The Supply Directorate was located in what had been Waverley Station before rail links with the rest of the country were cut by the first Council after independence was declared. The city’s stores of everything from food to toilet paper (hard, thin and scratchy) and carpets to light bulbs (notoriously short-lived) were arranged in vast rows and tiers on the concrete base that had been laid over the rail tracks and platforms. The directorate’s headquarters were in a grimy grey block just to the south of the stores. It had been some joker of an architect’s take on brutalism, even though it was originally a hotel. Welcome to Ugly Town. The auxiliaries who worked in the Supply Directorate had a reputation for sticky fingers. A few of the most egregious thieves were demoted every year and sent to clean toilets in the worst of the tourist bars. The rest just got on with lining the pockets of their grey suits, depot overalls and Guard uniforms. The fact was citizens would have revolted in under a week if they weren’t able to obtain food and other essential supplies. The Council knew that and let the staff do what they wanted, within reason, as long as the directorate functioned. Plato, the Enlightenment’s presiding philosopher, had been a great one for reason, to the extent of kicking poets out of his ideal state. There aren’t many poets in contemporary Edinburgh.
I took out my authorization and went past the guards at the entrance. ‘Where’s the deputy guardian?’ I asked the pretty auxiliary on the front desk.
‘I …’
‘Actually, who’s the deputy guardian?’
‘Adam 159, citizen.’
‘And where is he?’
‘I’ll have to call his secretary.’
‘Don’t call anyone,’ I ordered. ‘Unless you want a year on the pig farms.’
She quivered more than her rank is supposed to. ‘Yes, citizen. I mean, no, citizen.’
‘Where’s his office?’
‘Sixth floor. The lift’s over there.’
‘Don’t tell him I’m coming,’ I threatened.
I went to the lift, speed being of the essence. I was unsure whether my imminent arrival would be communicated. It would have been a disgrace to intimidate the young woman for nothing.
Fortunately there was no power cut, accidental or otherwise; stopping the lift would have been a good way of buying the deputy guardian time. It would be the stairs for me next time, even going up.
The doors opened and I walked into a warren of small offices. There were few signs, directorates being deliberately organized to confuse visitors. I saw a tea lady, a middle-aged citizen in pale blue overalls, and went over to her.
‘Hullo, dearie,’ she said with a smile. My lack of uniform didn’t seem to bother her.
‘Hullo yourself.’
I leant closer. ‘It’s the deputy guardian’s birthday and I’ve got a surprise from the Council for him. Do you know where he is?’
The original Council banned birthday celebrations on the grounds that they were excessively self-indulgent. That’s been relaxed for ordinary citizens, but not for auxiliaries, at least officially.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ she said. ‘I gave him his tea a few minutes ago. He’s in with the head of personnel. Second corridor, fifth office on the left.’
‘Thanks, Evie,’ I said, having taken in her name panel.
‘That’s aw right. Here, haven’t I seen you before?’
I left before she remembered my face from stories in the Edinburgh Guardian about successful cases – the credit mainly being given to the Public Order Directorate. The corridor was stuffy, the smell a combination of over-boiled root vegetables, the flatulence they produce and sweat. Even barracks-issue soap is underpowered, the best ingredients being kept for the tourist variety.
I found the office. The sign said ‘Moray 402 – Head of Personnel’. Underneath it a wooden slide shouted ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ in red ink.
I disturbed.
The tableau could have come from one of the porn magazines that I’d frequently come across before independence and afterwards were smuggled in from Scandinavian states. The deputy guardian was kneeling on the floor with his back to me, his trousers and pants down. Moray 402, naked from the waist down, was lying on her desk, legs spread as her boss lapped away. Her moaning turned to a shriek, but Adam 159 stayed on the job, only pulling away when she closed her thighs on the sides of his head. She’d seen me.
‘Wha—?’ he gasped, rolling away and pulling at his trousers.
‘Wha indeed, deputy guardian,’ I said, closing the door.
The head of personnel had got off the desk and disappeared behind it, fumbling with her clothes.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the deputy guardian roared after he’d buttoned himself up. He frowned. ‘I know you.’
‘Citizen Dalrymple. Call me Quint.’
‘I fucking well won’t. What the hell are you doing here?’
I held up my authorization, though he should have known about it as all senior auxiliaries receive a daily update from the Council. He blustered incomprehensibly, eyes off his subordinate. I showed her the authorization too. She was a handsome woman, her bright red cheeks a minor and temporary flaw.
