I rang Davie when I was outside the Council building.
‘Get over here,’ he said. ‘Grant Brown’s girlfriend’s just turned up.’
I waved at a passing Guard 4×4 and showed the driver my authorization.
‘Grange Terrace. Pretty wild out there, citizen,’ the grizzled guardsman said.
‘Call me Quint. Pretty wild all over the city these days.’
‘True enough. It was better when citizens knew their place.’
I had a live one. Although younger auxiliaries have, on the whole, accepted the Council’s relaxation policy, some of the older ones are fans of Genghis Khan.
‘I’ve never known my place,’ I said as we headed up the Pleasance.
The driver laughed. ‘I know you, Bell 03 as was. I served under you when we drove those head-bangers out of Fettes. Shame they blew the place sky high.’
‘Not a shame that we didn’t go up with it.’
‘True enough. Here, what’s this about a headless man in the canal? You’re in on that, aren’t you?’
‘Remember the no-gossip clause in auxiliary regulations?’
That shut him up. He dropped me off in Grange Terrace and accelerated away as soon as I shut the door. A group of badly dressed kids was standing around Davie’s vehicle.
‘Hey, mister, d’ye fancy helpin’ us nick this?’ asked a red-headed lad with pimples.
‘Did you see the size of the guardsman that got out of it?’
Davie appeared at the front door of a Georgian townhouse that had been divided into flats like all such buildings outside the centre. The would-be car thieves were away before he could open his mouth.
‘Might be an idea to get your colleague to stand guard.’
‘She’s doing a good job calming down Cecilia.’
‘Cecilia. You don’t hear that name often in Edinburgh. Patron saint of music, you know.’
‘What’s a saint?’
‘You’re looking at one.’
He burst out laughing, then put a hand over his mouth. ‘The poor girl’s in a hell of a state.’
I followed him in. Grant Brown’s flat was on the top floor, what would originally have been the servants’ quarters. It had two rooms, both with sloping ceilings and a decent view to the hills in the south. There were the standard sparse pieces of furniture. Cecilia was sitting on the single bed, the guardswoman’s arm around her.
I kneeled down in front of her and mumbled words of commiseration, not that they offer much consolation at such times. After a while I nodded at the guardswoman, Nasmyth 436, and she slipped away, probably to be consoled by Davie.
‘I can’t … I can’t understand … why …’ Cecilia gasped. ‘Grant was … a good lad … everybody … liked him.’
I got up and sat next to her. ‘Tell me about him,’ I said softly.
‘Och, he was funny and … and sweet … and good at his work … and … and he loved me … we were going to get … married.’ She sobbed pitifully. ‘Not that we’d applied for a licence.’ That explained why the dead man’s file showed no long-term partner, though in the old days even an unofficial relationship would have been noted.
I gave her a few moments before going on. ‘Where was he working, Cecilia?’
‘In Slateford – they’re building new flats.’
Not far from where the body was found.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘This morning. I was … I was here.’
Citizens were now allowed to spend the night together, as long as no other residents of city accommodation minded.
‘And how was he?’
‘Happy … he kissed me and we … we arranged to meet here this afternoon. I’m still with my parents in Corstorphine.’
‘That’s a few bus journeys away. Where do you work?’
‘In the tourist zone – a souvenir shop.’ That explained the neat white blouse and black skirt beneath her coat.
‘Has he been acting normally recently?’
‘Oh aye. Nothing ever got … got Grant down.’ She wiped her eyes.
‘Any problems at work? Enemies?’
‘I told you, everyone liked him …’
I let her weep again. We’d do the relevant checks, but it was possible the dead man had been randomly chosen.
‘Course, he did love his football,’ Cecilia said in a small voice.
Or maybe not so random. ‘Who did he support?’
‘No, he was a player.’
My heart missed a beat.
‘For Hibs,’ she added.
Another unwelcome coincidence. A heart at Heart of Midlothian and now a head missing from a player of their great rivals, Hibernian.
‘And you know … you know the worst thing?’ Cecilia clutched my hand. ‘His nickname was … was Ironheid.’
She fainted on to the bed.
‘What happened?’ Davie said from the door.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ I replied.
To his credit he did.
The Guard unit at Easter Road, home of Hibs, reported that there was no heart on site.
