The Bone Yard (37 page)

She raised an eyebrow but didn't refuse her share. “What happens next, Quint?” she asked, pushing my legs away and sitting down next to me.

The whisky had an instant effect. The faces of the people I'd been involved with over the last twenty-four hours flickered before me like the frames of an old film: the lumberjack who'd recognised me; the fragile inmates of the Bone Yard with their clouded eyes, their blotched complexions and their soft, sad voices; the toxicologist dashing to greet them, tears coursing down his wrinkled face; and the senior guardian, his face splashed with blood from his shattered nose and, at the last, his body hanging like a hooked fish from the railing spike.

“What happens next?” I repeated wearily. “We try to find the Wolf before he gets bored with selecting his victims and goes back to indiscriminate mayhem. He used to be an expert at that.”

Katharine nudged me with her elbow. “That wasn't what I meant.” She put the fingers of one hand on my chin and turned my face towards her. “What happens to us?”

My mouth experienced a sudden attack of paralysis. I could look at her, take in the way her eyes were wide apart and fixed on mine – but speak? No chance.

“You've been so distant, Quint. It's like I don't exist,” she said, nudging me in the ribs again with enough force to make me wince. “I suppose you think I only came back to the city to tell you about the drugs formula.”

The function of movement returned to my mouth but I was having difficulty forming a sentence with the words in the right order. Eventually I made the grade.

“Wait a minute, Katharine. You've not exactly been sending out too many signals yourself. What did you expect me to do? Listen to your story about the Cavemen then drag you to bed?”

Her face slackened and she gave me another smile. I'd seen more of those in the last five minutes than I had since she came back. “I'm sorry. You were so good about all the shit that happened to me.” Her gaze dropped and her voice became less assured. “I suppose I just thought you'd be glad to see me again. Treat me like a long-lost lover rather than a psychiatric case.”

I slid my hand over hers. She didn't move it away. “I thought you'd given up on men,” I said. “You did kind of give that impression, Katharine.”

She laughed. “I kind of gave that impression because I had given up on men, Quint. But you were never just one of them to me. I saved your life, remember.” She moved her face close to mine.

I wasn't too sure where this debate was headed. “So because of that you have some kind of hold over me?” I asked, leaning my forehead against hers.

She nodded then put her lips against mine. At first she didn't make any attempt to kiss me and I didn't respond. Then we seemed to get used to each other and there was a lot of tongue contact.

Eventually she pulled away. “Come on, let's get under the covers. Otherwise they'll find us like Captain Scott and his friends in the morning.”

We stumbled into the bedroom, arms round each other. Her coat proved to be as big a source of trouble as it had been since I first laid eyes on it. We finally got our outer layers off and took refuge in my bed. It was dark under the covers but we didn't seem to have forgotten the general layout of each other's bodies.

“God, I haven't been near a shower for days,” I said as my shirt came over my head.

“And you think I have?” Katharine replied from the region of my lower abdomen.

Once I was sensitive about what got up my nose, but years of weekly visits to the communal baths have put paid to that.

“Katharine,” I gasped, suddenly feeling her mouth on my cock, “a condom, I've got one in the  . . .”

A few seconds later her face came up to mine. “Too late,” she said, her voice deep and alluring. “How long do you need to get hard again?”

“Twenty minutes?” The hard points of her breasts were rubbing against my chest and her groin was crushed against mine. I was forced to recalculate. “Quarter of an hour?”

“I'll settle for ten minutes,” she said, breathing into my ear. “That's my best offer.”

I closed my eyes and moved my hands down her back. “Done,” I murmured, wondering exactly what kind of deal I'd just signed off on.

It turned out that I was party to an agreement similar to that entered into by Cleopatra and Mark Antony – something along the lines of “Forget the major crises taking place in the outside world, let's spend the rest of our lives screwing”. Except that the rest of our lives in this case meant the next four hours. That was a long way beyond what I thought would be the limit of my energy reserves, as well as a strain on my stash of condoms.