‘Right then,’ I said, picking up a condom wrapper and sitting in front of the desk. ‘I think Yolanda’– it was the first time I’d met an Edinburgh native with that name – ‘had better go and solve her personnel problems elsewhere.’
The auxiliary left at speed, her shoes unlaced.
‘I suppose you think that was clever, Dalrymple,’ Adam 159 said. He was an unusually corpulent auxiliary in his fifties, his face pitted with either acne or shrapnel scars.
‘I could say the same to you, Joseph Sutherland. Don’t tell me – your nickname is Uncle Joe.’
He didn’t favour that with an answer, rather fishing out the condom from his pants. He tossed it in my direction. That got him both barrels.
‘Someone in this directorate is trafficking drugs, you fuck!’
The air went out of him like a pricked balloon. ‘What?’ he said faintly.
‘Drugs!’ I yelled. ‘Tell me what’s going on now or answer to the Council tonight.’
‘But I don’t know anything about drugs,’ he said, dropping into Moray 402’s chair. ‘What kind of drugs?’
‘Narcotic, not pharmaceutical.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘From a confidential but one hundred per cent credible source.’ Pity Skinny Ewan was dead. Maybe the truth drug was unreliable in other ways too – he might have told us whatever came into his mind. I kept that idea to myself.
‘You can’t walk into my directorate and make accusations like that.’
‘Yes, I can. But you can’t expect me to believe that you know nothing about drug supplies emanating from the depot across the road.’
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a grey tissue.
‘You’ve been keeping this from your guardian, haven’t you?’ I said.
‘I … the guardian has much on his mind, especially considering his role as the city’s leader.’
‘You do remember that anything related to illicit drugs is graded by the Public Order Directorate as a class-one crime.’
He nodded rapidly. ‘I tell you, I don’t know anything.’
I stood up. ‘All right, you’ve had your chance. We’re going to the castle.’
‘Wait,’ the auxiliary said, scrambling to his feet. ‘If I put you in touch with my drugs squad leader, would that be any help?’
I played hard to get. ‘You have a drugs squad?’
‘Of course. We can’t have Guard personnel from the castle stamping around the warehouse and causing chaos any time they get a tip off.’
‘And when did this elite team last catch a trafficker?’
He blanched. ‘Well, it acts more as a deterrent than an apprehension unit.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But my man, Knox 31, has his finger on what’s happening.’
‘Knox 31?’
‘You know him?’
‘Once upon a time. Where is he?’
‘The team’s office is on the left as you enter the warehouse from this side. I’ll tell him you’re coming.’ Suddenly the deputy guardian was as compliant as a child being offered sweeties.
‘Don’t,’ I commanded. I love taking that tone with senior auxiliaries. ‘And Joe? You aren’t off the hook, but I’ll hold back on telling Fergus about your illicit sex session for the time being.’ Although auxiliaries were encouraged to engage in sexual liaisons with members of their rank, making whoopee in the workplace was strictly forbidden. What kind of example would that set Evie the tea lady?
‘Quite a lunch, Jimmy Taggart.’
The white-haired auxiliary at the table in the mess room looked up from a spread that included caviar, a large crab and a loaf of whiter-than-snow tourist bread.
There was also a small round of a creamy cheese that I hadn’t seen since a family holiday in France when I was thirteen.
‘Is that you, son?’ he said, getting to his feet with difficulty. He had the kind of belly that normally contains twins.
‘You used to call me “sir”.’
‘True enough,’ he said, wiping his hands and shaking mine. ‘Bell 03, as was. Long time no see.’
He’d been in the Tactical Operations Squad that I’d run before I got myself demoted. So had my lover Caro. Old Jimmy had been there when she died. He had the kindness not to mention that.
‘Call me Quint. You on your own?’
He nodded. ‘My people are checking a shipment of turnips from a farm near Soutra. Get stuck in.’
I did. Rich foods didn’t often feature in my diet.
‘What were you after, sir? I mean, citizen. I’m sorry, I can’t bring myself to call you by your first name. You were my commander.’
‘Long time ago, Jimmy.’ I took in the ragged two-inch scar above his right eye. He’d fought hard for the Enlightenment. I wondered if he still had it in him. ‘Adam 159 told me about your drugs squad.’
‘Did he now? That fat shite only knows one thing – how to lick his way to the top.’
I considered telling what the deputy guardian had been up to with the head of personnel, but decided that could wait.
‘Do you find a lot of drugs?’ I asked.
