‘Where is it?’ I asked as Davie started the engine. Sophia had wanted to come, but I told her to get some rest. Astonishingly she went along with that.
‘Granton, near the remains of the last gasometer.’
‘Interesting. Only a mile or so to the west of Leith Lancers’ territory and close to the Forth.’
‘Aye, people who want to leave the city are picked up by the Fife boats around there. Maybe outsiders really are doing this.’
Once we were out of the tourist zone, Davie put on the lights and siren and we were at the shore in ten minutes. At least the rain wasn’t horizontal, but the wind was blowing it around enough to soak every inch of you in seconds. I was glad to see that a smart guardsman or woman had erected a Guard tent over the body and set up lights. To the side the remains of the gasometer’s skeletal structure loomed. Over the water I could see the glow of towns and farms. For decades Fife had been dark at night, but now it was on its way back to civilization. The random streetlights in the housing schemes on our side suggested the reverse was happening in Edinburgh.
‘Who’s in charge?’ I asked.
‘Cramond 127,’ said a heavy-faced guardsman with short white hair.
‘Bruce!’ said Davie, punching him on the upper arm. ‘Did you call in this horror?’
‘I did, Davie. My team was patrolling the front – you know what goes on here at night – when we came across – well, you’ll see.’ Cramond 127 gave me a disparaging look. ‘Citizen Dalrymple. Wherever you go, someone dies.’ He was one of the old Guard who hadn’t forgiven me for quitting the directorate.
I smiled. ‘It was you who found this dead one, wasn’t it?’
He didn’t reply. I decided against inviting him to call me by my first name.
We were handed plastic overshoes and rubber gloves by a young guardswoman.
‘I was wondering where you’d been, Hume 481,’ I said, squatting by the corpse.
‘Michael Campbell,’ Davie said, taking in his barracks colleague’s face. The dead man’s mouth and eyes were wide open. He was wearing citizen-issue clothes, but his shirt had been ripped apart and his cracked ribs stood up like miniature replicas of the gasometer’s broken spars.
‘I wonder where his parents are,’ I said.
‘I hate to imagine,’ said Davie. ‘Poor bastard. Whatever he did, he didn’t deserve to die like this.’
There were voices at the entrance to the tent and Sophia came in. I might have known.
‘Let me have a look,’ she said impatiently, hustling Davie out of her way.
She opened her bag and removed various instruments. I stood back, having seen enough of Hume 481’s ravaged chest. After about five minutes, Sophia got to her feet.
‘Taking into account the ambient temperature and the state of rigor, I’d say the victim died between eight and ten hours ago.’
‘No need to ask the cause of death,’ I said.
She ignored that. ‘The ribs were cut with a modicum of skill and, again, the heart was carefully removed. The lack of blood shows that the victim was already dead when the organ was cut out. There are contusions on his wrists and ankles, suggesting he was tied up and the bonds removed post-mortem. There are also fibre traces in his mouth, showing that at some point he was gagged. It would have been daylight, though it rained most of the time. There may have been witnesses.’
‘It’s unlikely anyone will come forward,’ I said. ‘Citizens down here keep their doors and mouths triple-locked. You know what they think of the Council and its works.’
Sophia frowned. ‘Of course, this means we potentially have another heart about to make an appearance. The one at Tynecastle was removed while this poor man was still alive.’
‘And there are important visitors from Orkney and Shetland arriving in the morning,’ I said.
‘Indeed,’ she said, giving me a quizzical look. ‘You think there’s a connection.’
‘Potentially,’ I said, using her term.
‘Are you coming to the post-mortem?’
I glanced at Davie. ‘The commander will take my place.’ That didn’t go down well with either of them. ‘I’ve got somewhere else to go.’
Sophia gave a minuscule smile. ‘Moray Place, perhaps?’
She wasn’t a guardian only because she was a medical genius. She knew which Council members I was going to visit. The idea that I might stop off at her house across the street afterwards maybe afforded her a smidgeon of pleasure.
I commandeered Davie’s 4×4 after the Guard squad spoke to the locals. It had been raining heavily, of course, but it could have been a Mediterranean summer’s day – which I heard are seriously sweltering now – and no one would have talked. I asked Davie’s pal, Cramond 127, to go into Leith with his people and see if he could lay hands on any of the Lancers. The gang-bangers might have located Michael Campbell, but they wouldn’t have had the skill to take his heart without making a hell of a mess. Was someone using them as foot soldiers and providing a heart-cutter? Another question for the senior guardian. I considered calling ahead, but decided against it. Surprise was a useful weapon, though he would probably have been told about the body.
Moray Place is in the west of the New Town, a circle broken by four access roads, all of which are blocked by gates manned by elite Guard units. I managed to get to Doune Terrace without stalling the vehicle more than twice. I’ve never been much of a driver and Davie was reluctant to give me the keys. I got out and went to the gate, authorization in hand.
