“You took a chance on finding me here,” I said.
“Nice to see you too.” She came up to me and kissed me. “What’s wrong with your mobile?”
“Sorry,” I said, holding my face against hers. “I turned it off an hour ago. I’m lying low, trying to keep Slick and the Mist off my back.”
She put her arm through mine. “Do you really think they won’t be able to find you if they want to?”
“Course not,” I said ruefully. “Surveillance is the name of the game these days.” I glanced around the street, wondering if there was a camera in the vicinity. You can never be too paranoid.
“What’s the matter?” Katharine asked solicitously as we went into the dank stairwell.
“Oh, the Hamilton case. The mutilated boy. That kind of stuff.”
“How is George Faulds?”
I was lost for a moment. “Oh, you mean the man with one arm. I’ll tell you later. After I’ve had a heavy slug of malt and a blast of the blues.”
She laughed. “I’m so glad I decided to come over.”
“I’ll make it worth your while, darling.”
Unfortunately I didn’t get the chance.
We drank, we shivered in the chill of the gloaming – as it was April, the coal supplies had been reduced – we listened to the old bluesman and we picked at platefuls of hash that I’d made with a lump of bright pink sausage meat. I told Katharine my concerns about Oxford, then she described a normal session at the youth centre: verbal abuse, table tennis and the occasional smile from the city’s alienated kids. We even talked about Lewis Hamilton. Katharine didn’t seem to harbour any antagonism towards him. Maybe death really does heal all wounds.
“What are you going to do then, Quint?” she said, stifling a yawn.
I moved closer to her on the sofa. “I was thinking about bed. It looks like you’re in need of it too.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “In need of sleep, yes.”
“Aw, come on,” I said. “It’s been a long, lonely time.”
She laughed. “That’ll be right.”
I put my arm round her graceful neck and pulled her gently towards me. “What do you reckon then, pretty lady?”
Katharine looked at me disapprovingly. “Cut the sweet talk, pal. You’re crap at it.”
I sat back, deflated. “Well, thanks.”
“All right,” she said, smiling more encouragingly and getting to her feet. “Give me a minute to wash.”
I touched her rear as she stepped over my legs and got another blast from her eyes for my trouble. These days everything was on Katharine’s terms or on no terms. I wasn’t over the moon about that, but the hard object in my groin told me to live with it.
There was the sound of running water from the sink in the alcove off my bedroom. Soon the Big Heat would be on us and the water restrictions would kick in. Even in spring, you had to wash your entire anatomy in the sink on the days you weren’t on the bathhouse roster. I sincerely hoped Katharine wasn’t undertaking that lengthy process. Then the water stopped and the screaming started.
I jumped up and threw myself through the doorway. “What is it?” I shouted.
Katharine was naked above the waist, the small Supply Directorate towel clutched to her chest. She swallowed the last of her screams and nodded mutely towards the head of my bed.
I swung round and felt my stomach cartwheel.
Jesus.
Carefully positioned in the middle of my pillow, the bloody nail pointing at the wall, was a severed finger.
That wasn’t all.
Words had been scrawled in red letters above the bedhead, dribbles of what looked very like blood having run down the faded wallpaper. They were words that did nothing to put a brake on my pounding heart.
What they said was “ALL ROADS LEAD TO OXFORD”.
I’d have preferred a less graphic confirmation of my suspicions.
Chapter Nine
We spent the night at Katharine’s place – what was left of the night after the scene-of-crime squad had set up camp in mine. The digit was sent to the pathology lab in the infirmary. From a cursory examination I could see that the surface of the wound had a similar appearance – uneven rather than cauterised – to the stump on the hand of the Leith Lancer’s severed arm. The Mist made an appearance, her nose held high in the air as she inspected what she was no doubt classing as the squalor I lived in. Eventually Katharine and I left them to it. The SOCS wouldn’t report until the morning and I had the feeling this was going to be my last chance of sleep for some time.
I woke up early and tried to get out of the narrow bed without waking Katharine.
“Where are you going?” she said, her eyes suddenly wide open and focused on me as I buttoned my faded black trousers – the Supply Directorate has never been well endowed with functioning zippers.
“Infirmary,” I mumbled. I’ve never been good first thing. “Want to confirm the finger came from Dead Dod.”
She sat up and swung her long legs out from the covers. “I’m coming with you.”
My face was obscured by the sweatshirt I was pulling on. By the time I’d got my mouth clear she was taking clothes from the rack that ran along the wall.
“Don’t argue,” she said, before I could. “George – that’s his name, by the way, not Dead Dod – is one of my kids. I’m sick of him being treated like an animal. I want to know what the hell happened to him.”
“You’re not the only one.” I sat down to lace my boots. I’d been in situations like this with Katharine often enough. Resistance was useless when she set her mind on something. “What are you going to do then? Leave the drop-in centre to look after itself?”
