My mobile rang before I made it to the command centre in the castle.
“What are you playing at, Dalrymple?” The senior guardian sounded very unhappy. “I expressly told you to brief Administrator Raphael in my presence.”
“Your friend the administrator knows a lot more about Lewis Hamilton’s death than she’s letting on,” I countered. “Why do I have the impression that your dealings with New Oxford matter more to you than the shooting of a fellow guardian?”
That shut Slick up for a few moments. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said. “Provided you come to my office to explain yourself right now.” His voice had increased in volume by the end of the sentence.
“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t spare the time.” The only chance I had of keeping hold of my authorisation was to involve all the guardians. “I’ll be at the Council meeting. Out.”
This case had suddenly gone into overdrive. That’s the way I like them.
The Council of City Guardians meets in the chamber that was used by the Scottish Parliament before the mob laid into the building and its occupants in 2003. One of the main reasons for the violence was the gigantic overspend on the premises that the people’s representatives occupied; that and their general incompetence, venality and self-righteousness. You’d have thought the Council would have preferred to keep its distance from that tainted power structure, but the guardians hightailed it down to the foot of the Royal Mile as soon as the main building had been repaired. Maybe they felt the need to work in close proximity to the ruined Palace of Holyroodhouse, another symbol of governance gone to the bad.
Guards who had obviously been told to look out for me ushered me into the grandiose pile and pointed towards the heavy doors of the chamber. Not that I needed directions – I’d been up before the Council often enough in the past. There was a clang as the steel panels closed behind me.
I walked into the centre of the bear pit and sat down on the single chair that had been placed there. The guardians were at their seats on the elevated sides of the rounded debating chamber, their leader on a larger, more throne-like piece of furniture straight ahead of me. Glancing around, I counted fourteen: Sophia was the single missing body. Unfortunately the Mist had taken over Lewis Hamilton’s seat, even though she wasn’t yet wearing the tweed jacket that goes with the rank of guardian.
“Citizen Dalrymple,” the senior guardian began, “you have a lot of explaining to do.”
“I’m not the only one,” I said. After years of manipulating guardians, I knew that the way to get ahead was to go for their collective jugular – and to hope that at least some of them remembered the Platonic ideals that underpinned the Enlightenment. “I’ve uncovered evidence pointing to the involvement of New Oxford in the murder of the public order guardian.”
There was an outburst of gasping and exclaiming, which culminated in the senior guardian making repeated use of his gavel. As he did so, I caught the Mist’s eye. That was not a pleasant experience.
“New Oxford is a great supporter of Edinburgh,” the labour guardian said. He was a heavily built individual with a bald head and a notoriously short temper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”
His words drew a flurry of approving calls.
So I hit them with the NOX factor. That took the wind from their sails, but not for long.
“You call that evidence?” the culture guardian said ironically. He was a dilettante who’d recently started wearing even more sumptuous Italian suits than he used to, thanks to Slick’s version of a presidential campaign fund, I reckoned. “New Oxford is a major manufacturing and trading centre as well as a university-state. Even if the bullet is a genuine product of that city – and since you succeeded in destroying it, how will we ever be able to tell? – it could easily have been purchased by a third party.”
As his colleagues vented their support, I wondered what deals his directorate had been setting up with the administrator.
“Is that really all you have to go on, citizen?” the senior guardian asked. I thought I caught a hint of relief in his voice but I may have been mistaken.
I shrugged. “That’s enough for me.” I looked around the stern faces above me. “That, and the fact that Administrator Raphael and her entourage refused to talk about the bullet.”
“It’s probably the result of top-secret research,” the Mist put in. Then she gave me a bitter smile. “No doubt your notoriously direct way of asking questions was not to their taste either.”
“Wake up, will you?” I shouted. “One of your colleagues was assassinated today. Don’t any of you want to find out who was responsible?”
There was a stony silence.
I pressed on with my attack. “I think the administrator and her sidekicks knew from the start that the bullet that killed Lewis Hamilton was one of theirs.” I looked up at Slick. “You’ve been keeping them fully informed. You gave them a description of the bullet, didn’t you?”
The senior guardian nodded slowly. “Administrator Raphael asked me about it, yes.”
I nodded. “You see? She could have warned us about it before we examined it, she could have told us about the anti-tamper device. Instead she kept her mouth shut and the bullet exploded, nearly killing another of your number. I reckon it was a misfire. It should have atomised completely. If it had, the medical guardian might not have been hit by the larger fragment.” I stared at the Mist, wondering how much she knew about all this. “And there wouldn’t have been a fragment with the NOX mark on it, leaving them completely in the clear.”
There was another heavy silence, during which I reminded myself that Administrator Raphael had been pretty nervous before the shooting. How did that fit in with what had happened?
Then Slick got to his feet. The firmness of his jaw told me that I was for it. “Colleagues, this is intolerable. On the day our oldest and most experienced fellow guardian was done to death, we are forced to listen to a stream of uncorroborated accusations against Edinburgh’s greatest benefactor state. I ask you, why would New Oxford want to assassinate a guardian?”
