THREE

To my surprise, Davie was still in the 4×4 outside.

‘Nothing to keep you busy, guardsman?’

‘I knew you’d ask for me to be your sidekick.’

‘My sidekick? What do you think this is? A mystery novel?’

‘It’s certainly a mystery.’

‘That’s true.’ I told him about the call that had been made to his boss.

‘I thought there was something going on,’ he grumbled. ‘Hang on, how did they get through to her? Guardians’ numbers are restricted.’

‘Good point. What a surprise – there’s someone on the inside.’

‘Oh aye,’ he said, turning on to the Canongate. ‘No doubt the heart-taker’s an auxiliary.’

‘Could well be.’

‘Give it a rest, ya pillock. There are plenty devoted people in the barracks.’

‘I know. It only takes a few rotten ones, though.’

He couldn’t argue with that. We’d uncovered plenty of bent guardians and auxiliaries over the years. Which made me think of someone. Later.

Davie parked on the esplanade and we walked into the castle between the statues of Bruce and Wallace. It was a surprise they were still there. Brian Cowan, the education guardian, had gone even further than previous education guardians – the first of whom was my mother – in skewering what he regarded as the pernicious myths bedevilling Scottish history. Admittedly, Edinburgh’s children were mainly taught the city’s history but, with the referendum looming, Guardian Brian had initiated a policy to demolish ancient heroes. Wallace was a bandit, Bruce a thief and a murderer, the Stuarts were wasters, James VI and I a misogynist, the Covenanters religious fundamentalists, even the intellectual superstars of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment were bigots (especially those from outside Edinburgh), etc., etc. No one else on the Council seemed bothered by his actions – David Hume was still a hero to many of them – but maybe they were going to vote ‘no’ anyway. It might be that most of them would lose out if Scotland became a nation again.

‘Are you with us, Quint?’ Davie said, nudging me harder than was necessary.

‘What? Just thinking. What are you going to vote in the referendum?’

He gave me a questioning look. ‘What business is that of yours?’

I laughed. ‘None, but I can still be nosy.’

‘I suppose you’re a nailed-down no.’

‘Actually, I’m not. I haven’t liked a lot of what the Council’s done in the last twenty years, but people have generally benefited.’

‘By still being alive and well.’

The cobblestones were slippery and I grabbed his arm. ‘That was true about the early years. Without independence, the securing of the borders and the wiping out of the drugs gangs, people would have been massacred as happened in plenty of other cities. But austerity went on too long. Weekly sex sessions, thank God they’ve got rid of them. Then again, life-long education was a good thing. Not many people bother now it’s voluntary.’

‘Plus there’s the big bad wolf factor.’

‘What?’

‘We haven’t a clue what’s waiting for us outside the city-line. OK, Glasgow seems to be a functioning democracy.’

‘Is a functioning democracy,’ I corrected. ‘The ward representative idea came from there.’

‘Aye, but remember the shenanigans their leader got up to in New Oxford.’

‘True. We’ll have to wait and see. There’s oil in the north-west and that might change everything.’

‘Makes you wonder why they’re interested in our little tourist attraction.’

‘The Bangkok of the North. It does make a lot of money.’

‘It does, most of it tainted.’ Davie always had a Calvinist streak about him, not that he ever attended church. He was a hard-line guardsman and probably would have been quite happy still on border patrol. Guard commanders don’t get out much.

We reached the Public Order Directorate command centre in what had been the Great Hall. Guard personnel were looking at screens, hammering away on keyboards and talking into mouthpieces. The equipment was the most high-tech in the city, though it had been in operation for several years. There wasn’t much technical surveillance of citizens. Instead, the twenty guard barracks across Edinburgh kept order in a hands-on fashion despite the recent loosening of regulations.

‘Citizen.’

I turned to find that Guardian Doris had crept up behind me. Davie had gone to lean over an attractive red-haired guardswoman, as was his wont.

‘I have your authorization and mobile phone. Perhaps you’d come to my office.’

‘The commander’s invited too,’ I said, beckoning to Davie. ‘There’ll be no secrets in this team.’

She looked dubious, but let it go.

In her quarters in what was once the Governor’s House, I got my goodies. The rain had started again and the view barely included Princes Street to the north.

‘So, citizen, where do we go from here?’ the guardian asked.

‘Good question. Have you got your people checking out reports of screaming and the like?’

‘Yes. There were several, and squads are on the way to check.’

‘Discreetly.’

Spots of red appeared on her high-boned cheeks. ‘The Council wants to follow the caller’s instruction.’

‘Why don’t you tell Davie here about the call?’ I was putting the squeeze on her, always a good idea with guardians.

Davie took the news with studied nonchalance, but I knew he was pissed off that he hadn’t been told earlier.

‘Right,’ I said, ‘I’ll be talking to the gang bosses you’ve got under lock and key.’ I fixed her with an iron stare. ‘They are still under lock and key?’

