The Blood Tree

by Paul Johnston

  I returned her stare, but she quickly broke away and pulled her mask back up. I wanted to ask her about the change of policy on genetic engineering that Hamilton had told me about, and I wanted to ask her why she was so concerned about the missing kids. But she’d already returned to the slab. She gave the instruction to her assistant to start sawing the skull apart.

  I’d have to find a more appropriate setting for those questions later.

  I met Katharine in the corridor.

  “How’s the old man?”

  “All right, Quint. He’s just dropped off to sleep. The nursing auxiliary told me he was making good progress.” She laughed. “And I’m glad to say that he knew exactly who I was. No mention of Caro at all.”

  I was about to go to the ward to look in on Hector when my mobile rang.

  “Public order guardian here.”

  “Yes, Lewis.”

  “Emergency Council meeting at four o’clock. Be there. Out.”

  I glared at the apparatus and then at my watch. “Bloody guardians. Why can’t they give more advance warning of emergency meetings?”

  “Because they’re emergencies?” Katharine suggested.

  “Ha. We’d better get over there. So much for going through the files on the missing kids in detail.”

  “I’ve already done that, Quint. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “I do, I do.”

  Now it was Katharine who was glaring.

  The lower reaches of the Royal Mile were sunk in fog. The heavy drizzle almost defeated the windscreen wipers of the decrepit guard van that took us there. We could have hitched a lift in Sophia’s vehicle, but the idea of the medical guardian and Katharine in the close confines of a Land-Rover wasn’t a winner.

  Inside the former Parliament building there was plenty more gloom. The guardians were milling around the Council chamber like zombies with hangovers. Even Davie looked like he could do with a mugful of painkillers. Katharine and I took our seats next to him in the middle of the bullring.

  Hamilton took the chair and got things going. “This emergency meeting is in session. As you’ve heard, we have a second murder on our hands.”

  The welfare guardian shot to his feet. “Even worse, acting senior guardian, we’ve lost three of the city’s most promising young intellects. What do you propose to do?” His voice was even reedier than usual and his glasses had steamed up.

  The public order guardian gave his colleague a crushing stare. “If your directorate’s facility in Lauriston had been run more efficiently, perhaps the teenagers wouldn’t have disappeared.”

  The welfare guardian blushed but he wasn’t off the hook yet.

  “And if you’d allowed me to finish,” Hamilton continued, “I would have informed you of the current state of the investigation.” He turned his eyes on me. “Or rather, Citizen Dalrymple and his team would have. Go ahead, citizen.”

  “Thanks a lot, Lewis,” I muttered. I looked back at him then ran my eye round the semi-circle of Council members. They were all staring at me, Sophia and the science and energy guardian with particularly severe expressions. “Right, guardians. I believe that what we have here are the components of one case, not a string of disparate ones. The footprints and other evidence suggest that the same group of three individuals broke into the archive beneath the Assembly Hall, murdered Knox 43 in the Botanics, murdered Cramond 333 in the vicinity of Lauriston Castle and abducted the teenage prodigies. That raises several questions.”

  “Such as why,” the raven-haired biologist said. “If, as you assert, this is one interconnected case, a single answer to that question must underpin everything. Why did the criminals break in and steal the GEC attachment? Why did they kill the two auxiliaries? And why did they kidnap the adolescents?” She gazed down at me. “Any ideas, citizen?”

  I met her gaze. I had an idea all right but Hamilton wouldn’t thank me for airing it – there had to be a link between the killings and the secret genetic research that she and the small group of her colleagues were involved in. If I couldn’t talk about that openly, I needed another angle of attack. It didn’t take long to zero in on one.

  “Why is always a complex issue,” I said. “Think of the philosophers who have tied themselves in knots over reasons and causes.” If I thought that appealing to the guardians’ predilection for analytical thought would soften them up, I was wrong. They went on gazing at me stonily. “How about approaching the case differently? How about concentrating on where?”

  That got them.