Taggart gave me a weary look. ‘What do you think, sir? I’ve got four auxiliaries and hundreds of deliveries a week.’
I told him what Skinny Ewan had said.
‘The Portobello Pish? They’ve got contacts in the warehouse, there’s no doubt about that. Nailing them isn’t easy, though. There are over five thousand citizen workers here.’
‘How many auxiliaries?’
He grinned. ‘You always had a thing for corruption in the ranks, even when you were in them yourself.’
‘Unfortunately the subsequent years have only made me more sceptical.’
‘We’re all Hume’s children.’
‘True. So have you got anything for me?’
‘There are over five hundred auxiliaries in the Supply Directorate. Take your pick.’ Which was his way of saying he’d like to keep his current sinecure.
Jimmy Taggart packed up the remains of his lunch and stuck them in a surprisingly ancient fridge, given where we were.
‘Couldn’t you get a replacement?’
He laughed. ‘This one actually works. The new ones from some breakaway island in the Philippines last one summer, if you’re lucky.’
I caught his gaze. ‘The beans. Spill them.’
The old guardsman got up and closed the door. ‘Right, sir. Since we’re old comrades and I think it’s about time this directorate got cleaned up, I’ll give you a hand. It’s like this. Every week the fools in command send me a printout of deliveries, some from the city farms, some from the airport and some from the docks at Leith.’
‘Which fools across the road?’
Taggart laughed harshly. ‘Good question. Here, look.’ He went to a filing cabinet, took out a folder and handed it to me.
I opened it and ran my eyes over it. ‘Everything from vegetables to tourist delicacies, hotel wallpaper to traffic lights, souvenirs to fabrics.’
‘Aye, and here’s the best bit. We aren’t meant to check those shipments. We’re to leave them alone.’
I stared at him. ‘It doesn’t say that here.’
‘No, but when the system started about five years back, I was told I’d end my life down the mines if I or any of my squad so much as breathed on the listed deliveries.’
For the first time ever I saw fear on Taggart’s face.
‘You were told by who? Presumably not the deputy guardian or he wouldn’t have sent me to you.’
‘Like I say, that shite doesn’t get his hands dirty. Or rather, his bosses don’t trust him.’
‘Come on, Jimmy, who was it?’
He looked away. ‘I can’t say, sir. I’m almost past it. I wouldn’t last six months underground.’
I nodded. ‘How about we do it this way? I say a name and you nod or shake your head.’
There was sweat on his rutted forehead, but he went along with it.
‘Fergus Calder.’
No dice.
‘Billy Geddes.’
Same again.
‘Jack MacLean?’
Zero from three. I was getting desperate. Then I had it. Although he was seconded to the Supply Directorate, Taggart was still a guardsman and all Guard personnel ultimately answered to the Public Order Directorate. Five years ago that was …
‘The late, not even minimally lamented Hamish Buchanan.’
This time my old comrade gave a single nod.
‘Why are you worried about him?’ Buchanan had been one of the most useless guardians in Council history, his incompetence matched only by his arrogance and spitefulness. I’d never heard that he’d been corrupt, but it didn’t exactly come as a surprise.
Taggart took the file from me and put it back in the cabinet.
‘When the current guardian took over, I sent her office a message asking if the order should be revoked. She wrote back that it was to stand.’
That was interesting. Guardian Doris had been deputy guardian for most of Horrible Hamish’s reign. She would have known more than him about the Public Order Directorate’s secrets. Then it struck me that she hadn’t appointed a deputy. Davie told me she hadn’t had time, but I wondered about that. Did she want a finger in every pie her directorate was baking? Ten would hardly be enough. Not even adding her toes would suffice. She was trading directorate efficiency for personally controlling as much as she could.
‘Right, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘Get that file out again.’
He looked at me in horror.
‘That’s right, you, me and your squad are going to check this week’s shipments.’
‘You’re fucking joking.’
For once in my life I wasn’t.
We were in luck. In the second delivery, one of fine wine from Provence, we found a box of straw containing over five pounds of cocaine.
‘Put it back,’ I said, ‘and seal the consignment.’ I turned to Taggart. ‘Who’s the recipient?’
‘The Tourist Services Department,’ he read from the manifest.
It supplied restaurants, bars and so on in the central zone, but narcotics for the tourists were imported by a unit in the Public Order Directorate. What the hell was going on?
‘Let’s see who comes to pick it up,’ I said, looking over his shoulder. ‘Delivery’s to take place by four o’clock this afternoon.’