‘Yes, citizen,’ the guardian said wearily.

‘Good. Tell me what happened in the Council meeting after I left.’

‘I can’t—’

‘I’m not interested in the bureaucratic bollocks you people sign off on every day. I’d like to know what was suggested about the symbolism of the heart.’

‘How do you know …?’ Guardian Doris broke off and sighed. ‘I suppose it’s obvious. Although not many of us are professors these days, we’re still intellectual enough to debate ideas.’ She went into a daydream.

‘Who said what about the heart?’ I prompted.

She came back to herself with a jerk. ‘Oh, Brian Cowan gave us a lecture about William Wallace’s heart having been burned in London when he was executed and Robert the Bruce’s being taken on a crusade but ending up at Melrose Abbey.’

‘Highly evocative,’ I said, ‘but what was his point?’

‘I’m not sure. He went on about the people who were hung, drawn and quartered at the Old Tolbooth in Edinburgh too, and how their hearts were usually burned.’

‘Everyone in the city and thousands of tourists know about that,’ Davie said. ‘Ever since the replica of the old jail was opened, there have been fake executions and mutilations staged every day.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s disgusting.’

He had a point, but he’d also made a useful connection. The New Tolbooth was one of the most popular attractions in the city. Was the heart-remover making a reference to it? If so, it was pretty obscure. Or maybe not. The original Old Tolbooth stood on the Royal Mile. When it was demolished in the early nineteenth century, a heart-shaped memorial of cobbles was left, traditionally spat on by Edinburgh folk. Sir Walter Scott’s interminable novel The Heart of Midlothian had many scenes set in the prison, while the football club took its name from it. Was it a coincidence that the heart had been left on the centre spot at Tynecastle?

‘The medical guardian spoke about the heart as being seen as the centre of the body and the seat of will in many cultures, while Plato said the mind was located in the heart as well as the emotions.’

‘I wondered when Plato was going to appear.’

‘Whereas the Roman physician Galen saw reason as being located in the brain and the emotions in the heart.’

‘There’s also a lot of religious iconography about the sacred heart,’ Davie said, to my astonishment. ‘There was a lecture about it in barracks a few weeks ago,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I found it quite interesting.’

‘You’re not a closet Christian, are you, commander?’ the guardian said in an attempt at humour.

‘No,’ he replied gruffly. ‘Though I could be if I wanted to.’

He was right. Earlier in the year, auxiliaries had been given the same freedom as ordinary citizens to join religious groups. In a city that had been officially atheist for three decades, very few of its servants did.

‘Of course, the heart-remover might just be a psycho and we’re reading too much into the symbolism,’ I said, unconvinced. It’s not exactly an easy organ to extract and care had been taken. Could there really be religious or symbolical dimensions?

‘Right,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘what about the call you received? Why do you think you were given warning?’

Guardian Doris returned my gaze. ‘So that we found the heart quickly.’

‘I agree. Why would that be desirable?’

‘So there wouldn’t be a delay and—’

‘Ordinary citizens wouldn’t come across it,’ interrupted Davie.

‘Correct and correct,’ I said. ‘But there still remains the underlying motivation. The perpetrators – I doubt it’s a one-man or woman show – want to make the Council jumpy, but not bring the city and its business to a standstill.’

The guardian looked at me. ‘I tried to move quicker, but Fergus wouldn’t let me.’

‘He had to meet with the finance guardian. You think they know more about this than they’re admitting?’

‘I doubt they’d have acceded to my request to put you on the case if they had anything to hide.’

‘Quint Dalrymple always gets his man,’ said Davie.

‘And woman,’ I added, not amused by his ironic tone. I stood up. ‘It’s time I got to work. You monitor the squads in the field, guardian. We’ll compare their lists of missing persons with mine.’

If Doris Barclay was unimpressed by my taking charge of the case, she didn’t show it. What was etched on her thin face looked more like relief.

‘See you later,’ I said to Davie, as we exited the guardian’s hang-out.

‘What? Where are you going?’

I tapped the side of my nose. ‘Somewhere your presence isn’t required.’

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he offered, trying unsuccessfully to disguise his curiosity.

‘No, thanks.’ I headed off down the slope. ‘Come to my place first thing in the morning.’

‘Please.’

‘That was an order.’ I kept my eyes front and my lips pursed. Winding up Davie was risky but worth it – as long as you didn’t laugh.

I turned on to Bank Street at the Deacon Brodie Visitor Centre and hailed one of the Council’s recent innovations – a taxi. The vehicle was large, luxurious and meant only for tourists, though a flash of my Council authorization persuaded the driver. I told him to take me to Haymarket. On the way I wondered what deal the Finance Directorate had done with the Sri Lankan manufacturers. Free accommodation and hookers for life? I didn’t know if the Sri Lankans’ religion would permit that. In fact, all I knew about the island was that it had prospered after India went back to the collection of small states it had been before the British took over, apart from some which had gone Communist. Numerous civil wars had resulted.