She shrugged as she ran a brush through her short auburn hair. “The Welfare Directorate will send another operative down.” She turned to me, her jaw jutting. “Don’t forget, I’ve got an ‘ask no questions’. I can go anywhere I want.”
I wondered how long the new public order guardian would let her keep the undercover authorisation, but I didn’t voice that thought. I needed all the help I could get.
We never made it to the infirmary. On Lauriston Road I was called to the castle by the Mist. Her tone was already more dictatorial than it had been a few hours earlier.
Hamilton’s replacement hadn’t been wasting any time. Little more than a day had passed since her promotion, but she’d already changed Lewis’s office in the castle beyond recognition. The heavy, dark-stained furniture had been replaced by tables and chairs of stripped pine with gleaming tubular frames. Instead of a desk she’d purloined a surveillance unit from the command centre, complete with screens, headphones, keyboards – the lot. It wasn’t hard to see where public order in Edinburgh was heading. Big Sister is watching you.
Next to her stood the Council’s version of Big Brother. Fresh-faced, youthful and vicious as a starving stoat, the senior guardian looked at Davie and me with a mixture of impatience and contempt. Fortunately I’d managed to convince Katharine to wait in the cubby-hole by the command centre. There was no point in irritating the city’s great powers any more than was strictly necessary.
“Citizen Dalrymple,” Slick began, “we called you and your—” He broke off and I could tell from the look that spread over his face that he was about to make what he reckoned was a witticism. “You and your Doctor Watson here to give you one last chance.”
If Davie was unimpressed by the characterisation he made a good job of dissembling. He stood motionless, his hands behind his back and his chest in the grey guard tunic thrust forward. Then again, maybe he took it as a compliment. Conan Doyle was one of the few crime writers approved by the original Council. The guardians thought Sherlock Holmes, that stalwart defender of establishment values, was a suitable role model for auxiliaries. Shame about the cocaine addiction.
“One last chance?” I said, trying to concentrate on what the senior guardian had said. “What does that mean?”
Slick stepped out from behind the consol
e and brushed a piece of fluff from the arm of his perfectly pressed suit. “It means that we’re on to you, citizen.”
The new public order guardian managed to tear herself away from the surveillance camera images she’d been following. She stood up and joined her superior in the middle of the spacious room. “We’re prepared to accept that you had nothing to do with the appearance of the finger on your pillow,” she announced.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said.
The Mist’s face reddened. “But we know that you were responsible for the words written above it.” Her voice was painfully loud. “Your antagonism towards our friends from New Oxford has been obvious ever since you started this investigation. The scene-of-crime squad reports that the blood used to mark the wall came from a rat. Admit that you wrote the words and I’ll consider a reduced sentence in the dungeons.”
So that was her game. I was still thinking about how to return serve when there was a knock on the door.
“Not now!” the senior guardian yelled.
That didn’t stop the door opening.
“I beg your pardon?” Sophia asked, her expression showing what she thought of Slick’s tone.
“Ah, medical guardian,” he said uncertainly, glancing at me. “Was there something you wanted?”
Sophia closed the door behind her and came towards us. The dressing over her eye and cheek was smaller and she looked less pale than yesterday.
“I have a report to pass on. Several reports actually, senior guardian.” She followed his lead in addressing him by his title. When they’re not in front of auxiliaries like Davie, guardians have been known to use their first names. I had the feeling Sophia never called the head honcho Lachlan. She turned to us. “Good morning, citizen. Hume 253.”
“Guardian.” Davie’s tone was reserved, his body tense.
Sophia looked thoughtful.
“Well, guardian?” the Mist said.
Sophia looked at her new colleague like she’d just risen from a grave. “Well, guardian,” she countered. “First, the finger Citizen Dalrymple found.” She slapped a maroon and white folder on the top of the console. “It’s definitely from the severed arm of George Faulds. I estimate that it was removed from the hand at approximately the same time. There are no traces of blood from any other person.”
“What about the trauma?” I asked.
“I was coming to that.” Sophia was back in full empress mode. “The surface of this wound is different to those on the arm and torso.” She glanced around. “They are completely beyond our ken: some kind of high-temperature device that effectively sealed and cauterised the wound. But the finger was removed by a well-honed, non-serrated, single-blade knife.” Sophia raised her shoulders. “There are probably thousands of such blades in the city.”
“Very helpful,” the senior guardian said dismissively. “What else?”
Sophia slapped another folder down. “Progress report on the victim George Faulds. He’s still exhibiting the signs of total amnesia. He appears unable to recognise even the nursing staff who are in and out of the ICU all the time.”
The Mist let out an impatient sigh. “And the last file?” she said, extending a hand.
Sophia ignored it, this time laying the folder down carefully. “Ballistics report on the fragment of the bullet removed from my face.”
Shit, I’d forgotten all about that.
“Nothing significant,” she said, shaking her head. “No letters or markings at all. It’s the same alloy as the other piece, of course.”
“Thank you very much, guardian,” Slick said, attempting to usher Sophia to the door. He overplayed his hand.