‘You don’t think he lost his head because of his nickname?’ Davie asked, as he drove us towards the ground.
‘Who knows? Ironheid sounds like a drugs-gang handle but his record was clean.’
‘He could have escaped notice or been a recent recruit.’
I nodded. ‘Whatever, I don’t think Cecilia knew about it, poor lass.’
‘So what do we do? Interrogate the players?’
‘You can get that started. I’ll do the management.’
We arrived at the green-girdered stadium soon afterwards, the rain now horizontal thanks to a west wind that had got up. If we were lucky, people would be around for evening training – they were all part-timers.
‘Who’s in charge?’ I asked the Guard commander on site.
‘I am, citizen,’ the keen young auxiliary said.
‘Of the football club.’
‘Oh. That’s Smail, Derick Smail. His office is on the first floor.’
I heard Davie ordering that the players be assembled. He’d have to delegate some of the interviews, but he would quickly spot anyone with a suspicious look to him.
I went in a half-open door that was painted green and white. A portly, middle-aged citizen in a badly fitting suit was bent over papers on a desk that was of much better quality than those provided by the Supply Directorate.
‘Derick Smail?’ I said.
He looked up as if I’d caught him with his hand down his pants.
‘That’s me. Who are you?’
I held out my authorization.
‘Oh, Citizen Dalrymple. I’m very glad tae see you. Know all about your successes, of course.’
‘Uh-huh. But do you know about Ironheid?’
‘What?’
‘Your player, Grant Brown.’
‘Talented striker, aye. Scored over twenty goals last season. Didnae see him tonight, come tae think ae it.’
I wasn’t going to break the news to him gently. The city’s football managers are notoriously slippery, especially those in the ten-team Premier League. The Recreation Directorate is supposed to keep them in check, but the citizen managers were much cannier than auxiliaries when it comes to wheeling and dealing. Which reminded me – we hadn’t found the Hearts manager.
‘How many of Brown’s goals were headers?’
‘Quite a few. That’s where the name came frae.’
‘Well, he’s not going to be scoring any more of those.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because his head’s gone missing.’
Derick Smail’s shock seemed genuine. ‘You mean, he was …’ He wasn’t capable of getting an appropriate word out.
‘Beheaded? Decapitated? That’s it. Any idea why?’
The manager had collapsed in his chair. ‘I cannae … I cannae believe it.’
I moved closer. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because he was a good lad. Never turned up late for training, fought hard on the pitch but was sweet as sugar substitute off it, had a nice girlfriend …’
‘Can I see his file, please?’
Smail hesitated, but not for long. I took the green paper folder and opened it. Grant Brown was twenty-eight, had been with Hibs since football was reinstituted three years ago and had no disciplinary record – not even a yellow card, and the referees were auxiliaries with short fuses.
‘So you’ve no idea why he was the victim of such a horrific crime?’
‘None at all, citizen. It mustae bin somethin’ to dae wi’ his work. He was a builder. Ye ken how sneaky some of them are.’
Nothing compared with the average football manager, but I let that go.
‘How about friends here? Did he have any?’
‘He was very popular, ye ken?’
‘Any particular pals?’
‘Em, Allie Swanson and Lachie Vass.’
‘Their files, please.’
He handed them over and I took a quick look. Swanson, Alistair, was a midfielder and Vass, Lachlan, the goalkeeper. Then something caught my eye. They were both residents of Portobello, the north-eastern suburb where Yellow Jacko’s gang, the Pish, came from.
‘I’ll get these back to you,’ I said, heading for the door.
‘Here, hang on.’
I did so, but not because he wanted me to. ‘Alec Ferries,’ I said.
Smail’s expression didn’t change. ‘What about him? Alec might be the boss of our deadly rivals, but we get on.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. When did you last see him?’
He thought about that. ‘Coupla weeks ago, maybe. We’re playing his lot next month.’
‘Would it surprise you to know that he’s disappeared?’
‘Alec? Never! He’s got too many—’ He broke off and looked down.
‘Too many what?’ I demanded, moving closer.
He kept his peace, then raised his head. ‘Too many good players to look after.’
