I could have done with another twelve hours’ sleep, but the breakfast Sophia’s staff provided got me going – bacon, scrambled eggs, sausage, wholemeal toast and coffee that would normally only be available in the best tourist hotels. Sophia liked a few luxuries.
Maisie was in her school uniform. Edinburgh kids only get a two-week holiday in what passes for summer and she was still in class.
‘Why are you here, funny Quint man?’ she asked, as I stole her untouched sausage.
‘Well, very odd Maisie girl, your mother and I are working together.’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said, far too knowing for a six-year-old. ‘Are you making a baby?’
Sophia choked on her coffee, while my mouthful of sausage only just stayed where it was.
‘No, dear, we’re not doing that. Quint’s helping me with some problems.’
‘But he’s not a doctor.’
I smiled. ‘No, but I’m very good with my hands.’ I grabbed her and tickled her until her laughter turned into squeals.
Sophia gave me a frozen look. ‘That’ll have put her in the mood for study.’
An auxiliary appeared and took Maisie away. She stuck her tongue out at me, but only because I’d done so first.
‘What age are you, Quint?’ Sophia demanded.
‘Twelve. And next birthday I’ll be eleven.’
‘Plus thirty-nine.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Time we went for the p-m’s.’
Suddenly breakfast didn’t seem like such a joy after all.
Davie called when we were on the way to the infirmary.
‘Bet I had a better breakfast than you,’ I said.
‘Bet you didn’t have a bigger breakfast than me.’
‘Ha. Find out anything interesting last night?’
‘Not really. The guardian went to his room at 21.05 and no one heard anything from him after that. They said he seemed normal enough. Apparently he wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times. And – guess what? – no one heard any vacuuming.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Not sure. I ran the house machine from the room and it wouldn’t have been audible except on that floor. Those old houses are pretty solid. By the way, what did you do to Watt 529?’
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
‘Ah. He was obstructive. I took temporary possession of his nuts.’
Davie laughed. ‘We’ll get you back in the directorate yet, Quint.’
‘Hm. Guess where we’re going.’
‘I’m not attending another p-m, thank you. Anyway, Guardian Doris wants me to help with the football manager questionings. And they’ve brought in Madman Lamont’s girl.’
‘I thought the guardian finished with the managers last night.’
‘None of them talked. Then there are the other Porty Pish members. They’ve come round from their stunnings.’
‘Good luck with all that. See you later.’
I turned to Sophia. We were halfway up Lothian Road and the rain was ricocheting off the bonnet.
‘What happened at the p-m last night?’
‘My preliminary observations were confirmed. Hume 481 was killed in daylight, around midday, cause of death heart failure due to shock. He’d taken a heavy blow to the back of his head. As I said yesterday evening, he was gagged and his wrists and ankles were bound – those bonds subsequently having been taken off – and his heart was removed with some skill.’
I remembered what Billy had said about transplantation and asked the question.
‘It’s not very likely. You’d want a sterile location to remove the organ, certainly not al fresco. Besides, the first one wasn’t transplanted.’
‘I wonder where heart number two’s going to turn up.’
‘Don’t,’ she said with a shiver.
I put my hand on hers. Even though the driver could probably see that in his mirror, she didn’t shake it off. That was progress. She liked to imagine that our liaison was secret. It wasn’t.
In the morgue, Tall and Short were waiting for us with eager looks that I didn’t take to at all.
‘Where do we start?’ the former asked Sophia. ‘The guardian or the head?’
‘The latter,’ she replied.
We went over to the table where a small sheet covered a football-shaped lump. Short whipped the cover off with a flourish.
There’s something about decapitations that really gets me. To varying degrees all dead bodies are obscene, but severed heads are the ultimate desecration of the body because they contain what makes us what we are – the brain and all its layers of sense processing and thought, emotion and personality. No wonder the ancient Celts used to set their enemies’ heads in gates and walls to exploit their spiritual power.
Though I wasn’t sure how much spiritual power had been abstracted from Grant Brown’s head. It was a sorry specimen, the hair plastered about the slack face, the eyes closed and the lips badly damaged. As for the neck, it was lacerated but clean, the arteries and veins like electrical wires rather than once living capillaries.
‘It’s Brown,’ I said, comparing the face with the one in the file on a nearby table.
