The Blood Tree (29 page)

“Great,” Haggs muttered. He looked even less impressed when he saw the bottle of malt. Obviously he couldn't afford stuff like that.

“Are you coming then?” Hel Hyslop asked.

I looked down at the towel I was wearing round my waist. “Not so's you'd notice.”

They glowered at me like cows in a fly-blown mudpatch.

“Where are we going?” I asked, heading into the bathroom to dress.

“The Macbeth cult, remember?” Hyslop's tone was sharp.

“Verily I do. Haven't you got them all banged up by now?”

Hel appeared at the door and watched impassively as I pulled on my trousers. “Certainly not. Unlike the guardians in Edinburgh, we don't treat citizens like that in here. We're going to watch them, then we're going to talk to them—”

I grinned at her. “
Then
you're going to bang them up.”

“You don't have to come,” she said, turning away.

I followed her out. “Don't worry, I'm coming all right.
Macbeth
is one of my favourite plays.” I got the impression from Big Tam's face that he probably preferred
Titus Andronicus
– all that mayhem and people having their tongues ripped out.

“Here, what about Leadbelly?” I asked as we walked towards the lift. “Shouldn't I be talking to him again?”

Hyslop glanced at me. “Don't worry about Leadbelly,” she said in a low voice. “He's not going anywhere.”

I was pretty sure I wouldn't be going anywhere either – certainly not back to Edinburgh – unless I played my cards very carefully indeed.

The mist had lifted but that didn't mean there was much light in the sky. The cloud was leaden and low. Suddenly everything seemed much more autumnal, in the sense of imminent winter rather than harvest-home. That wasn't stopping the locals flitting in and out of shops like demented chipmunks, their hands full of brightly coloured bags. I wondered where they got the money to shop so professionally, then I remembered what Duart had told me about the subsidies Glasgow citizens received. But how was the city able to afford those?

Haggs revved up the Llama's engine and pulled away like there was no tomorrow.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Has somebody died?”

“Too many people,” he said bitterly. “And I don't trust those Macbeth bastards.”

“Nothing like giving your fellow citizens the benefit of the doubt,” I said.

Haggs grunted. “Fellow citizens? Half of those tossers are immigrants from the Highlands. There's a rumour that the arsehole who thinks he's Macbeth is English.”

“Not called William, is he?” I asked.

Tam didn't get it. “What?”

“William Shakespeare?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Fuck off, you fucking smartarse.”

Hel Hyslop was shaking her head. She put her hands out as Haggs braked hard behind a tourist bus full of wide-eyed Germans. “Watch it, Tam. Duart will have your balls if you damage any of our visitors.”

That was one thing that Glasgow had in common with Edinburgh – an exaggerated respect for foreign revenue. But was that income enough to support the citizens in the way they'd become accustomed to? It even looked like the Celtic and Rangers shirts worn by a lot of the young people on the street were silk.

We drove eastwards past the City Chambers, its upper dome almost lost in the low cloud. Haggs ran the Llama on to the paved area outside the cathedral, showing what he thought of the No Parking signs, and killed the engine. Obviously Major Crime Squad surveillance activities didn't require operatives to leave the company car in a discreet location.

“Who are that lot?” I asked, pointing at a group of people in dark robes standing motionless outside the old church with its low steeple.

“People call them the Mungo Saints,” Hyslop said. “They're members of what's officially called the One True Protestant Church of Glasgow. They're old-style religious lunatics, keen on hair shirts and wife-beating. Until the Macbeth cult got going, they were the most popular sect in the city.”

I took my eyes off the grim-faced, bearded men. Oddly enough, none of the Mungo Saints seemed to be female. “Do they resent their rivals' success? They don't look very forgiving.”

The inspector shrugged. “They're not violent, if that's what you mean. At least, not to other men.”

We got out and walked over the bridge towards the gate of the necropolis. People of all ages were going in and out continuously, some of them in weird garb but the majority dressed normally.

“Pretty popular for a cemetery, isn't it?” I observed.