That sounded about as convincing as a barracks commander ordering his auxiliaries to smile at citizens. I smelled the excremental odour of illicit activities. Not that Derick Smail was going to admit that.
Davie was in the away team changing rooms, which reeked of embrocation and malfunctioning drains – the latter no doubt deliberate to put the opposition off their game. He was talking to a player with a green-and-white Mohican, while another four with less lunatic haircuts sat on the benches at the far side. They were all looking down and keeping quiet, having obviously been yelled at. Davie questioned citizens as if the Council’s relaxation of the regulations had never happened.
‘Spoken to these guys?’ I asked, showing him the folders.
‘This clown is Allie Swanson. The other one’s over there.’
‘I’ll take him,’ I said, pointing out their addresses to him.
Davie nodded. ‘The showers are in there. I recommend giving him five minutes in a cold one before you start.’ He grinned at Swanson. ‘You’ll get yours after.’
‘Lachlan Vass,’ I called.
The player who stood up was tall and well built, as befits a goalkeeper. He had a moustache Pancho Villa would have revolted for and his hair looked like an anti-personnel mine had gone off in it. At least it wasn’t dyed in the club colours. I led him into the shower room and closed the door.
‘Citizen Dalrymple,’ I said. ‘Call me Quint.’
‘Ah ken who ye are,’ Vass said, lowering his head.
‘You’re a friend of Grant Brown’s?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’m sorry to tell you that he’s dead.’
That made him look up. ‘Whit? Ah saw him at training the day before yesterday.’
‘There’s more. He was found in the Union Canal. Without his head.’
This time the goalkeeper didn’t respond.
‘Can you think of any reason for that?’
The eyes were down again. ‘Accident? He’s a builder, ye ken.’
‘I don’t think so.’ We still had to check the squad he worked on, but if there had been a major accident it would have been reported. ‘You and Allie stay in Portobello, eh?’
‘So?’
‘Grant lived in the Grange. Quite a bike ride.’
‘Aye, well, we usually get pished on Sunday nights in the Easter Road pubs. And efter training.’
‘Did you not wonder where he was tonight? I hear he never turned up late.’
‘Naw, he didnae. Ah thought he mustae got caught up at his work.’
I moved closer, making him back up against the erratically tiled wall.
‘Pished. Know what that makes me think of?’
Lachie looked away. ‘A sore heid?’
‘Don’t!’ I yelled.
‘Whit?’ he said in a hurt tone.
‘Play games with me, son. What’s Porty most famous for? And don’t say the beach.’
‘Aw, Ah get ye. The Portobello Pish.’ He shrugged. ‘Ah dinnae ken any ae them. Honest. Ah’m a kitchen porter at the Waverley Hotel. Ah only go home tae sleep.’
‘You went to school in Porty,’ I said, glancing at the file. ‘You must have known some of the gang.’
He was avoiding my eyes again. ‘Ah kent Yellow Jacko’s wee brother, Pete. He wisnae a friend, though.’
‘And he was shot dead in a raid on the bonded warehouse in Leith five years ago.’
‘Is it no’ longer?’
I shook my head. ‘Memory playing up?’
‘Naw, it’s amazin’ how time flies.’
‘This is official, Lachie,’ I said. ‘If you lie to me, you’ll spend a year down the mines.’
He gulped. ‘Aye, OK.’
‘You, Allie and Grant – none of you have anything to do with the Pish?’
Now he was looking at me again. ‘Ah dinnae ken aboot the others, but Ahm clean. And that’s the truth.’
It was also suggestive. I led him out and took another of Davie’s suspects. He lived in the western suburbs and seemed well out of his depth, even when it came to football. When we’d finished, we compared notes.
‘I didn’t get much out of mine,’ Davie said.
I told him about Lachlan.
‘What about the manager?’
‘He seemed to be genuinely surprised on all counts. All right, let that thrusting young guardsman handle the rest of the questioning. It’s time we got an overview at the command centre.’
‘I’m pretty keen on getting a five-course meal as well,’ Davie said.
I was about to abuse him for prioritizing his gut, then my own rumbled louder than a packed citizen bus going up Leith Walk. Fortunately the canteen at the castle was one of the city’s best, though it was still substantially worse than the cheapest tourist restaurant.