Sophia nodded. ‘And I think a saw was used.’
Tall was bent over the table. ‘Yes, the spine was severed between the C4 and C5 vertebrae by what I’d hazard was a hacksaw with a low number of tpi.’
‘Teeth per inch,’ I said. ‘So fourteen or thereabouts?’
The pathologist raised his eyebrows. ‘That would seem about right, citizen. We’ll know more after further tests.’
‘Leave it for now,’ Sophia said, turning back to the recreation guardian and pulling off the larger sheet that was covering him. ‘Och, Peter, how did it come to this?’
I was surprised even by that small display of emotion. The two guardians had never struck me as being close.
‘Look here, Quint,’ she said, pointing at bruises that had blackened on his lower thighs.
The pathologists craned forward, but I didn’t need to. It was obvious that Peter Stewart had been pulled downwards like Muckle Tony Anderson. The question was, who had got to him? Had he been in bed with the gambling bosses or had he been about to spill the pulses? He couldn’t tell us now.
I called Davie.
‘Meet me outside the infirmary. Tell the guardian I need you.’
‘Yes, darling.’
I took Sophia out of the morgue. ‘What’s happening with your investigation into the truth drug?’
‘Good question.’ She took off her elbow-length gloves and made a call.
‘Nothing?’ I said when she’d finished.
‘None of the suspects will talk. My head of security says they’re shit-scared, to use his words.’
‘Keep them under several locks and keys.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Better you don’t know.’
‘Charming,’ she said, but she was smiling. ‘Maybe we can meet in the late evening.’
‘Guardian, I must warn you that such behaviour can be habit-forming.’
‘Citizen, I already know that.’ She turned back to the tables in the morgue.
I left her to death’s realm. I had football on my mind.
The Recreation Directorate had moved to a recently completed building in the Market District. Davie turned left off Lothian Road and parked in front of the block of glass and steel. The conference hall was only a hundred yards away. A lot of Guard personnel and vehicles were stationed around the circular building.
‘The governors of Orkney and Shetland are being taken there,’ Davie said. ‘There are extra units all along the road from the airport.’
Interesting: the senior guardian and his sidekicks had done what I suggested.
‘Maybe we’ll take a walk over there later,’ I said. ‘Find out anything from your interrogations?’
‘Aye, Lucy MacGill’s just a scared wee lassie. I think she’s glad Madman’s gone. She wasn’t in the Pish.’
‘Fair enough. What about Eck Colquhoun?’
‘Still doing a decent imitation of an angry elephant seal. I threw a bucket of pig swill over him and left him to marinate.’
‘Didn’t know you were so well up on cooking terminology.’
‘I’m a gourmet.’
‘Gourmand, you mean.’
‘It’s possible to be both.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘What about the football managers?’
‘I had one Alan Mowat of St Bernard’s Rangers. A right loudmouth, you know the kind.’
‘Who said nothing useful. Did he mention Peter Stewart?’
‘No.’
‘Any other managers? Any other guardians or senior auxiliaries?’
He glared at me and shook his head.
‘All right. I want you to put the fear of any deity you fancy up Peter Stewart’s people.’
He grinned. ‘My kind of job.’
I let him march ahead with a look on his face that would have made Godzilla turn tail. Not that I had more than a vague memory of who or what Godzilla was.
By the time I got to the spacious entrance hall, which was hung with banners bearing the insignia of the ten EPL teams, there was a distinct atmosphere of fear about the place. Auxiliaries were scurrying about like ants that had just been hit with anti-ant spray.
‘Where’s the guardian’s office?’ I asked when I got to Davie.
‘Top floor,’ he replied, leading me to the lift. ‘Eight.’
We were conveyed upwards quickly enough to make me regret breakfast yet again. At least it didn’t reappear.
There was more scuttling about in the open-plan office in front of us.
‘Stay where you are!’ Davie yelled. He’d never needed a loudspeaker indoors. ‘This is Citizen Dalrymple, the Council’s special investigator. You do what he says or you answer to me.’
That did the trick. We were in the ex-guardian’s office under a minute later, followed by his personal assistant, an elderly female auxiliary whose eyes were red and watery. Apparently the deputy guardian had been called to a meeting with Fergus Calder.
I looked at the desk.
‘Where’s his computer?’