  “What are you talking about, Dalrymple?” Hamilton demanded. “We know where the criminal activities occurred.”

  “You’re taking me too literally,” I said. “I mean ‘where’ in conjunction with the science and energy guardian’s insistence on ‘why’.”

  Davie turned to me, a smile spreading across his face. I nudged him to shut him up. This was my game.

  “The where I’m getting at is a city-state. It’s the source of the cigarettes found at both murder scenes.” I opened my arms wide. “It’s your favourite place. The democratic paradise of Glasgow.”

  The predictable outbreak of outrage followed. I indulged them for a bit then struck back.

  “On the other hand, guardians, all is not well in your own fair city.” That pulled them up hard. “Both Knox 43 and Cramond 333 had Glaswegian antecedents. Given that the killer’s group had access to the Labour Directorate depot and that someone told them who Edinburgh’s three best young brains were, it’s reasonable to assume that either or both of the auxiliaries provided inside information.”

  There was a long silence. Eventually the science and energy guardian rallied.

  “Let’s consider practicalities. How do you intend to find the missing teenagers, citizen?” she asked, her tone less assured now. “Do you think they’re still in the city?”

  I raised my shoulders. “I don’t know, guardian.” I looked at Davie. “Anything from the command centre?”

  He stood up. “We’ve increased guard patrols all round the city line and on the coast. There have been no sightings of the stolen vehicle or of a group including three adolescents on foot.”

  “They may be hiding out somewhere, waiting for dark,” I said, lifting my eyes to the windows in the roof. “Not long to go. There’s enough fog to make spotting them a hell of a job even before nightfall.”

  Hamilton was sitting with his head on his left hand. With his white beard and furrowed brow, he looked like an elderly king whose forces had just been decimated on the battlefield.

  “We still don’t know why,” he said in a low voice. “Why is all this happening?”

  No one, myself included, was up to answering that.

  Katharine and I went to the central archive on George IV Bridge and worked on correlating the files all evening, but we came across nothing that stood out. Davie and Hamilton supervised interrogations of everyone that knew Cramond 333 and the three nascent geniuses. There was no sign of the missing kids or their kidnappers. They were obviously getting somewhere, but the same couldn’t be said for us.

  At about eleven p.m. I went through Michael MacGregor’s file for the third time. I studied a report he’d written about the lecture Sophia had given on “Medicine – the Social and Ethical Interface”. The teenager seemed to have been very impressed by the medical guardian’s ideas about how medical professionals could improve the lives of ordinary citizens. I got the impression that he was pretty keen on Sophia too, but maybe I was just imagining things.

  I leaned back in my chair and watched Katharine rubbing her eyes. We’d gone as far as we could for the day and it was time to crash. But instead of packing up, I found myself thinking about eyes and the issue of sight. Why had the killers given the victims a third eye socket and transplanted their left eye there? If it was a ritual, did it have something to do with vision? Was the point that we see only what we want to see and close our eyes to the rest? After all, the third eye socket that had been chiselled out wasn�
��t equipped with eyelids or lashes. It couldn’t shut off unpleasant sights. I had a flash of the physical training supervisor’s lifeless eye staring up at an unnatural angle through the blood-drenched leaves of the copper beech. And started to shiver.

  “Come on, Quint,” Katharine said, noticing my movement. “Let’s go.”

  I stood up and started gathering the files together. “Where to?”

  “The house of sleep,” she said, yawning.

  “Ah. You didn’t fancy making use of those condoms you picked up this morning then?”

  She stood up slowly. “God, was that this morning? It feels like a week ago.”

  “That was a no, I take it?”

  “Give me a break, Quint. You’re welcome to spend the night at my place if you want, but I’m too exhausted for sex.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, shaking my head. “Too many nosy auxiliaries around there for me.” I smiled at her. “Besides, you left the condoms at my place.”

  She headed for the exit. “Forget it. I’m not destroying my back on that mattress of yours for the second night running. Why don’t you get a new one?”

