Water of Death (30 page)

I sat up straight. “What? You know him?”

Her smile got wider. “Oh yes. He was on the farm with me till about a year back. Peter's his name, Peter Bryson.”

“What the hell was he doing here?”

Katharine raised her shoulders. “I didn't have time to ask him that. I got as close as I could to him and whispered his name. Fortunately he didn't raise the alarm.” She looked down but I could see she was still smiling. “He was pleased to see me. Very pleased.”

I felt a stab of jealousy. Christ, it was a long time since I'd experienced that emotion. “Oh, aye. When you say you knew him, what kind of knowledge do you mean?”

Her head jerked up and her eyes flashed. “You don't own me, Quint. You never did.”

I dropped my gaze. “Sorry.”

“You could have come to the farm with me the last time we were together,” she said, leaning closer. “But you didn't have the nerve to leave your precious city and your bloody work. You didn't care about me that much.”

She was right, though I kidded myself that things weren't quite as clear cut as she said. Time to get back to her story. “What happened with lover boy?”

Katharine glared at me. “Nothing to get worried about, dear,” she said acidly. “Not this time anyway. I asked him what was going on. He told me he and his mates were out to make a killing in the city.”

“Very funny.”

Katharine looked at me uncomprehendingly. “Then one of the other men came out to join Peter. I made it back to the bushes before he saw me. Fortunately it was pitch dark.”

“And then?”

“And then I waited till morning. I wanted to see if I could make contact with Peter again but they headed off towards the city line before dawn. I looked around the mill after they'd gone. There wasn't much there as they'd taken their packs with them and covered their traces to make it look like the place was deserted.” She stopped and looked at me. “Then I found the whisky you're so interested in.”

“Where was it? How many bottles?”

“There were three twelve-bottle cases, the top one five bottles short. They'd dug a hole in the corner and covered it pretty well. I noticed that the earth was a different colour there.” She smiled bitterly. “Auxiliary training has its uses after all. Now will you tell me what's the big deal about the whisky?”

“In a minute. Finish your story first.”

Katharine looked at me and shrugged. “I waited around to see if Peter would come back but he didn't. None of them did. So in the late afternoon I decided to move on to your place. I took a couple of the bottles for you.” She stared at me sternly. “I decided against handing them over when I found you with your flies open and the medical guardian about to perform oral surgery.”

I felt my cheeks redden. “Em, getting back to the people in the mill house. Can you describe any of them?”

“Not really,” she said, shaking her head. “It was dark and I was peering through a dirty windowpane. I'd say they were all reasonably young. Peter's in his thirties, and he sounded the oldest. He's about five feet seven, thin, with very short black hair.”

That made my ears prick up. Was he the one seen outside Frankie Thomson's place?

“And they were from Glasgow, you reckon?” I asked.

“Some of them certainly were. The woman and at least a couple of the guys. Not Peter. He's from Edinburgh like us. There may have been another guy with an Edinburgh accent but, like I told you, I'm not sure if there were three or four men.”

“What were they talking about?”

“I don't know, Quint. They were trying to convince the woman to do something.”

I remembered the injuries she'd suffered. “Did it sound like they might use force?”

“I don't think so. They were hard men but they weren't laying into her that badly.”

I rocked back on my heels and thought about Katharine's story. Had she really come across the poisoned whisky by chance after an unplanned meeting with a friend? I couldn't see Sophia and Lewis Hamilton going for that. Something else occurred to me.

“Why are you back out here now?”

Katharine met my eyes and didn't look away. “I wanted to see Peter again.”

I nodded slowly. “I thought as much. You were involved with him, weren't you?”

“Oh for God's sake, Quint, grow up,” she said furiously. “Yes, I fucked him a few times. It was just the equivalent of a sex session on the farm, no emotions engaged. Satisfied?”

I turned away. I had no rights over her. Christ, I hadn't seen her for years. But what she'd told me still bothered me.

“I was worried about him,” she went on. “He's smart but he's easily led. I think he might be taking too many chances.”

“And you're going to look after him, are you?” I asked ironically. “Tell me, Katharine, why did you come to my place? You'd have saved us both a lot of trouble if you'd stayed out here.”

She stared at me, then dropped her head. “You know what happened to the farm, Quint. I had nowhere else to go.”

“So you decided to walk in on me three years after walking out on me. How kind.”

“Stop it,” she said angrily. “Stop it, Quint. I still care for you. I  . . .” She crouched into herself and I realised how difficult it had been for her to say that. It was a lot more than I'd managed.

“Have you been back to the mill?” I asked in a softer voice.

She shook her head, still keeping it bent. “I was waiting till it got dark.”

“Shall we go and check it out together?”

She looked up and gave me a surprisingly warm smile. “Yes. And then you'll tell me about the whisky, all right, Quint?”

I nodded then stood up, feeling the nerves in my legs tingling. It wasn't the right moment to let her know that Davie was due to meet me upstream. The crows that had been haunting the vicinity all day exchanged their harsh cries again. I wasn't sure whether they were mocking me for going along with Katharine's story or railing at me for setting her up.

Chapter Thirteen

As we approached the mill house, I could see no sign of Davie. He was obviously being a lot more fastidious in his search than I was, though the fact that he hadn't contacted me on the mobile meant he'd drawn a blank. After meeting Katharine, I ignored everything else and headed straight for the semi-ruined building. It was two days since she'd been out here. I wondered if the stock of whisky was still buried in the mill. If we were lucky, we might even find its owners in residence. The prospect of catching Katharine's ex-boyfriend drove me forward.

The track veered towards the Water of Leith and I could hear its shallow stream trickling away behind a screen of dust-covered bushes to the right.

