The Blood Tree (45 page)

I stared at him, not letting his eyes move away. “The girl who's being held hostage. Her name's Aurora. She's Caro's daughter.”

Billy's eyes bulged and I heard Davie, Katharine and Hel Hyslop gasp.

“But how can that be?” Billy asked, his voice faint. “Caro's been dead for over ten years. There was never any talk of her being pregnant. What age is the . . . what age is this Aurora? How do you know she's Caro's?”

“Because she's the perfect image of her,” I said. “She's around eight. Think about it, Billy.”

The veins on his ravaged face grew dark blue and distended. “Oh my Christ,” he gasped. “Oh my bleeding Christ. The bastards took an egg from Caro and stored it.” He toppled forward and caught his head in his fleshless hands. “Oh Jesus Christ, Quint. I didn't know, honestly, I didn't know.”

“Is this true, Quint?” Katharine asked in a tortured voice.

“You think I've made it up?”

Her face reddened. “No, of course not. But how . . . how could it happen?”

I told them what David Rennie had said. Billy's reaction suggested he'd been dealing with the Glasgow scientist when Caro was still alive; that is, for over ten years.

For all her toughness, even Hel seemed to be finding this aspect of the case hard to take. “You . . . you recognised her when you first saw her?” she asked.

I nodded. “Instantly. There's nothing of me or any other male apparent in her. She's Caro brought back to life.”

Hel was biting her lower lip. “I'm so sorry, Quint,” she said. “I never imagined taking you to Glasgow would—”

“Grosvenor Crescent,” Billy said quietly. “Number eight. Top flat. That's where he is. Not for long though. I don't know where he's planning on going afterwards.”

I felt a wave of relief dash over me. “Thanks, Billy.”

He turned and shrugged, eyes wet. He was once very fond of Caro.

As I headed for the door, the relief turned to cold terror. I still had no idea of how to wrest Aurora away from Macbeth. But I felt myself being drawn to his lair like iron filings to a magnet – or Birnam Wood to Dunsinane.

Grosvenor Crescent faces another elliptical street across a small tree-lined park. From the air the locale must look like an egg. Or an eye. That last idea hit me as we stopped behind the vast blackened walls of what was originally a triple-spired cathedral and is now a venue for the year-round festival. There were hoardings advertising InCirc, the Independent Edinburgh Indoor Circus. It featured exploding clowns, barebottomed bareback riders and complementary cannabis – another victory for the Tourism Directorate.

“How do we do this?” Davie asked. He'd taken over from the driver at the wheel of the Land-Rover; the fewer guard personnel who knew about this operation the better.

I got out and went to the lichen-encrusted corner of one of the ex-cathedral's walls. A heavy drizzle was falling. The crescent curved away into a blur. I'd discovered from the detailed City Guard map that number eight was towards the middle. I heard the others gathering behind me and waved them back.

“You're not going in on your own again, Quint,” Katharine said, pre-empting me and attempting to lay down the law.

I swivelled round. “Yes I am. The upper flats only have one entrance. There's no way we can storm our way in without being spotted.” I looked at them sternly. “Which could be fatal for Aurora.”

Davie was nodding. “Right enough. They're pretty easy to defend, those flats – I remember that from the drugs wars. One way in and then at least fifty steps up broad staircases with no cover.” He caught my eye. “One guy will make as good a target as half a dozen, Quint.”

“Too bad,” I said, going back to the Land-Rover and pulling out a rain-jacket with a hood. “The drizzle's making for pretty poor visibility. I'll try to get as far as the door without raising suspicion.” I shrugged. “After that, I'll play it by ear.”

Hel stepped towards me. “Let me come with you, Quint,” she said. “I've been trained to handle situations like this.”

“And we haven't?” Davie demanded.

I shook my head at Hyslop. “The last time Macbeth saw you was when he was shackled to the interrogation chair in your office, Hel. He's hardly going to hang back if he sees you coming up the stairs, is he?”

Katharine smiled as the inspector stepped back.

“I can handle him,” Hel said in a low voice.