‘At least the rain’s keeping off,’ the driver said.

‘Aye, but for how long?’

‘Ah’d gie it five minutes,’ he said and laughed.

He was wrong. The cats and dogs didn’t start landing until I was a few minutes’ walk from Tynecastle stadium. I decided to try the highest tenement first. The people on the top storey could definitely see over the top of the west stand. I pushed open the street door and felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I looked round so quickly I almost ricked my neck.

‘Fuck, Davie! Don’t do that!’

He grinned. ‘Thought you could get round me, eh? I’m not as thick as you think.’

‘That would be difficult. And you even thought to change into civilian clothes. The moustache is a step too far, though.’

He twirled the ends of the stick-on. ‘What was the name of that Belgian detective?’

‘Poirot, Hercule, given plenty of help by his creator.’

‘Aye, that’s the one. “Zee little grey cells”.’

‘How little only you know. All right, since you’re here, how do you want to do this?’

‘I’ll kick the doors in and you do the talking.’

‘Remember what the caller said. Be discreet.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘No, seriously. Knock lightly and keep your mouth shut.’

He nodded.

We went up the stairs to the top floor. There were four doors, one of them freshly painted and the others waiting for the Maintenance Department to appear. Given the financial limitations of the citizen-friendly policy, they might be there in five years.

There was no answer at two of the unpainted doors. The other was opened by a scared teenage girl who said her parents were on the night shift and she’d been at school all day. I told her not to open the door to strange men with moustaches and then went to the pristine pale blue one across the landing.

This time an elderly woman with her hair in a maroon-and-white scarf appeared, security chain on. I took a chance and said we worked for the football club.

‘Come away in,’ she said, taking off the chain and beaming as she ushered us in. ‘Ma Tam was a great fan o’ the Hairts. Ah wish he was here tae see them playin’ again.’ She shook her head. ‘The cancer took him. What is it Ah can dae fir ye?’

‘We’re having a bit of a problem with the staff,’ I lied, not feeling proud of myself. ‘Some of them aren’t coming in when they should and we wondered if you could help us.’

‘Sit doon,’ our hostess said, taking a bottle of Supply Directorate whisky from the dresser and filling three glasses. ‘Here’s tae Tam.’

It would have been churlish not to drink, even though citizen-issue whisky was not for the faint of throat, especially undiluted.

‘Ahm Morag Oswald,’ she said, sitting back in her chair.

I gave her a couple of names I’d made up on the spot and got to the point.

‘What it is, one of our people says he was working on the pitch this morning but we have reason to believe he was at the Edlott stall in Haymarket.’ Despite being implicated in a major case some years back, the Council’s lottery is still in operation, though it’s no longer compulsory.

‘Och, we cannae be havin’ that at Tynecastle,’ Morag said. ‘Ma Tam wid be horrified. He was doon the mines, ye ken. Voluntary, nae punishment details. Loved his work, ma Tam.’ The original Council was strict about language, seeing the Edinburgh tongue as socially divisive. That policy has been softened now, but I had the feeling the old woman had never observed it much. Good for her. And good for her Tam. A lot of people had been so grateful to the Enlightenment for saving the city that they did the dirty jobs without being coerced.

I parted the thin curtains and looked out. The centre circle was visible, despite the rain and the dull evening light. Morag Oswald’s chair was half turned towards the window.

‘Whit time did ye say?’

‘Late morning,’ Davie said, then rapidly put his finger on his moustache to stabilize it.

‘Say, after eleven,’ I said, glaring at him.

‘Aye, Ah wis here. Let me see …’ The old woman took another slug of whisky. ‘Ah remember. There wis someone oot on the pitch, even though it was raining fit tae drown a body.’

‘And what was he doing?’

‘That wis the strange thing aboot it. Carries a box oot there, puts it on the centre spot and then comes back.’

‘One person.’

‘Oh aye.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘Ah did.’ Morag smiled triumphantly. ‘It wisnae a man, it wis a wummin. A young one, tae. Long blonde hair under her rain jacket and a fine pair o’ lungs on her.’

I asked a few more questions but the answers didn’t get us any further. There had been no sign of the woman outside the ground, which made me wonder how she’d made her getaway.

We left Morag Oswald to her whisky and memories of her Tam. She’d been a useful witness, but the idea that a young woman had deposited the heart didn’t make me want to dance in the sodden street.

‘Get some better glue for that lip slug,’ I said as we got into the 4×4.

‘I don’t think I’ll be using it again. Here, you’re the master of disguise. You have it.’

I opened my window and threw the sticky object out. Davie didn’t arrest me for wasting Public Order Directorate resources or littering. Maybe my luck was finally turning.