‘He had two desktops. The towers were gone when we came into work this morning, citizen.’
‘No sign of his laptop?’
‘No.’
‘Who took them?’
‘There’s no record in the security log.’
‘Get the night Guard unit,’ I said to Davie, going over to the desk. It was mahogany and looked new. I opened the drawers. They were all empty, as were the file cabinets on the walls.
‘I presume you kept records, Wilkie 88.’
‘Yes, citizen,’ she said, looking down. ‘But the directorate mainframe was down when we came in this morning. The technicians are still trying to restart it.’
‘Whatever happened to good old paper archives?’
The auxiliary looked at me as if I’d grown an extra nose. ‘We gave them up a year ago.’
‘Unlike some other directorates.’
‘The Finance Directorate’s fully digital now. And the Supply Directorate’s heading that way.’
Oddly, Fergus Calder, Jack MacLean and Billy Geddes hadn’t bothered to mention that. Why were their directorates and the late Peter Stewart’s at the frontline of the city’s technological revolution? I mean finance, yes; supply, obviously; but recreation? And what about the Council’s bulwark against chaos, the Public Order Directorate? Why hadn’t it been given priority?
‘Sit down,’ I said, beckoning her to an armchair and taking the one opposite. I checked her name panel. ‘Listen, Christine, I can see you’re upset about the guardian’s death.’
She stifled a sob. ‘We … we were friends before the last election.’
And more after it, I was sure.
‘I’m very sorry. Can you cast any light on what happened? Why would Peter kill himself?’
She shook her head repeatedly. ‘He wouldn’t … he wouldn’t.’
‘Was there something in the directorate that was troubling him?’
Wilkie 88 was an experienced auxiliary. She wasn’t going to break easily.
‘Something about football, maybe?’ I continued, assuming she was party to high-security matters. ‘The heart at Tynecastle must have been quite a blow to him.’ I thought back to the Council meetings. The recreation guardian hadn’t seemed overly concerned. Then again, it was strange that he hadn’t asked me about the investigation. After all, he was honorary president of all the EPL clubs and the managers reported to him.
‘Football,’ she repeated faintly, her gaze still directed at the carpet.
‘Look at me, Christine,’ I said softly. Eventually she complied. ‘Peter didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.’
‘What?’ She dropped her phone and electronic notepad. ‘He … what?’
I wasn’t going to spare her. ‘A rope was put round his neck and attached to the light fitting. Then somebody pulled on his legs until he choked to death. His tongue came out of his mouth and his eyes almost popped out of their—’
‘Stop it,’ the grey-haired auxiliary moaned. ‘Please … stop it …’
I gave her a few moments, not proud of myself.
‘The EPL,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘He … he didn’t like what was happening.’
I caught her eye. ‘What was happening?’
She looked around. The glass door was closed and her fellow auxiliaries were at their desks, pretending to be hard at work.
‘Last season there was illicit betting,’ she said, her voice so low I could hardly hear it. ‘Organized gambling. But it wasn’t Peter’s idea. He hated it. He tried … he tried to stop it.’
Which was probably why he was killed.
‘Whose idea was the gambling?’ I said.
Wilkie 88 shook her head violently. ‘I don’t … I don’t know …’
‘Yes, you do. You realize the people who had him killed were most likely pro-gambling?’
She thought about that. ‘All right … but you didn’t hear it from me.’
‘Of course. I’ll protect you.’
She didn’t look sure of that, but she spoke again: two words making a proper name that didn’t surprise me at all.
‘Billy Geddes.’
Shortly afterwards, Davie called and asked me to meet him in the directorate conference room on the seventh floor. As I walked down, I thought about what I’d heard. That Billy was involved in the betting made sense. He was the buffer between his boss, Jack MacLean, and the dirty work. I was sure that Fergus Calder knew about it too, but they could easily disown Billy as a renegade operator – he certainly had form. But what was I to do? Confronting the senior and finance guardians would probably lead to me being taken off the case – if not strung up from a light fitting. On the other hand, the senior guardian had agreed that I head the initial investigation and, despite the face-off in his quarters last night, I was still in place. The death of Peter Stewart made Calder’s life more difficult – only one serving guardian had been killed in office. Kicking me into the long grass would hardly strengthen his position. No, I was sure the senior and finance guardians were worried about the heart business, which meant they weren’t directly involved. So who was?