That was a good question. I hadn’t got anywhere with identifying a motive.
He turned his gaze on me. “Citizen Dalrymple, do you have any other evidence to offer? Have you uncovered any witnesses of the shooting, any sightings of the gunman?”
I shook my head. Davie had told me that the command centre’s surveillance system had drawn a blank.
Slick smiled tightly. “That is not good enough, citizen. It is clear that you are unfit to carry out the investigation.” He glanced around his fellow guardians. “Colleagues, you will be aware that the special authorisation held by Citizen Dalrymple – an authorisation, I might add, that has always struck me as highly irregular – can only be revoked by a unanimous vote of the Council. I hereby propose that the said authorisation is revoked. Those in favour?”
There was a pause, but not much of one, while the guardians thought about it. Then all their right hands came up like targets on a shooting range – the Mist’s included.
“Hang on,” I objected. “Raeburn 124 isn’t a member of this body.”
“Oh yes she is,” the senior guardian countered. “She was elected a few minutes before you arrived. Unanimously, of course.”
I gave him a questioning look. “And how exactly did the medical guardian signal her approval? She’s been sedated.”
Slick stared at me. “Not that it’s any of your concern, citizen, but the City Regulations allow for guardians to be elected by all colleagues who are conscious at the time of the given Council meeting.” He gave me a taunting smile. “As will also apply in the vote applying to you.” He looked around the chamber in perfunctory fashion. “Those not in favour?”
Before he could announce the absence of opposition to his proposal, the steel doors burst open. The sentry outside stepped away and a figure in a raincoat draped over a hospital gown moved slowly forwards.
“Sophia!” I went towar
ds her quickly and took her arm. “What are you doing on your feet?”
“What does it look like?” she said in a low voice. “Coming to your rescue.” There was a large raised dressing over her right cheek and eye.
I led her to the chair I’d been using, feeling her wilting against me.
“What is going on here?” Sophia asked, her voice unsteady but clear enough. “I came round and tuned in to the debate.”
She took a small black box sprouting wires from her coat. Recently the Council had equipped itself with a digital link so that members unavoidably detained on directorate business could follow meetings. I didn’t need to exercise my imagination too much to come up with the name of the city that had provided the gear.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sophia cast a sharp glance round the chamber. “Citizen Dalrymple is the only person in Edinburgh who can handle a case of this complexity and you know it.” She placed a hand over the dressing protruding from her chest. “I want to find out who was responsible for the death of Lewis Hamilton and I want to find the bastard who almost left my daughter an orphan.” She was staring at the senior guardian now.
He returned her stare and ran his tongue round his lips. “I presume you were not conscious when the vote for the new public order guardian was taken?”
Sophia gave the Mist a disparaging look. “Unfortunately not.”
“So at least that decision is unaffected.” The senior guardian sounded relieved. “I take it you’re not in favour of rescinding Citizen Dalrymple’s authorisation, guardian.”
“Correct,” Sophia said, her voice fading. “Meeting concluded.” Her body sagged even more against mine. “Now get me back to the infirmary.”
I led her out of the chamber and thanked her after the doors slammed behind us.
“I’ve bought you some time, Quint,” she said, her face beaded with sweat. “That’s all. Make sure you use it.”
I nodded then took her down the steps carefully. I had a feeling I was going to need a lot more than time to solve this case.
Chapter Eight
I spent the rest of the evening with Davie in the cubby-hole we’d taken over in the castle. I’d given him the option of abandoning my rat-infested ship, but he declined. He reckoned he was soiled goods already as far as the new public order guardian was concerned. We pored over the guard reports and witness statements again, we checked the condition of the one-armed Leith Lancer – still comatose – and we ran through the lists of tourists leaving from the airport. I wasn’t surprised when none of the city’s departing visitors turned out to have a heavy-calibre firearm in his or her luggage. All in all, we drew a complete blank.
A little after midnight I left the big man to the snack he’d ordered from the mess. I could have walked back to my place, but the curfew had just kicked in and I didn’t fancy flashing my authorisation at every guard patrol I met. So I jumped into the nearest Land-Rover on the esplanade and told the middle-aged driver where to go.
“Are you making any progress, citizen?” the guardsman asked, his voice sombre. “Have you found the lunatic who killed the guardian?”
“Making any progress?” I repeated, looking to my left as we passed the Oxford delegation’s accommodation in Ramsay Garden. Raphael’s nervous demeanour was still on my mind. “Well, we’ve made a start.” It was only after I’d spoken the words that I realised how lame they sounded.
“Get the fucker,” the driver said. “The guardian was a great man.”
I nodded. The guy was obviously a fully paid-up member of the old guard. I’d had too many run-ins with Lewis Hamilton and seen too many of his failings to go along with the characterisation of him as great.
But that didn’t mean I was going to let the bastard who shot him slip out of my hands. No way.
I saw the faint line of light under the bedroom door as soon as I entered my flat. The electricity is shut off at midnight in citizen areas, making us rely on the poor-quality candles doled out by the Supply Directorate.
“Is that you, Katharine?” I called, concentrating on avoiding the sofa.