  “You don’t like my flat, you don’t like my mattress,” I said, unable to resist the temptation to bait her. Frustrating cases often make you behave like a seven-year-old. “Next you’ll be telling me you don’t like me.”

  She turned and faced me. “Watch it, Quint.”

  I’d gone too far. I kept quiet and waited for her to start walking again.

  A guard vehicle was lumbering up the street towards the Lawnmarket. I flagged it down and got the female driver to take us to Grindlay Street. I followed Katharine on to the pavement outside her flat and waved the Land-Rover away. The lamp outside the auxiliary block was wreathed in mist, its light dim.

  “Coming up?” Katharine asked. “Last chance.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think you’ll come up or you don’t think this is your last chance?” Her voice had an edge to it.

  “Katharine?” I asked, taking her hand. “What is it?”

  She shook me off gently but firmly. “I don’t know, Quint. Sometimes it all gets too intense. The killings, the Council, your banter with Davie . . .”

  I shrugged. “It’s a way of surviving,” I said lamely.

  She turned and put her key in the lock, then twisted back and kissed me once on the lips. “Go and sleep it off. That’s the best way of surviving. Night.”

  I watched the door close and walked slowly away. The broad thoroughfare of Lothian Road was almost invisible in the fog. I managed to find my way home by a form of ambulatory braille, narrowly escaping death from a guard Transit that came out of the murk as silently as a creature of the deep.

  The lights were still on in Gilmore Place but the curfew would kick in soon. I pushed open the street door and ran up the stairs, promising myself a quick burst of the blues before turning in. Bumble Bee Slim singing “Cold-Blooded Murder” was what I had in mind.

  As usual the stair light-timer gave out before I reached the third floor. While I was fumbling in my pocket for the key, I heard a quick movement behind me. I had a sudden vision of the cloaked figure with the criss-crossed face, then of the dead men with their mutilated foreheads.

  “Dalrymple?” came a male voice in an unmistakable Glaswegian accent. “Quintilian Dalrymple?” He pronounced my name like it was bad joke.

  “Yeah. Who the hell are—”

  A gag was whipped round my mouth and I felt a sharp pain in my thigh. I tried to struggle but my limbs had already turned to lead.

  Then I went on a trip to another galaxy.

  Chapter Ten

  They have their backs towards me, the three figures in black. They’re wearing long cloaks and their hair is all over the place, bird’s-nest style. I try to call out but I don’t seem to be able to make any sound at all. Then I remember the guy seen by the witnesses, the guy with the stitched-up face who carries a mallet – the footprints showed that he had a couple of side-kicks. I decide against trying to make any more noise. It doesn’t make any difference. The gang of three are turning to face me. Then I get a real fright.

  At the left of the trio Katharine stares at me, her face blotchy and her green eyes glinting like pale fire. She doesn’t speak, just looks at me accusingly then turns to the taller figure next to her. Christ. It’s Hector. The old man’s face is ashen, the skin taut over his cheeks and hooked nose. He stares too, his gaze cutting into my brain and forcing me to close my eyes. When I open them again, the third figure takes a single step towards me and extends a hand. It’s Caro. My long-dead lover’s perfect face has been ravaged by time, lines etched deep around dull brown eyes and slack lips. Caro. This time I manage to emit a cry. She frowns and steps forward again. Now the features I used to love, still love, could never stop loving, are those of a mouldering corpse.

  I blink and choke as I realise that something even worse has happened to Caro’s face. Now, above the line of her nose in the centre of her forehead, a third eye has blossomed. There’s no mistaking the colour of the iris. This eye isn’t brown like the other two. It’s a piercing, visceral red.

  I hear myself scream.

  “Keep quiet.” The voice was a harsh whisper. “Or do you want the gag tighter?” Spittle drizzled on to my cheeks.

  I opened my eyes cautiously and was confronted by a face covered in heavy stubble. The head had a half-inch carpet of a similar material. I tried to move my limbs, without much success.