I must have fallen into an abyss of dreamless sleep because the next thing I knew was the flailing sensation of coming up for air after a long dive. It wasn't just me waking up though. What also resurfaced was the thought that had been bothering me last night. Who says sex isn't good for the mind?

I sat up in bed, only vaguely aware that my shoulders were in the process of becoming a heat-free zone. My mind had just gone into overdrive. The murder case two years ago. Remembering that in Moray Place had set off the chain of ideas that I couldn't get hold of at the time. But now I had it. I'd made the connection I needed to identify that murderer by using information I'd got from a former member of Howlin' Wolf's gang who was a prisoner in the city's sole prison – the gang member known as Leadbelly. He might be able to help me again. But was he still alive? The last time I saw him he looked like he was a living skeleton and that was nearly two years ago.

I toppled out of bed and scrabbled around in my clothes for my mobile.

“What's going on, Quint?” Katharine asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“Lewis?” I said, waving at her to be quiet. “Are you in the castle? Good. I want you to log on to your computer.”

“What are you talking about, man?” the guardian said in confusion. “It's not even six o'clock.” You have to wake up very early in the morning to beat Lewis Hamilton.

“Don't argue, just get over to the terminal. Ready? Okay, do exactly what I tell you. Call up the main directorate menu. Got that?”

There was a long pause. “All right, it's on screen.”

“Highlight the Corrections Department option.”

“The Corrections  . . . ?”

“Just do it!” I shouted.

“I have,” Hamilton replied tersely.

“Highlight Cramond Island.”

“Done.”

“Highlight Prisoner Register.”

“Done.”

“Right. Are there any prisoners who entered the facility in 2015?” I couldn't remember Leadbelly's prisoner number but the year he was captured was burned on my memory permanently because of Caro's death.

“There's only one,” the guardian said at last.

“Highlight his number.”

“Done.”

“Okay,” I said breathlessly. “Scroll down the file and see if there's any reference to his drug gang name of Leadbelly.”

There was an extended silence. I could feel my heart pounding like a bass drum played by a Sumo wrestler.

“Here it is,” the guardian shouted, almost making me drop the mobile. “Code-name Leadbelly. Entered facility 23.5.2015.”

It was him. Since he was on the register, the chances were he was still alive – unless the Corrections Department had failed to update its archives.

Hamilton was continuing to read. “Known confederate of Howlin'  . . .”

I signed off, called Davie and told him to pick us up. It was a long shot but I reckoned it was worth it. Leadbelly had delivered the goods in the past and he was our best chance of finding the Wolf now. He was probably our only chance.

The tide was out so we were able to cross the causeway to the island. There was thick, freezing fog and I could think of numerous places I'd rather be. Starting with the Bahamas.

“How are your thighs?” Katharine asked from behind me.

“In need of a serious massage.” At one stage last night she'd been on top, pounding up and down on them.

“I'll remember that next time.”

I smiled to myself. “You reckon there'll be a next time, do you?”

“I do.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw the grin on Katharine's face. Behind her Davie was trudging along with his head bowed.

“What's the matter with you, guardsman?” I called.

He raised his head. “Oh, nothing,” he said morosely. “Being forced to watch a performance of
Romeo and Juliet
first thing in the morning is quite uplifting, really.”

“Asshole,” I said, realising as the word left my lips that Katharine had come out with it at exactly the same time. That was a bit worrying.

The guards at the gate knew we were coming. They admitted us to the prison yard. The place was like the set of a low-budget movie based on an Edgar Allan Poe story.
The Fall of the House of Usher
, perhaps. I almost expected the high walls to cant over at any moment and plunge us without a sound into the icy waters of the estuary.

Katharine stood on the flagstones, running her eyes round the cell windows. She'd spent three years on the island for dissident activities. It didn't look like she was overjoyed to be back.

One of the guards led us into the accommodation block and down damp steps to an interrogation room. The door slammed to behind us and in the single bulb's dim light I became aware that there was a hunched figure covered with a threadbare blanket on the floor in the far corner. No movement came from it.