I sent the squad about other business and waited with Jimmy Taggart behind a heap of potatoes across the aisle. Half an hour later a Korean truck backed up and two warehousemen loaded the consignment into its cargo space. After it set off towards the east gate, Taggart and I got into the battered Land Rover he had parked nearby – no new 4×4 for him – and went after it.
‘Tourist Services have a depot down in Stockbridge,’ Jimmy said, wrestling with the elderly vehicle’s wheel. ‘Where that school used to be.’
‘The Academy. I remember playing rugby against them. The bastards always won.’
He grinned. ‘You’d have been upset when it was blown up during the drugs wars, then.’
‘I cried for weeks. Hold on, where’s he going?’
The truck hadn’t taken the turn to Waterloo Place and the north, but headed south after a zigzag on the Canongate. It stopped about half a mile down the Pleasance, outside what had once been a church and was now a disused carpet warehouse. The high windows were blocked with boards and the door was chained and padlocked. There was no sign identifying the building’s purpose or affiliation. The driver had the key. A minute after he’d opened up, a new-looking white van arrived and a citizen in standard-issue grey overalls helped the driver to unload the crates.
‘Prima facie case of thieving,’ Taggart said.
‘We need backup,’ I said, hitting buttons on my phone.
‘Davie?’ I said, giving him our location. ‘Get down here, but don’t tell the command centre or anyone else where you’re going.’
Fortunately the driver and his helper took a break after they’d emptied the back of the truck. We were parked beyond them and they paid no attention to the elderly Land Rover. Its lack of directorate markings helped. I asked Taggart about that.
‘No one cares what I do – obviously because I don’t do anything that counts. There was an order to stencil on the Supply Directorate logo a few months back, but I binned it.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I like to pretend I’m still in the Tactical Operations Squad. We really mattered then.’
I nodded, then watched as a Guard 4×4 pulled up outside the former church. Jimmy Taggart got us down there at speed.
Davie had the situation under control, the driver and his helper on the ground with their hands on their heads.
‘What’s this then, Quint?’ he asked, smacking his nightstick against his palm. ‘Thieving bastards?’
‘Got it in one. IDs please, citizens. No rapid movements.’
‘I already took those from them,’ Davie said, pointing to a pair of flick-knives on the pavement by the 4×4.
I looked at the cards that had been taken from the men’s pockets.
‘Means, Gerald,’ I read. ‘Supply Directorate driver. Date of birth 13/5/2004, eyes blue, hair blond, height five feet nine, weight eleven stone three, address 17 Lochend Avenue.’ I broke off and looked at Davie. ‘In between Leith and Portobello. Which do you think he is? A Lancer or a Pish?’
‘Fuck the Pish!’ said Means, earning a kick in the gut.
‘You weren’t invited to speak,’ Davie said, leaning over the writhing man.
‘How about number two. Yule, George—’
‘D’yer pals call you Log?’ Davie asked.
‘Fuck—’ The citizen doubled up, gasping for air.
‘Can I have a go?’ Taggart asked.
‘Sure, next time they screw up,’ said Davie, with a grin.
‘Barman, Kenilworth Casino, Rose Street.’ I remembered that Skinny Ewan, deceased leader of the Pish, had worked in a George Street establisment. Had the two gangs split up the central zone? ‘Date of Birth 26/12/2002, eyes and hair brown, height five-eleven, weight, twelve-one, address 4 East Hermitage Place.’
‘A Lancer, obviously,’ Davie said.
‘Lancers rule!’
Jimmy Taggart gave the shouter the boot.
‘So,’ I said, ‘two Leith Lancers, a load of expensive wine and five pounds plus of coke.’
‘Is that right?’ Davie said.
‘See if you can find it, Jimmy,’ I said.
After he’d gone inside, I told Davie about the old guardsman’s squad and Guardian Doris’s reconfirmation of the order not to search specific shipments.
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Me neither. Then again, this place is a few hundred yards down the road from your barracks. How could it not have been noticed? They unloaded in broad daylight and it isn’t even raining.’
‘Michael Campbell,’ he said.
Hume 481, last seen in the morgue with his heart missing.
‘Time we went to talk to Hume 01,’ I said.
Jimmy Taggart came out, the package of coke under his arm. ‘You’ve got to see this,’ pointing to the old church’s door.
Davie cuffed the prisoners’ wrists and ankles, then followed us in.
A lot more than forty thieves had put together this treasure trove.