Would any local resident contact ScotPol?

  ‘Those buggers have got guns,’ Davie complained.

  I got out and was told to sign against my name on a printed form. ‘He’s with me.’

  The female rebel looked dubious but she let him pass after he gave her his best death-glare.

  There were more characters in black outside number twenty-three. I could see another van, this one dark red, at the far end of the street. I had to show ID. Davie managed to talk himself through. We were searched. They let me keep my propelling pencil but took Davie’s favourite cosh.

  A woman in a trouser suit led us upstairs. It was a standard tenement with the standard smells – cabbage, pee and watered-down disinfectant. She knocked on a door that needed more coats of paint than had been applied to the walls of Ricky Fetlar’s room.

  Rory Campbell opened it. ‘Quint, welcome.’ He stared at Davie. ‘Does he have to come in?’

  ‘It’s both or neither,’ I replied.

  ‘Fair enough. Be diplomatic, Detective Leader.’

  ‘Does that mean “shut up”?’ asked Davie.

  ‘Yes.’ Rory went down a corridor, the floor of which was covered in new high-quality parquet. The inside of this safe house was a lot classier than the outside. I heard voices, one of which was Katharine’s.

  Rory led us in. Everyone I expected was present – Dougie the Dundonian, Lachie MacFarlane and the Lord of the Isles, as well as my former lover.

  ‘Quint,’ Lachie said, raising his hand. ‘I see you’ve brought your loyal sidekick.’

  ‘You can trust him.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Edinburgh’s leader turned to the Lord of the Isles. �
�As agreed, Quint Dalrymple will act as guarantor of your safety.’

  ‘Good of you to ask,’ I said. ‘Just as well I brought the big man.’

  ‘Who needs a weapon,’ Davie put in.

  ‘Quint and his companion will also look after you, Katharine, and you, Dougie.’

  ‘I don’t need lookin’ after,’ said the Dundonian, shaking his greasy locks.

  ‘We’re experts in self-preservation.’

  ‘My city, my rules,’ said Lachie. ‘Why don’t we all sit down? Drinks, please. We have a particularly fine Lothian malt.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Katharine, taking a red leather armchair. ‘We don’t drink alcohol in Stirling.’

  ‘I’ll have hers,’ said Dougie, spreading his legs on one of the two matching sofas. ‘In Dundee we only drink alcohol.’

  The Lord of the Isles, seated in a plush armchair, was following the exchange in bewilderment. I wondered if he was fully fit. Lachie was in an antique chair that must have been made for a child, while Davie and I took the other sofa. Rory sat next to the Dundonian.

  ‘What exactly’s going on?’ I asked, sipping the malt after I’d dribbled water into the glass. It was excellent – light but flavoursome. Brandy barrels, I suspected.

  ‘All will be revealed,’ said Rory. ‘Lachie’s put me in charge of this … what shall I call it? Counter-enterprise?’

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Davie, receiving a frown from the actor-director.

  ‘We brought our friends down from Stirling and Dundee to share information and decide on a course of action,’ Rory said.

  ‘In response to an action or actions initiated by someone else, yes?’ I said. ‘Who?’

  Rory smiled. ‘That’s where you come in, Quint.’

  ‘What, when I’m not being your visitors’ bodyguard?’

  ‘You can put Detective Leader Oliphant in charge of that, if you like.’

  ‘Duly delegated,’ I said, nodding at Davie. It was exactly his kind of job.

  ‘As long as I get a weapon,’ he stipulated.

  ‘Very well,’ Lachie said. ‘On your way out.’

  Davie emptied his glass, smacked his lips and beckoned to the waiter – who was in black combat fatigues – for a refill.

  ‘Are you sharing information with the Lord of the Isles, too?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Rory. ‘Of course, that’s a two-way street.’

  I guessed that they’d been in contact for some time, given that the old man had turned up at the Theatre of Life.

  ‘This is about oil and gas, isn’t it?’ I said.

  The Lord of the Isles looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Primarily, yes.’ He controlled a wide range of businesses – maybe they were all involved. ‘Gentlemen’ – he turned to Katharine – ‘and lady, the nation is facing a serious threat.’

  There was a pregnant pause.

  I broke its waters. ‘In that case, why isn’t Andrew Duart here? Why is this meeting taking place in secret, with no elected members present and no representatives from the other regions?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Lachie. ‘Let’s hear more from his lordship first.’

  Angus Macdonald took a sip of whisky and then rubbed his hand over his head, making a mess of his normally perfectly combed white hair. ‘Where to start?’ he said, looking down.

  I managed to hold my tongue, glancing at Davie to make sure he did the same.

  ‘The people who took me from Ainslie Place … I never saw any faces and they spoke to me with balaclavas on, so I can’t tell you anything about their accents. I’d say they were all male. My head was pushed between my knees after I got in the vehicles, some kind of four-by-four, dark-coloured. We drove for … I don’t know … at least an hour – not much more than that. Faster as the journey went on, I presume because we were out of the city. They’d put a balaclava over my head too, but back to front so I couldn’t see. I … I struggled to breathe …’

  ‘Take your time,’ said Lachie.

  The Lord of the Isles took another sip of whisky. ‘The car stopped and I was pulled out. Almost immediately, I was inside a building, my shoes dragging over floorboards. They took me upstairs – still bare boards – and pushed me into a room, pulling the balaclava off as I stumbled forward. There was no light. I felt around the walls with my hands. It wasn’t a very large room. I eventually bumped into a bedstead with nothing on top of the springs and sat down. I didn’t find anything else. Fortunately, I was able to wrap myself in my kilt, but I still thought the cold would be the end of me.’