“Forget it. I've got a mobile so I can call you in if I need back-up.” I also had the automatic but I wasn't going to tell them about that. Davie would relieve me of it before I could blink and I didn't fancy going up against Macbeth with only my diplomatic skills to hand. Then I thought of Aurora. I could only use the weapon in the last resort.

“Go on then, you idiot,” Katharine said, her smile vanishing. “And take care, you hear?”

I squeezed her arm. “I will, dearest.”

She glared at me and I hit the road before she could reply. She'd never been keen on terms of endearment, however ironically they were couched. I pulled the hood down as low as I could and zipped up the rain-jacket. Fortunately it had “Labour Directorate” stencilled on the back rather than “City Guard” – Davie's junior colleagues often purloin them because they're more weatherproof than standard guard-issue jackets.

I walked slowly down Grosvenor Crescent, glancing up at the terraced houses. They'd been built in the late eighteenth century and had grand bay windows for their upper-middle-class owners to survey the world from. Under the Enlightenment the houses were mainly turned over to tourist hostels and the like, but the Council kept a few back as private accommodation for foreign businessmen. No doubt that's how Billy knew about number eight – I was guessing he'd arranged the keys for Macbeth. The high walls and the railings at street level gave the place a fortified aspect, which was appropriate enough: the king was in his castle and I was the poor bloody infantry trying to get through his defences – without even a branch from a blood-red tree to protect me.

As I approached the entrance I kept close to the railings, hoping he didn't choose that moment to look down. Then I ran up the half-dozen steps to the heavy black door and took cover under the lintel. Getting in wasn't going to be a problem – a pass-key had been sent down to us by guard vehicle. The question was, had I been spotted? There was only one way to find out.

I slipped the key into the well-worn brass lock and turned it cautiously. Nice and smooth. The bolt moved silently and I put my shoulder against the wood. Fortunately there was no Gothic creaking as the door swung open. I stepped in quickly and pushed the door to, holding the key in the lock to avoid any click. I was in.

The problem was that the entrance hall and stairwell were pitch-dark. These houses were built with a glass cupola in the roof. This one must have been dealt with during the drugs wars and replaced by a solid cover – of poor-quality wooden slats if I knew anything about Housing Directorate practice. I still had the torch in my pocket but I didn't want to risk using it, so I moved slowly towards where I thought the stairs started, my arms extended forwards. That didn't stop me losing my balance when my boot encountered the bottom step. I leaned my shoulder against the wall and started on the climb, counting off the stairs silently as I went.

Twenty-four got me to the first-floor landing. I paused for a moment then slid along the wall. When I reached the door-frame I moved away slightly. Not far enough. Suddenly the door opened. I was engulfed in a flood of light which blinded me for a second. That was long enough for a hand to grab the collar of my rain-jacket and haul me inside. I hit the deck heavily and rolled round.

“Dalrymple.” The voice was high-pitched and as harsh as a hanging judge's. “I was expecting you to turn up.” Broadsword was standing over me in his usual garb, the mask and ragged hair looming down. He reached under his cloak and came out with a mallet – he must have got a new one – and chisel. There was a bloodstained bandage on his right hand, presumably from a Ladykiller bullet, but it didn't seem to be hampering him much. “This is the end of your road, arsehole.”

“Wait, wait!” I gabbled. “I can help you. I can get you safe passage out of Edinburgh. You and your leader.”

“My leader?” The bogeyman gave a laugh that made me shiver despite the sweat I was exuding. “My leader? Fuck my leader.” He leaned closer and drew the mallet back.

The time for negotiations was over. I whipped my left leg upwards and caught him in the groin with my steel toe-cap. That made him cant over to his right and stick a hand out to break his fall. I slithered out from under him and scrambled over the ornate tiles on the flat's hall floor.

Broadsword coughed and spat. “That was really dumb, Dalrymple. Now you don't get stunned. Now I split your head open without an anaesthetic.”

I pulled the automatic out of my belt and raised it at him. He stopped and peered forward as I slipped the safety off.

“That's mine, you fuck. Give it back.” He stepped heavily towards me.