‘The senior guardian is expecting you,’ a muscle-bound guardsman said. ‘Number 7.’
‘I know.’ I’d been to most of the guardians’ houses over the decades. Each was allocated an entire six-storey house though much of the accommodation was taken up by offices, live-in auxiliaries and Guard personnel.
The door to number 7 opened before I reached it and a female auxiliary in a grey suit and white blouse ushered me in. She tried not to turn her nose up at my soaked donkey jacket and muddy boots, but didn’t have the nerve to tell me to take them off. I happily mucked up the carpets. Most guardians don’t have enough contact with the real dirty world. Then again, Fergus Calder might well have very soiled hands indeed.
I was taken into a large drawing room on the first floor. The decor was the best the Supply Directorate could provide – Georgian chairs and tables, an Edwardian leather sofa and matching armchairs, and the customary artwork from the city’s collection. The senior guardian had chosen El Greco’s curious Fábula, with two men, one wearing a bright yellow cloak, and a monkey gathered around a light. I’ve never had a clue what the painting means, but I suspected the senior guardian liked its air of mystery. Or perhaps he thought it was enlightening and thus a link to the Council’s founding fathers and mothers.
There was a creak and Billy Geddes rolled forward in his chair. Then Jack MacLean and Fergus Calder got up from the armchairs. A veritable welcoming committee.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said.
‘Citizen … Quint,’ said the senior guardian, no doubt thinking he was putting me in my place. ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Otherwise you’d have hauled me in.’
He smiled. ‘Yes. Tell us about the heartless corpse.’
I thought that was a pretty heartless way of putting it, but I filled them in. Then I hit back. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
They looked at each other.
‘What are you getting at?’ MacLean said with less bonhomie than usual.
‘Thought not,’ I muttered. I decided against asking them if they were using the Leith Lancers as auxiliary auxiliaries. I had no proof. ‘I was wondering if your visitors tomorrow have had any heart or head issues.’
‘Orkney and Shetland?’ Billy said. ‘Not that we’ve heard of.’
Which showed how close he was to the centre of things.
‘You might want to keep security after them tight since you’ve got the Lord of the Isles and Glasgow’s boss arriving in quick succession.’
Fergus Calder looked dubious. ‘I still don’t understand why. The public order guardian hasn’t reported any signs of civil disobedience.’
‘Remember the bomb at the crematorium?’
That took the wind from his spanker.
‘Surely that was just a bit of extreme inter-gang violence,’ Billy said, moving further into the light.
‘If we’re lucky.’ I prepared to knife them. ‘Do any of you know about betting on Edinburgh Premier League matches?’
Silence, long and golden.
‘Yes? No? Maybe?’ I prompted.
‘Explain,’ Calder ordered.
I told them what Cecilia had told me – which was dismissed as a justifiably hysterical female citizen’s fantasy – and that the Morningside Rose manager had fingered the recreation guardian.
‘Peter Stewart would never sanction anything that breaks City Regulations,’ the senior guardian scoffed.
‘Who would, then?’ I asked.
They got my drift.
‘You’re suggesting that one – or more – of us is involved?’ the finance guardian said, getting to his feet.
I shrugged. ‘Do I get an answer?’
‘No!’ Billy yelled. ‘You do not get an answer. You have no right to make accusations like that!’
Fergus Calder turned to him. ‘All right, Billy. I appreciate your concern, but the citizen is authorized to ask any questions, even of guardians.’
‘And SPADEs,’ I added.
‘What would betting on EPL matches have to do with the removal of two hearts and a head?’ MacLean asked, standing over me.
‘You tell me.’
He didn’t like that but, after balling his fists, he turned and went back to his chair.
‘Are you sure you aren’t allowing yourself to get distracted, citizen?’ the senior guardian said.
I met his gaze. ‘Do you know about betting on the football or not?’
He didn’t look away. ‘No, of course not. Jack?’
‘Me neither,’ the finance guardian said, looking like he wanted to spit in my face.
Interestingly, Billy wasn’t given the chance to answer.
‘Can we get back to the heart business?’ MacLean asked.
‘Right. We have one heart, now dissected, and one donor, but they don’t match. So, somewhere in the city, are another body without a heart and another heart without a body.’
‘Could the second heart have been taken for transplantation?’ Billy said.
‘I suppose so,’ I said, ‘but the ruined gasometer at Granton isn’t exactly a sterile location.’
‘Besides, the first one appeared at Tynecastle,’ Calder said.
‘Which gives you a link to the EPL,’ I said, smiling. ‘Along with the Hibs players who were members of the Portobello Pish.’
‘So you think this new heart is bound for the centre circle at Easter Road?’ said MacLean.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Security’s tight, as it is at all football grounds in the city.’
