The Blood Tree (27 page)

“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.”

“If Leadbelly's your man, how come another victim's turned up while he's in custody? And how come I'm being taken to the scene if my role's so limited?”

Hel Hyslop bit her lip. “Maybe your friend had an assistant.”

She pulled up behind another Llama. Lights were flashing and figures moving rapidly around. Some were wearing jackets with luminous stripes which made them look like mobile skeletons. I remembered the fake workmen we'd seen outside the Parliament archive in Edinburgh – where were they now?

I got out and followed the inspector into the blaze of light. A generator was running, its racket making everyone shout at each other. Or perhaps, as the revellers we'd passed suggested, shouting was par for the course in this city.

“He's over here,” said a white-haired policeman in green fatigues. The sight of Hyslop made him stand to attention and drop the cigarette he was holding. “The crime-scene squad's been waiting for you, inspector.”

We passed through a group of figures in white overalls, keeping to a pathway marked out with green and yellow tape. There was a small expanse of open ground, overgrown with willowherb and thistles, and a line of trees. To our right I could see another strip of flattened vegetation.

The body was lying on its side, legs together and knees bent. I felt my heartbeat race as I clocked the branch over his face. I could see blood on the leaves. Jesus, another one. The dead man was wearing blue jeans and a good-quality silk shirt, and on his feet was a pair of brand-new slip-on shoes – I'd only ever seen the richest tourists in Edinburgh with footwear of that quality.

Hyslop was talking to a crime-scene squad member, so I kneeled down and examined the trail leading away from the corpse's feet. I couldn't see any sign of another person, only spatters of blood forming an uneven line on the grass.

“It appears he crawled through the undergrowth,” Hel said.

“So I see.”

“Time to look at the body,” she said, squatting down beside the head.

I joined her and pulled on the protective gloves she handed me. In the artificial light, the blood on the branch glowed bright crimson. This time, however, the branch wasn't from a copper beech. It was some kind of pine, a cypress perhaps. I looked around and saw a likely specimen a few yards away.

“The photographers have finished,” Hyslop said. “Let's move the branch.”

I knew what I was going to see before I saw it. A bloody pulp on the side of the head and a rough hole in the centre of the forehead. Hel leaned forward and shone her torch at the wound. An eye had been stuffed roughly into the cavity.

“Yes,” the inspector said. “It's the same pattern as the other eight murders.” She shook her head. “But it's the first time a branch has been put over the face. What's that all about?”

I looked at her, surprised that she sounded almost human. I watched as she took a series of deep breaths, then eased the torch from her hand and flashed it round the scene. It didn't take her long to find the tree that the branch had been taken from. There was blood on the trunk, suggesting that the mutilation had been carried out before the branch had been torn away.

I rocked back on my heels and tried to work out what was going on. I forced myself to examine the dead man's face again and realised that he wasn't a man. His face was soft and covered with wispy stubble. He was an adolescent. Then it hit me. I'd seen that face before. In a Welfare Directorate file. He was Dougal Strachan, one of the hyper-intelligent kids from the care facility in Edinburgh. How the hell had he ended up dead in Glasgow?

Before I could work out how much to keep to myself, Andrew Duart arrived. He spent five minutes in a huddle with Hyslop and the crime-scene supervisor then came over to the body.