  He sat back, breathing heavily.

  ‘Then what happened?’ Rory asked.

  ‘I … nothing. I don’t know how long I was there – they’d taken my watch and phone. At least twenty-four hours, I think. At one point the door opened and a big bottle of water and a loaf of bread were put on the floor by a person with their head covered. I asked if I could get a heater and use a toilet, but the door was slammed shut. I … I’d already had to relieve myself in the corner.’ He swallowed a sob. ‘I felt like an animal.’

  ‘But they finally let you out?’ I said.

  Angus Macdonald nodded. ‘My head was covered again. I was taken downstairs and sat on a chair. It was warm in that room and I could hear rooks cawing outside. No one said anything for a long time, even though I was asking what was going on, promising them money, anything …’

  Katharine got up and went over to him. To my surprise, she sat on the arm of the chair and took his hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this,’ she said. ‘We’ll find your wife and bring her back to you.’

  She must have been briefed by Lachie and Rory. I was taken by the sudden return of her compassion. I’d assumed that character trait was reserved for women in Stirling.

  ‘Thank … thank you, my dear,’ said the Lord of the Isles.

  She tried not to wince at that term of address and went back to her place.

  ‘It was then that one of my captors started to speak. Again, the voice was muffled, but I have a feeling it was a woman’s.’

  I immediately thought of Gemma Bass, the Nor-England representative.

  Would she and her colleagues really have kidnapped one of the most important men in Scotland?

  ‘She … she told me they had my wife. They played a recording of her begging not to be hit again. I stood up but was immediately pushed down. I swore at them and was punched in the stomach. I … I started to cry …’

  ‘Anybody would,’ I said.

  The old man nodded, then put a hand to his forehead. ‘It’s of no account. I was told what I had to … have to do.’ He turned to Lachie. ‘Would you mind taking over? I … I don’t feel at all well.’

  ‘Would you like to lie down again?’ Rory asked solicitously.

  ‘No, thank you. I need to hear the discussion.’ Angus Macdonald took a larger hit from his glass and lowered his head again.

  Lachie, always organized, had a maroon file, which he opened. ‘Lady Margaret will be returned unharmed, providing that all his lordship’s shares in energy companies are made over to a company called BirdMammon, which is registered in Luxembourg.’

  The tiny state between what had been Germany, Belgium and France was still operating, having survived the outbreak of extreme violence across Europe thirty years ago by hiring the most experienced mercenaries it could find. It was now operating as an onshore haven for companies that wanted no one to know their details – Billy had told me that.

  ‘And,’ Lachie continued, ‘as you may know, getting information out of that poisonous statelet is pretty much impossible.’

  I let the others comment first.

  ‘It’s clear,’ said Katharine, ‘that losing control of Scottish oil, gas and renewable-based energy would be a catastrophe for all of us. We can’t let this happen.’

  ‘Too true,’ said Dougie, who was now several mainsails to the wind. ‘Dundee will fight this any way we can.’

  Rory nodded. ‘We’ll certain
ly do anything to oppose this move.’ He glanced at the Lord of the Isles. ‘Though we will first return Margaret to you safe and sound.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lachie. He looked at me. ‘We need your help with this, Quint. You’ve had plenty of experience of crisis management.’

  Suddenly, I was the saviour of the nation rather than a novelist and part-time investigator.

  ‘I still don’t understand why Andrew Duart, elected representatives and leaders of the other regions are absent.’

  Katharine gave me a tight smile. ‘Because we suspect that he and the regional chiefs are involved in this.’

  ‘Suspect?’ said Davie, frowning.

  ‘More than suspect, Detective Leader,’ said Rory. ‘Stirling has been accessing their communications, while Dundee has raided the local government buildings in Perth, kidnapping key personnel.’

  ‘Who have all talked,’ said Dougie, raising his empty glass again and grinning. ‘There wisnae too much torture.’

  ‘Glad to see the law’s been observed,’ I said ironically. ‘Why are they collaborating? That seems the appropriate word.’

  ‘Why d’ye think?’ bawled the Dundonian. ‘Filthy lucre, ya fool.’

  I thought about that. It wasn’t inconceivable – the Lord of the Isles’s companies distributed large dividends to shareholders, but ordinary Scots still had to pay for their energy, even though prices were subsidized. I’d learned never to underestimate how greedy people could be.

  ‘I suppose Hel Hyslop’s in on this too,’ I said.

  ‘Everywhere that Duart goes, she is sure to follow,’ said Rory, with a slack smile.

  ‘We’ve promised to support Stirling and Dundee,’ said Lachie. ‘Katharine and Dougie will go back and contact sympathizers in the surrounding regions. Rory and I will deal with Glasgow, while his lordship handles the western Highlands and Islands.’

  ‘When I get Margaret back,’ said Angus Macdonald.

  ‘That’s your priority, Quint,’ Rory said.

  The problem was that I didn’t have the faintest idea how to find the missing woman. On the other hand, I had some pressing questions to ask.

  TEN

  ‘Is there a deadline for the shares to be reassigned?’

  The Lord of the Isles gave me a bleary look. ‘Yes, Mr Dalrymple. Tomorrow at six p.m.’