‘And the hearts in Glasgow and Inverness lead you to the conclusion that visitors to the city might be targeted?’
‘Or be made to witness the horror beneath the gleaming surface here?’ I got up. ‘Make sure the haggis is checked before it’s served.’
They let me go. I was pretty sure they knew about the betting, but the guardians had learned plausible denial. Billy hadn’t, though.
Sophia’s house was on the other side of the gardens in the centre of Moray Place, but Peter Stewart’s was third to the left of the senior guardian’s. This was a good opportunity to ask him about the football betting. I rang the bell and mugged to the security camera.
The grey-suited male auxiliary who opened the door knew who I was, but he wasn’t keen on letting me in.
‘The guardian has retired,’ he said, nose in the air as if I stank – which I did.
‘It’s urgent,’ I said, holding up my authorization.
‘Very well, I’ll advise him.’
‘No, you won’t. Tell me where he is.’
The auxiliary’s resistance was broken only when I grabbed his balls.
‘Second … floor,’ he gasped. ‘Second … door … left.’
I let him go after telling him not to call the Guard members on the premises, then ran up the stairs. The red carpet was new, which was unusual for austere guardians like Stewart. It wasn’t as if the recreation guardian received guests from other cities. Or was it? Maybe a national football league was on the cards. That had been a real success before the 2003 crisis – referees bribed, running battles between fans, a completely corrupt organizing body.
I knocked on the door. Nothing. I knocked harder. Same again. I turned the handle, but the door was locked. I pounded, not least because I could hear Guard boots thundering up the stairs – I should have pulled the auxiliary’s balls off. Then I put my shoulder to the door. On the second attempt, the Georgian hinges splintered. I stumbled in.
Too late.
The recreation guardian was hanging from the light fitting, a small table on its side beneath his feet. Around his neck was a thin cord that had cut deep into the skin. His eyes were bulging and his tongue protruding.
A guardsman pushed past me, heading for his boss’s body.
I ordered him back, then called Sophia.
It didn’t look like either of us was going to get any sleep tonight, never mind carnal action.
I had a job keeping the scene uncontaminated before the forensics team arrived. Guardians clustered at the door, Fergus Calder to the fore. I explained to them that Sophia had taken personal charge and that I needed to speak to everyone who had been in the house, without the presence of Council members. They moved away, muttering about the disgrace. Suicide is still an offence and surviving family members are severely punished, as well as the self-murderer’s name being removed from all city records. No guardian or auxiliary had ever committed suicide. As far as I knew.
Davie came up the stairs when they were clear.
‘This is a turn up for the books,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.
‘Hm.’ I let him in and closed the door. The scene-of-crime experts were working the room, while Sophia and her team were looking at the body, which had recently been cut down.
‘Bloody hell,’ Davie said, taking in the guardian’s swollen face.
‘Quite. Can you handle the interviews with the house staff? I want to know who saw him last, how he was, you know the drill.’
He nodded and left. Then Guardian Doris came in, surprisingly late. She looked as shocked as the rest of her rank.
‘I was interrogating football-club managers,’ she explained. ‘I told my people not to interrupt me.’ She looked at her colleague’s body. ‘This is awful.’
She was right about that.
Sophia stood up and motioned us over.
‘There’s no doubt he was asphyxiated. The p-m will show if any of the cervical vertebrae were fractured too. Rigor hasn’t yet set in, so he died in the last two hours.’
The scene-of-crime team leader came over.
‘Excuse me, guardians,’ she said. ‘This is curious. Apart from residue from the mud on Citizen Dalrymple’s boots, the rest of the carpet is extremely clean.’
‘As if someone vacuumed it?’ I asked.
‘Yes. The only fingerprints we’ve found are the guardian’s and those of his staff – I’ve made comparisons. Oh, and only his are on the table that he stood on and on the ligature. Which, by the way, is standard Guard-issue all-purpose cord. Finally, we’ve found no handwritten note. There is no sign of his computer.’
That was curious, though he might have left it at the directorate.
I went to the room where Davie was interviewing and told him to ask about the sound of vacuuming. Outside, the auxiliary whose testicles I’d twisted gave me a look that dripped hatred. Davie would soon sort that out.
‘Are you coming?’ Sophia said as she came down the landing.
‘Immediate post-mortem?’
‘Actually, no. Remember the gang leader who was asphyxiated in the cells?’
‘Muckle Tony? That was no suicide.’
‘Exactly. I want to wait and see if any bruises develop on Peter’s legs or arms. We’ll do the p-m at nine a.m. Plus, the head from the New Tolbooth will have arrived by morning.’
‘Right.’
‘In the meantime, I’m going to get some sleep. Coming?’
I was, but I didn’t. We both dropped into the arms of Morpheus a nanosecond after our heads hit the pillows.