“Yes, it’s me.” Her voice was slightly less hostile than it had been the last time I saw her outside the infirmary. I’d considered ringing her earlier on but I’d chickened out.
I opened the flimsy bedroom door and looked at her apprehensively. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”
Katharine was sitting up in bed, the blankets pulled up to her neck to fend off the chill in the unheated room. “Yes, well,” she said, her eyes off me, “I may have overreacted a bit.” Then she turned her head towards me in a rapid movement. “But violence is no solution, Quint. You of all people must know that.”
I sat down on the bed and started unlacing my boots. “Of course I bloody know that,” I said. “But the headbanger tried to—”
“It’s okay, I understand.” Katharine stuck out a hand and rested it on my shoulder. “They don’t know any better. The system’s to blame, not the kids.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that count,” I said, standing up and preparing to jettison my clothes as quickly as I could to minimise my exposure to the chill in my bedroom.
“Aah!” Katharine gasped, pulling away. “You’re freezing!”
“You’ll soon warm me up,” I said, pressing against her.
“Stop it.” She turned her back on me. “Quint?” Her voice was serious. “I heard a story that Lewis Hamilton took a bullet. It isn’t true, is it?”
“It’s true all right,” I replied. The Council had decided to make no announcement about the guardian’s death yet; there was a feeling that the city’s lowlife might take it as a licence to wreck the joint. But Edinburgh’s only heavy industry is its rumour factory and clearly it had been working overtime. “He was hit during the prison inauguration and died on the spot.”
“At the inauguration? That must have caused a stink.”
“You could say that.” I felt the warmth of her begin to spread slowly towards my feet.
“Are you in charge of the investigation?”
I nodded then stretched over and blew out the candle. “In charge for the time being at least – and having a lot of problems.”
“No one’s ever shot a guardian,” Katharine said. “Not even Hamilton deserved that. Who do you think was behind it?”
Sleep was hovering over me like a shroud stretched out by a pair of undertakers.
“I’m working on that,” I mumbled, sinking fast. Before I slipped under it struck me that, despite the fact that she’d suffered badly under Lewis Hamilton, Katharine sounded sorry that he’d gone. I didn’t know what to make of that. “Funeral’s tomorrow morning,” I managed, then succumbed to exhaustion.
Warriston Crematorium is in the northern suburbs, about a mile west of the port at Leith. After independence it became the city’s main gateway between life and death. The other crematoria had been torched during the drugs wars and the first Council banned burial in order to save space and to discourage religious ritual. So everyone, from long-serving guardian to humblest citizen, ends up in the furnace at Warriston. Not that the facility’s major role in Edinburgh life has guaranteed it special status. It receives no more funding than any other service unit, so its walls are stained and pocked, its roof leaks and its gardens are maintained with much less diligence than the parks in the central tourist zone.
Davie picked us up in a guard vehicle at ten thirty, showing little enthusiasm for Katharine’s presence. She’d insisted on attending the funeral without offering any explanation; Lewis Hamilton had been in charge of the Public Order Directorate when she’d been sent to the high-security prison on Cramond Island for three years for terrorist activities. Maybe her concern was just a blind and what she really wanted was a metaphorical dance on his grave.
“I thought this was supposed to be a restricted event.” I said as we swung into the crematorium drive.
There were long lines of guard vehicles on both sides and the road
was clogged with auxiliaries in full dress uniform, medal ribbons on their grey tunics and maroon peaked caps rather than the normal berets under their arms.
Davie grunted. “It is.” He gave a warning blare of his horn and the guard personnel stepped aside when they saw him. “My colleagues are ignoring the Council directive. They want to give the chief a decent send-off.”
Katharine, her head high, made no comment. She’d been back to her flat and changed into a white blouse and cream trousers that definitely weren’t standard issue – she must have run them up herself. The sun was out so the thin material of her dark blue jacket was probably just about sufficient.
Davie let us off at the gate and we walked through the throng of auxiliaries to the main building.
“Citizen Dalrymple. It’s been some time since we’ve seen you here.” The thin citizen with yellow teeth attempted a welcoming smile but didn’t make the grade.
“Hello, Haigh,” I said. “Still enjoying life with the dead?” I’d had several unpleasant experiences with the crematorium supervisor; he took a distinctly ghoulish pleasure in his work.
He checked his clipboard. “Yes, you’re on the list.” He glanced up at Katharine and licked his lips. “Your barracks number or name, please?”
“She’s with—” I broke off as I saw Katharine flash her “ask no questions”. That put a stop to his tongue.
We stepped into the chilly building and breathed in an atmosphere that had always made me queasy. Even though the rapid throughput means that bodies don’t stay in the place for long, it still smelled of the ultimate corruption. Then I caught sight of the senior guardian and the recently promoted head of the Public Order Directorate. They didn’t look like they were enjoying inhaling either.
“Morning,” I said, moving up on them unobserved. “You’ll never get all of the City Guard in here.”
The senior guardian stopped in mid-sentence and turned to me. “They will pay for this insubordination, citizen, never fear. My colleague will see to that.”
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