I had soup and haggis, neeps and tatties. Davie had three bowls of soup, four rolls, two platefuls of haggis etc., and a bowl of the concrete-like porridge that’s on offer round the clock.
‘That was more than five courses,’ I observed.
‘Who’s counting?’ Davie replied, grabbing an apple from a passing guardswoman’s tray. She gave him a smile that suggested they were more than acquaintances.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re on duty till this case is over.’
‘I’ve got to sleep.’
‘On my sofa.’
‘I resign.’
‘Can’t see you as an ordinary citizen, big man.’
‘No, I resign from working for you.’
I shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. But if we make sense of this, think of your career prospects. If Scotland reunites, you might be top cop.’
‘If Scotland reunites, I’ll eat my boots.’
‘You eat them on a monthly basis anyway. How about going on a diet?’
‘A what?’
‘Ah, there you are, Quint.’ Guardian Doris sat down on my side of the bench. ‘Anything to report?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question.’
She smiled tightly. ‘Except that guardians don’t report to citizens, not even special investigators.’
‘If you’re going to be like that …’ I started piling my plates and cutlery.
‘All right,’ the guardian said, her hand on my arm briefly. ‘Report, please.’
I told her about Cecilia, and the Hibs manager and players.
‘I’ve spoken to Grant Brown’s building team leader,’ I went on. ‘He swears there was no bad blood or anything else at his work. The Housing Directorate’s carrying out further checks.’
I would do my own interviews in time, but the housing guardian was one of the few Council members I respected and his fiefdom had never been involved in any major case. Still, there was always a first time.
‘I don’t suppose Alec Ferries has made a miraculous reappearance?’
‘No, and there’s been no sign of Hume 481 or his parents. Oh, I have this for you.’ The guardian handed me a folded sheet of paper. ‘Upcoming visits by outsiders.’
I had a look. ‘Nothing tomorrow, thank Plato. The day after tomorrow, the governors of Orkney and Shetland.’
‘They’re in some kind of union,’ the guardian said.
‘Good for them. Friday, the Lord of the Isles.’ I looked at Davie. ‘I thought he was just here.’
He nodded.
‘He controls a lot of financial interests,’ Guardian Doris said.
I immediately thought of Jack MacLean and Billy Geddes. Their tongues would be heading straight up the aristocrat’s kilt.
‘And Saturday, the first minister of Glasgow. I thought it was first secretary.’
‘Andrew Duart got himself upgraded.’
‘He’s still in place, is he?’ I said, remembering the hole he’d dug himself into five years ago. ‘At least his chief cop isn’t on the list.’
‘Hel Hyslop?’ said the guardian. ‘She’ll be coming. He never goes anywhere without her.’
‘Magic,’ I mumbled. Hyslop and I had history, not of the peaceful variety. Her first name was extremely apposite. ‘No sign of the missing head?’
‘I’m afraid not. At least no more hearts have turned up.’
‘Not yet. Anything on those missing citizens?’
She shook her head. ‘Those five you gave us have been gone for weeks – they must have crossed the border. As for our list—’ She sighed. ‘There are dozens of them and I don’t have the resources to follow up on the last sightings of them and so on.’
She didn’t have the resources or the volition, I thought, frowning at her. ‘Come on, guardsman.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Portobello Pish. You know they only come out at night.’
Davie’s face lit up. ‘Gang-banger banging. My favourite.’
‘There’s a couple of reports of suspicious behaviour that haven’t been checked yet,’ said the guardian. ‘One in Leith and one in—’
‘Porty,’ I supplied.
‘Correct.’
Davie was already on the way to the command centre to get the details.
‘Do you really think this is gang-related, Quint?’ Guardian Doris said.
‘They’re the nastiest criminals we have in the city so it makes sense to look at them.’
She nodded, not convinced. ‘Be careful down there. You know what it’s like after dark.’
‘I do, but I have Davie to cover my front, back and sides.’
‘You’ll be taking a squad or two as well?’
‘I presume so, but the younger Guard personnel don’t have the commitment that he has.’
‘No one does, Quint,’ Doris said, shaking her head. ‘The Enlightenment’s running out of steam.’
I knew that, but I never expected a Council member to say it. Maybe becoming part of Scotland wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, we were few and they were many …