“Leadbelly?” I said in a low voice.

Nothing.

Davie stepped up, ready to haul him to his feet. I shook my head.

“Leadbelly? It's me, Dalrymple. The guy who sent you the Huddie Ledbetter tapes.” That had been the deal when he gave me information before. He'd been amazed that I kept my part of it. But that was nearly two years ago. God knows what life in the tomb of the island had done to his memory since then. The original Council tried to rehabilitate prisoners, but the iron boyscouts never gave a shit about the few remaining lifers.

Thin fingers appeared at the edge of the blanket, pulling it down to reveal a skull that Poe would have swooned over – hairless, unwashed, skin shrunken over uneven bone. An eye sunk deep in its socket glinted out at us.

“Huddie?” came a croak. “Huddie's dead and buried.” There was a vacant laugh. “Lucky bastard.”

I went over to him and knelt down, gagging at the stink that rose up to greet me.

“You remember me, don't you, Leadbelly?”

“Aye, I remember you. What the fuck do you want this time?” The words were harsh but the tone had a touch of the bitter humour that flourishes in hell-holes like this – until the inmates succumb to disease and malnutrition.

“Howlin' Wolf.” I let the name sink in.

Leadbelly moved his head. Now both his eyes were on me. “What about him?”

“He's back.”

I became aware of a grating noise that was gradually getting louder. When I saw the prisoner's shoulders shaking, I realised that this was his version of laughter.

“And he's been killing people.”

Leadbelly didn't stop laughing immediately, but the noise and movement slowly came to a halt.

“What the fuck do you expect? He wasn't called the Wolf just because he liked the old guy's music.” He began to crank the laughter up. “The Wolf does the business and suddenly Leadbelly's popular again. That's a real fucking joke.”

I leaned forward into the pollution cloud that hung over him. “If you give me what I need, I'll get you out of here.”

That shut him up. After a minute I began to wonder if I'd given him heart failure.

“I said, I'll get you out of here.”

He jerked into life again. “I heard you.” He let loose a manic cackle. “I was just trying to work out if I can trust you.”

“I got you the tapes, remember?”

“Aye, you did.” He thought about it again. “All right, what is it you want to know, man?”

“The Wolf, he had a lot of safe houses in the city, didn't he?”

Leadbelly nodded. As his head came down, I saw evidence of insect life on his scalp. “Let me guess. You want the addresses. You're fucking crazy, man. There were dozens of places over the years.”

“Yes, but not in the last few months before we hit you at Soutra. We busted most of them and forced you out of the city, remember?”

The prisoner looked at me blankly, then nodded. “Aye, you're right. Seems like a century ago.”

“Safe houses, Leadbelly. Or contacts – were there any friends or family?”

He cackled again. “We were a bunch of psychos, for fuck's sake. We didnae go back to our mothers for high tea on Sunday afternoons.”

“I'll get you out,” I repeated. Talking the Council into that would be the thirteenth labour of Hercules – the one the big man would have given the bodyswerve – but I'd think about that later.

“I reckon you might too.” Leadbelly pulled himself to his feet. He was way beyond ordinary malnutrition. It looked like his bones had been on a diet. “Okay, here's the stuff. Two places you fuckers never found. A top-floor flat in the New Town. St Stephen's Street. I can't remember the number, but there was a tourist shop two doors further down selling Independent Edinburgh Rock and shite like that.” He paused to draw breath. “And a house down beyond Jock's Lodge. What was it? Oh, aye. Mountcastle Street. It was number 35. I remember that because it's my prisoner number.” He opened the blanket and showed the label stitched on his filthy striped tunic. “He used to take women there and give it to them.” He looked over my shoulder and bared the rotten stumps of his teeth at Katharine.

“Let's go,” I said, turning to the others.

“Here, what about me?” Leadbelly called.

“I'll be in touch. I said you could trust me.”