Hel nodded. “It's more than that. Since the wards opened up Glasgow's graveyards to the cults, they've become some of the liveliest places in the city. People pitch tents between the headstones and put on shows. The authorities are happy – it's good for the tourists and it keeps the locals busy as well.”

I saw what she meant. The necropolis stretching up the hill ahead was covered in multicoloured fabric and plastic sheeting. There were flags and banners everywhere, all of them connected with
Macbeth
– some were advertising performances, some were selling books and associated merchandise sporting quotations from the play. They were dead giveaways if you were looking for evidence of murderous activities. “Blood Will Have Blood”, one T-shirt read; another, “I Have Done the Deed”.

“Bloody hell,” I said under my breath.

“Precisely,” Hyslop agreed. “They've no shame, have they? And don't take my name in vain.”

I was amazed. Evidence of humour.

In the distance there was a deep rumble of thunder, then the steady tolling of a bell. That made some of the crazies in witches' costumes and the like look up in excitement. People started moving towards a makeshift stage near the top of the hill.

“What's going on?” I asked.

Hel glanced at her watch. “There's what they call the morning session at nine o'clock. We're going to take a look.”

We were caught up in a crowd of spectators who'd suddenly piled into the necropolis. A few of them were tourists – earnest ones with copies of the play in their hands – but most were locals. Some even had their kids with them. The young ones didn't look anything like as enthusiastic as their parents.

Another peal of thunder, far off to the east. The rain was probably pissing down in Edinburgh already. The clouds above us were louring. If you listened hard, you'd no doubt hear a raven croaking himself hoarse. Al fresco
Macbeth
in Glasgow didn't need much stage management. We joined the mass around the wooden stage. Beneath the stanchions I could see gravestones, some of them canted over at crazy angles. I wondered what the sleepers in the tombs thought of what was going on above them.

Hel nudged me. “Look.”

I followed the direction of her gaze. Over the stage was a banner that matched the handbill she'd found in Dougal Strachan's pocket: “Macbeth – Die for the Experience, Live Forever!” I still didn't have a clue what that meant. Maybe I was about to be informed.

A band of musicians in tartan trews and sashes wandered into the cleared area in front of the stage. They were clutching instruments, several of which I realised to my horror were bagpipes. Apart from drums I had trouble identifying the others. I had a nasty feeling that the conductor was an expert in ancient music and the artefacts used to make it. That was confirmed when they struck up. What was it in the play? “Lamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death”? Willie the Shake got that right.

Then the main man appeared and the cacophony wheezed to a halt. I recognised him immediately from the illustration on the hoardings – tall and saturnine, a crown on his long, dark locks and a scarlet robe to his feet. There was a lot of scarlet stuff on his broadsword too. At his side was Lady Macbeth, her face pale and her plaited hair a deep shade of auburn. I've always been a sucker for auburn hair but in this case I was prepared to make an exception. This queen had the air of a walking corpse, her eyes lifeless and her arms thin and bony. At least she wasn't washing her hands continuously. No doubt that was a delight to come.

“Friends,” Macbeth bellowed. “Supporters of our noble movement. Countrymen.”

He paused for effect. I was trying to work out which countrymen he was appealing to. The tourists were as well. Scotland had been more unified when his namesake was in charge a millennium ago than it was now.

“Welcome to our morning devotions.” He corrected himself. “Our morning session.” I got the impression that he was all too used to people being devoted to him. His voice was deep and ringing, in the style that actors imagine gives them gravitas – pomposity is the term in the real world. I watched him carefully. There was something familiar about his face.

“We in the Macbeth cult are dedicated to the story of Scotland's greatest king. The king who brought together the warring barons and governed the old country wisely until his unjust death.” He looked around the audience, eyes burning, challenging us to give him credence. It was quite gripping, even for a sceptic like me. “But we aren't only dedicated to Macbeth as a historical memory.” More eye contact with the plebs. “We intend to bring Scotland back into existence, using the example of Macbeth as a talisman, an inspiration, a destiny.”