  “Struggle all you like, pal. I tied the knots double.” My captor let out a humourless laugh. “Just as well, the way you were jerking about. Nice dream, was it?” He grunted and moved away.

  I recognised the voice. It belonged to the Glaswegian pillock who’d stuck the needle in me outside my flat. What the hell was going on? Above me was a low wooden ceiling and I made out a bunk to the right. The slight bobbing movement clinched it. I was on a bloody boat.

  “Sleeping Beauty’s woken up,” I heard the bristle merchant say.

  Light footsteps approached. I turned to the wall, feigning indifference.

  “So he has.” This time the voice was female. The West Coast accent wasn’t as heavy but there was the same aggressive edge to it. “If you want something to drink you’re going to have to keep the noise down.” The woman leaned over me. “Or else.”

  I suddenly realised that my throat was drier than the average Edinburgh stand-pipe during the Big Heat. I looked up at the face that was now above mine. If it hadn’t been set in a hard expression, it would almost have been pretty. The grey eyes set above a button nose and full lips were surrounded by a mass of brown curls. But there was something worryingly forbidding about the way the woman was regarding me.

  She took my lack of movement as acquiescence and loosened the gag. “Give us some water, Tam.”

  I drank deeply from the can that was put to my lips, the man called Tam having undone the rope that bound my upper body to the bunk. He lifted me up and stuffed a pillow under my shoulders, giving me a blast of sweaty armpits as he did so.

  The woman noticed my grimace. “We’ve been on the road for a few days. No chance of a bath.” She removed the can. “So you’re the great Quintilian Dalrymple.” She gave an ironic laugh. “What kind of pretentious Edinburgh name is that?”

  “It’s Roman, actually,” I muttered, glancing at her companion. “And it’s a bit classier than Tam.”

  “Is that right?” The bristles were up against my face again. “How would you like your Roman name stuffed up your Roman arse?”

  The woman laughed again. “Now, now, Tam. Our leaders want this specimen brought back in full working order.”

  That sounded interesting but I didn’t react. I was working on giving the impression that I was semi-comatose.

  “We should be moving soon,” she continued. “The skipper says the fog’s thick enough to cover us.”

  “The sooner the better,” Tam said. “This arsehole’s mate
s will be looking for him.”

  I felt their eyes on me, then jerked as a shudder ran through the boat. It looked like Full Speed Ahead was on the cards. I needed to give myself a chance.

  “I feel like shit,” I mumbled. “I need some air.”

  They both laughed.

  “Nice try, pal,” Tam said. “Fancied a swim, did you?” He grabbed my throat. “Forget it.”

  The woman pulled him back. “That’s all right,” she said. “Quintilian can come up on deck.” She pulled a large automatic pistol from her belt. “As long as he promises to behave.”

  “I promise,” I said quickly. I meant it. You don’t see many guns in Edinburgh. They scare the shit out of me.

  “Let’s go then.” She signalled to Tam to loosen the rest of the ropes.

  I stood up unsteadily and tried to shake the stiffness out of my legs.

  “Here, lean on me,” the woman said. She wasn’t much more than five feet three but she was solid enough. She was wearing a high-quality green parka and well-oiled brown leather boots.

  “Thanks,” I said, staggering out of the cabin. “By the way, call me Quint. I only use my full name on special occasions.”

  “Like when your Council of City Guardians is crucifying Christians?” she asked

  “That’ll be right,” I replied. “What’s your name then?”

  “Helen Hyslop,” she said. “Chief Inspector, All-Glasgow Major Crime Squad.” She gave a tight smile. “If you feel like taking a chance, you can call me Hel.”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  On deck, the visibility was down to twenty yards. My watch told me it was eight-thirty in the morning. A watery light filtered through the mist, so faint that you’d hardly know the sun was up. I could just make out that the boat we were on was a medium-sized trawler with Edinburgh Fisheries Department insignia on the wheelhouse.