I was panting like a bull on the killing line, trying to weigh up Aurora's chances if a shot rang out. Then Broadsword came closer and the debate ended. I pulled the trigger and the heavy weapon jerked back, almost breaking my wrist. The noise made my ears ring. Even though I'd needed to fire in self-defence, I still hated guns.

The bogeyman was sprawled on the floor, his legs wide apart. A low groan came from him, then he rolled on to his side and struggled back to his feet.

“Jesus,” I gasped. I'd aimed at the middle of his chest. What did it take to put the guy down? Then I remembered what happened in the Rennie. I'd pumped several shots from the Ladykiller into his chest there and he still walked away. The bastard must have been wearing a bulletproof vest.

“Farewell, Quint,” he grunted, pulling back the mallet.

“Farewell, John Breck,” I said, pointing the pistol at the ragged mask. This time I remembered to squeeze the trigger like I'd learned on the auxiliary training programme.

He flew back again, a red spray exploding from the back of his head. Then he slid across the polished tiles and came to rest against the wall. His legs didn't jerk for long.

I got up and went towards him unsteadily, avoiding the trail of gore on the floor. A mobile phone had fallen from underneath Broadsword's cloak and landed in the crimson pool. I left it where it was. The mask was shattered at its epicentre, a blackened hole glistening where the nose used to be. I took a deep breath and slid my hand round to the back of his shattered head. That turned out to be unnecessary as the impact of the bullet had destroyed the mask's elastic bindings. I wiped my hand on his cloak and pulled the leathery covering away – then looked down on the face of the killer.

What I saw knocked me back on my heels. The entry wound in the middle of the young man's features was horrendous enough, but what was above it made me feel even worse.

Broadsword's eyes were grey, as I'd seen through the slits on the mask. But above the bridge of his nose there was a dark brown and bloodshot third eye.

Before I could do anything else, I threw up on to the tiles.

When I'd finished, I headed out of the first-floor flat at speed, automatic in one hand and torch in the other. There was no need for caution now. I had to get to the top flat before Macbeth did anything to Aurora. Besides, the gunshots were the first anyone in central Edinburgh would have heard for years. The guard would be round any minute unless Davie could stop them. Christ, he'd be heading this way himself.

I reached the upper door and hammered on it frantically. “Macbeth! Rennie! It's Dalrymple. Let me in! You need my help if you want to stay alive.” I looked down at my right hand. The pistol was the only weapon I had, but it was hardly going to inspire confidence in the hostage-taker. Reluctantly I slid the safety catch on and dropped the gun down the stairwell. I heard it land on the tiles of the entrance hall with a sharp crack.

“Dalrymple?” Macbeth's shout came from well inside the flat. He wasn't taking any chances by approaching the door. “What's going on? I heard gunfire.”

I heard the street-door slam open and heavy boots crash into the ground floor.

“Let me in,” I pleaded. “I'm unarmed. The guard's on its way. They'll take you out, Macbeth.” I pounded on the door again. “Come on, open up. For the sake of the girl!”

There was a pause during which nailed boots started on the lower stairs.

“Quint?” came a shout from below.

“Stay there, Davie,” I screamed. “Don't let anyone up.”

“What's going on, Dalrymple?” Macbeth demanded, his voice closer now.

“You heard me,” I said. “They're not coming any further. But you've got to let me in.”

Another pause. “Now why would I want to do that?” he asked.

I was racking my brains to come up with something to tempt him. “I'll be your hostage,” I said. “The Council will value me much more than a kid from Glasgow.”

“She's not just any kid, is she, Dalrymple?” he said, making it clear that he was in complete command.

“Of course she isn't!” I shouted. “That's why I'm here. But you're still better off with a second hostage. One from Edinburgh.”

The chain slid off and the door opened slowly.

Macbeth's face drew back from the gap. “Very well,” he said. “I accept your offer. But any tricks and the girl dies.”

I squeezed into the flat and closed the door after me, applying the chain personally.

Whatever happened, I wasn't leaving Aurora again.

Chapter Twenty-One