Katharine stopped and sniffed the air. The crows were having a momentary break from choir practice. “Do you smell what I smell?” she asked, giving me a dubious glance.

I breathed in and got a faint whiff of something sweet and sickly that immediately made the hairs on my neck rise. “Oh, oh.” I watched as an inky-black bird lifted off from the crumbling wall in a clearing ahead of us. “Carrion.”

She nodded. “Yes, but is it animal or human?”

I watched her as she started to move forward slowly. Was she spinning me a line? Did she already know what was in the mill? There was no way of telling. I was trusting her more than good sense advised and I should have got Davie over right away.

“Come on,” she said, turning impatiently.

I caught up with her and ran my eye over the place. Ivy was growing over the high walls of the old building. Most of the windows had been pulled out but there was one on ground level that still retained its panes. That was probably Katharine's observation point. The ground in front of the mill house was overgrown apart from the pot-holed surface we were standing on. It looked like an idyllic scene from one of Walter Scott's medieval poems where the knight brings his lady for a bit of courtly lovemaking, no tongues allowed – apart from the smell, which got higher as we approached the shattered doorframe.

“See here,” Katharine said, pointing at the faded grass to our left. A piece of wood about three feet long was lying there. One end was partially crushed where a metal head such as a pick-axe had been attached. There was a dull brown coating of dried blood on it, as well as small pieces of greyish tissue. The comatose woman's pounded face flew up before me again. She'd been found a quarter of a mile from here. It was beginning to look like she was the lucky one.

I put my hand on Katharine's arm. “I'll go in first.”

“You think I can't take it,” she said angrily, her eyes flashing.

“No, I know what you've seen in the past.” I was pulling on rubber gloves. “I just don't want any potential evidence messed up. Stay here, okay?”

She nodded grudgingly.

I went in through the outer doorway and into a large open room – where I got, in quick succession, a couple of very nasty shocks. First, a gathering of black and dirt-grey crows flew up in a commotion of beating wings and alarmed shrieks, disappearing through a gaping hole in the roof high above. Then I saw what they'd been perching on and swallowed back what rose into my mouth. The birds hadn't left us much to go on.

“Jesus,” Katharine said from the door, catching her breath. “Is Peter here?”

I motioned to her to stay where she was and kneeled down by the first body. The clothing had been torn apart by the crows' sharp beaks, as had the skin. All the soft tissue and organs accessible from above had been lacerated and pecked – eyes, lips, liver and so on. The only obvious way to identify the corpse's sex was by the stubble on what remained of the face. It was a man. I stepped over the reeking body to the next one. It was in a similar state, also lying on its back. Also male. And the same went for the third, although he was on his side, meaning that his left eye was still in situ. I turned the stiffened body round. Despite the post-mortem lividity, heavy bruising to the lower side of the face was visible. It was difficult to tell if there were stab wounds on the bodies as well as the marks of beating. I reckoned there were. Then I found something even more interesting. The man's shirtsleeve was ripped. Underneath was a yellow mark, a tattooed number four. I checked the first two bodies. The skin on their arms was torn, but I made out signs of four that matched the one on the woman in the infirmary.

“I'm coming in, Quint,” Katharine said, moving forward before I could stop her. She bent down and studied the first body. “Oh no,” she groaned, dropping to her knees. “Oh no.” She put her hand out to the lacerated face.

“Don't touch him!” I shouted. “Sorry. Here, put these on.” I handed her a pair of protective gloves. “Is it your  . . . is it Peter Bryson?”

She nodded slowly.

I pointed to the yellow tattoo. “Have you ever noticed this before?”

“No,” she said in a low voice.

“Are you sure?”

Katharine looked at me contemptuously. “Of course I'm sure. I saw him without his shirt often enough.”

“Did you?” I said sharply. Her face tensed as she fought back tears. “Sorry.”

“Who did this?” she whispered. Her face had lost its healthy hue and her voice was unsteady.

“I'd say there was more than one assailant. It looks like these guys were wiped out before they could fight back.” There was no sign of defence wounds on their hands or arms so I reckoned they'd been taken by surprise and clubbed mercilessly. I looked at the earth-covered floor. There were no clear footprints. “It's almost like someone went over this surface with a branch to obscure any giveaway marks.”

Katharine's head jerked up. “Why would a gang of violent killers bother with that?”

“Exactly.” I didn't like the way this was going. But before I could take it any further, my mobile buzzed.

“Quint? Davie. I'm finished on this side. Nothing's turned up. How about you?”

I leaped to my feet, remembering that Katharine shouldn't be anywhere near a member of the guard. “No, nothing yet. Give me ten minutes.”

“Right. Out.”

I put my mobile back in my pocket and took Katharine's arm. “That was Davie. He'll be on this side of the river soon.”

She slumped against me, her head on my shoulder. “I'd better go.”

“Aye. It's probably not a good idea if he finds you at a multiple-murder scene.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “No, the idiot would probably think I did it.”

I raised her head. “He wouldn't be the only one. Katharine, I'm taking a big chance letting you walk.”

She looked at me, her face hardening. “You don't think I had anything to do with the killings, Quint?” She sounded seriously aggrieved.

I examined the features that had appeared in my dreams so often in the past. Katharine's high cheekbones were more prominent now that her face had become thinner and the green eyes were as unfathomable as ever. I tried to imagine how Sophia and Hamilton would judge her. They wouldn't have bought her story about how she'd run into an old friend here and how she'd got the whisky. They'd assume she was in with the dead men or that she was involved in their deaths. Katharine had experienced all sorts of brutality as auxiliary, dissident, prisoner, Tourism Directorate prostitute and deserter; I'd seen her carry out a clinical killing myself. But she'd always been a victim reacting to violence rather than an instigator.