Davie was waiting outside a glass-enclosed room which contained four shell-shocked guardsmen.
‘I’ve put the boot in,’ he said. ‘Last night they were playing cards in a room behind the reception desk. They claimed they were keeping an eye open but that’s a load of shite. They were drinking too. One of them still reeks of it.’
‘Do you think they were told to turn a blind eye?’
‘If so, they’ve got some balls keeping that to themselves.’ Davie grinned. ‘Certain threats were made.’
‘Demotion, five years down the mines …’
‘That kind of thing.’
‘Any point in me playing soft cop?’
‘Too late for that. Besides, the head of computing is looking for you.’
I looked over my shoulder. A male auxiliary who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five was leaning against a desk, looking sicker than a dog.
‘Well, then, Watt 475,’ I said, looking at his ID panels. ‘Or rather, Douglas.’
‘Doogie.’ There were spots on his nose and his eyes were twitchy behind thick-rimmed spectacles.
‘Call me Quint. So, what’s the damage?’
‘We’ve got the mainframe up and running,’ he said. ‘As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, no files have been corrupted.’
‘What’s the catch?’
Doogie the Pluke looked like he was about to throw up. I took a step back.
‘Peter – the guardian’s – personal archive …’
‘I thought you said nothing had been corrupted.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Well, technically it hasn’t. It’s … been wiped.’
‘So why were his computers taken?’
‘To make sure he hadn’t hidden an encrypted file, I’d say.’
I went up to him and caught his gaze. ‘You called the guardian Peter. That means you were close.’
The auxiliary swallowed a sob. ‘He was like a … like a father to me.’
‘I’m sorry. The best thing you can do is work with Christine to find any of those encrypted files. Maybe he hid a – what are they called?’
‘Diskette?’
‘Yeah, those.’ I had very little idea about computers, not least because the Public Order Directorate made sure I never got my hands on even a superannuated one. ‘Maybe he secreted one somewhere in his office.’
‘I’ll get on to it right away.’
‘Just a minute.’ I grabbed his forearm. ‘Have you heard anything about betting in the EPL?’
His eyes shot open. ‘What? No, never.’
I half-believed him. ‘OK, keep that to yourself.’
He nodded nervously.
I watched him walk off. His suit looked like it had been slept in for several nights.
‘Any luck?’ Davie said, arriving at my side.
‘Not a lot.’ I could see activity at the conference centre. The Council’s only luxury vehicle – a pre-crisis Rolls Royce Phantom that had somehow survived the years of disorder – had drawn up. An honour guard saluted and I saw two men in suits walk into the building. Orkney and Shetland. Did they use to wear kilts in the old days? I thought not. It was very windy up there.
‘What’s next?’ Davie asked.
‘Not much more we can do here. Did Guardian Doris tell you anything about her chats with the other football managers?’
‘Only that three of them referred her to the recreation guardian. They haven’t been told he’s dead yet.’
I started walking to the stairs. Given the power cuts that bedevil the city, I avoided elevators, at least on the way down.
‘Curious that – considering he seems to have been implacably opposed to gambling.’
‘Almost like they knew he was going to be killed.’
I stopped and looked at him. ‘Premeditation. That’s a nasty and very credible thought, guardsman. What did the night Guard at Peter Stewart’s quarters say?’
‘That no one entered before you. That feeble auxiliary said the same. I sent them all to the castle. Shall we go and pull their chains?’
‘Stop licking your lips. All right, you can have another go at them. And at the night guard from the New Tolbooth – how did Grant Brown’s head get there without anyone noticing? Meanwhile, I’ve got other fish to fillet.’
‘Namely?’
‘There’s a drugs angle too, remember? According to Skinny Ewan, the Porty Pish got their dope from the Supply Directorate. Now, who knows everything that goes on in each directorate?’
‘The deputy guardian.’
‘Correct. I’m going to pay a call on that individual.’
Before I did so, I rang Doris and asked her to send a forensics team back to the recreation guardian’s house in Moray Place. In case he’d left any documentation or diskettes referring to gambling, they were to tear the place apart. Unfortunately, in my haste, I forgot to check out Peter Stewart’s deputy, who would now have taken his or her place unless the Council had something against him or her.