“What a load of shite,” Tam Haggs said, not bothering to lower his voice too much. He glared back at the people who turned towards him with injured expressions. Then Hel Hyslop gave him the eye and he gave up.

The king was still declaiming. “In the evening we will perform our version of the play which made Macbeth famous around the world. For all his poetic ability, the English playwright made numerous egregious historical errors which we have corrected.”

The English playwright? That struck me as a pretty limited way to refer to the world's greatest writer, even if the speaker was English himself. Actually his accent sounded more like upper-crust, educated Scots – maybe the bugger was from Edinburgh.

As the rant continued, I let my eyes pan round the stage. Lady Macbeth still looked as if the pair of daggers had snagged in her underwear, while a man and boy I took to be Banquo and Fleance had clearly heard the speech several hundred times before. The same went for the old man in bloody robes – I got the impression King Duncan would much rather be in the hospitality tent.

“So join us, friends,” Macbeth proclaimed. “Come to our play and lend your help to our cause. Democracy is a poisoned chalice, Glasgow is unsafe, our leaders have their own agenda. We must break down the barriers between the states of Scotland, we must re-create our nation.” He looked round the crowd imperiously. “Our destiny has already been written.” He held up a handsome leather-bound book with the play's title embossed on the cover in large gold letters. “Macbeth!” he cried. “Die for the experience, live forever!”

Haggs was shaking his head. “Christ, why do we let these mad tossers sound off? The only destiny Macbeth's got is at the end of my boot.”

I watched as the royal couple graciously acknowledged the spectators' applause and swept to the wings. There was a sudden burst of thunder much nearer to us. Everyone started. It was then that I saw a shadowy figure at the edge of the stage. A tall man in a heavy cloak with a sword hanging from his belt. That wasn't all. His face was criss-crossed by ragged scars and the long brown hair that circled it was coarse and unnatural. Jesus. My mind immediately went back to Edinburgh and the dead auxiliaries in the Botanic Gardens and at the Lauriston care facility. The witnesses had described a fairy-tale monster very like this guy. Could it be him? If it was, what was he doing in Glasgow alongside a cult leader who thought he was a reincarnation of Macbeth?

“What's the matter?” Hel Hyslop asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” She peered at the stage as heavy clouds blocked out the sun completely.

I watched as Macbeth's entourage, including the bogeyman, followed him off. The mutilated faces of the victims in the two cities came up before me. The third eye. Was this the killer I'd been chasing?

“Quint?” the inspector said, her voice insistent now. “What is it?”

I took a deep breath and tried to sound calm. “Nothing. I was just bowled over by the king's speech.”

“Rubbish,” she said, her eyes wide. “You're hiding—” She broke off as her mobile rang. “Hyslop.” She listened for a few seconds. Now she was the one whose face registered surprise. “What? There were two men on him.”

I felt my stomach flip. I had a bad feeling about the identity of “him”.

“All right, we'll be there in ten minutes. Out.”

“What's happened?” I asked.

She looked at me blankly then turned and moved away quickly. “Come on. We'll catch up with these lunatics later. Your friend Leadbelly tried to hang himself. He's alive but unconscious.”

“What?” I strode after her. “Leadbelly wasn't suicidal.”

Haggs crashed into me from behind. “You reckon the fucker was looking forward to seeing his guts being ripped out, do you?”

I looked round, catching a glimpse of the empty stage and the banners flapping in the wind. “No,” I replied. “He was hoping I'd get you off his back.”

The sergeant gave me a derisive grin then pushed past to catch up with his superior. I brought up the rear, feeling more isolated than ever in Glasgow's city of the dead.

We reached George Square in under five minutes, giving several tourists serious panic attacks on the way. By the time we got there, the clouds had finally opened. I got drenched as I ran into the City Chambers. The rain was unusually warm. Good for the rice, I suppose.

Hyslop led the way to the rear of the grandiose building. “There's a medical room down the corridor,” she said over her shoulder. “He's been taken there.”