“Just a moment,” she said. “I have a personal interest in this investigation.” She raised a hand to her face. “What’s this I hear about some kind of message on the wall in Citizen Dalrymple’s bedroom?” When we’d been together, Sophia had passed quite a few nights in that particular room – not that she was giving any sign of recalling those times now. “‘All roads lead to Oxford’, was it?”
The Mist stepped closer. “Message?” she scoffed. “That was your friend Quint’s idea of a joke. We all know how much he dislikes the Oxford incarceration initiative.”
Sophia’s eyes were on me. “This isn’t true, is it?” Her expression showed how little credence she was giving her colleague’s words.
“Of course not. You don’t imagine I’d have gone for such a cliché of Golden Age detective fiction?” They all stared at me blankly. “Anyway, Katharine Kirkwood was the one who found the finger. Ask her if I did the writing.”
Slick laughed humourlessly. “We can trust her testimony as much as we can trust your Doctor Watson’s.”
Sophia looked at him blankly. “What’s going on here, senior guardian?”
“What’s going on is that Citizen Dalrymple is about to take up residence in the dungeons for the foreseeable, and indeed the unforeseeable, future,” he said. “We cannot tolerate the fabrication of evidence.”
There was a hubbub of voices, mine to the fore. Then the Mist’s mobile went off. She’d programmed it to emit the most high-pitched tone on the menu.
“Public order—” Her head jerked back as the caller interrupted her. “Yes indeed,” she said after a few moments. “You’d better speak to my superior.” She handed the phone to Slick.
“Hello? Yes, administrator. How are—?” He broke off and listened. “I see,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Very well, I’ll bring all of them.” The connection was cut before he could sign off.
“We have been summoned by the Oxford delegation,” he said in a low voice. “That includes you, medical guardian.” He kept his eyes off me. “And you, Dalrymple. You’d better bring your dogsbody too.” With that he strode towards the door.
From Watson to dogsbody in the course of a meeting – Davie must have been suffering a hell of an identity crisis.
On the way to Ramsay Garden I called Katharine. I was under all-out attack by Slick and his heavy, and she was a good person to have around when the shit started flying. Her presence didn’t raise any objections. Then again, she’d already managed to get herself involved in the case.
The esplanade was bathed in sunshine as we walked across it, the buds showing on the trees against the northern wall. Spring was definitely on its way. If I didn’t come up with a survival plan pronto, I’d be spending it and the subsequent seasons in the bowels of the castle.
“What the fuck’s going on, Quint?” Davie said in an undertone. “Is the Mist serious about nailing you?”
I shrugged as Katharine looked on uncomprehendingly. “If it’s a bluff, it’s a pretty good one. She’s got the senior guardian on her side.”
“What’s going to happen now, do you think?” Davie asked, acknowledging a guardsman who was standing to attention beside a Land-Rover.
“They’re going to jump to Administrator Raphael’s every word.”
“Is that where we’re going?” Katharine asked.
There wasn’t time to brief her. I nodded. “Your role is to be as disrespectful as possible.”
Katharine laughed. “I think I can manage that.”
Davie gave a grunt. “I know you can manage that.” His relationship with Katharine was as rocky as ever. It was comforting that at least one thing hadn’t been changed by the incursion of New Oxford into Edinburgh.
The atmosphere in the administrator’s apartment was distinctly strained. I took that to be a good sign. The sun was streaming in through the leaded windows, but Raphael and her trio of academics looked like their breakfast kippers had been boiled in lubricating oil. They were standing at the dining table, their nostrums – nostra? – round their necks and their faces solemn. Then I got a surprise. Andrew Duart, the Glasgow first secretary, appeared from behind Raskolnikov. What was he doing here? A moment later Billy Geddes rolled out of the shadows in his wheelchair. His presence wasn’t exactly a surprise; more of a confirmation that some deal involving large amounts of
money was going down.
Raphael nodded at the guardians, then at me and my team. Her eyes rested on Katharine. “Who is this?” she asked.
“This is—” My introduction was interrupted – I should have known better.
“I’m Katharine Kirkwood,” came the firm voice from my right. “I work with Quint on major cases.”
Duart moved to the administrator’s shoulder and whispered a few words. He knew who Katharine was from the investigation in Glasgow back in ’26.
“You’re in the right place,” Raphael said, smiling briefly at Katharine. “It would be fair to say that this is rapidly turning into one of Citizen Dalrymple’s major cases.”
The way she said it made that sound almost encouraging. I turned to Slick and the Mist and was pleased to see that their expressions had soured. Sophia’s was non-committal, the patch of bandage looking like a growth that she was trying to ignore.
“I gather one of the earlier Councils used to conduct its meetings in peripatetic fashion,” the administrator said.
The senior guardian nodded without enthusiasm. “That did occur in the early years of the decade.” He gave a supercilious smile. “We’ve moved on, so to speak.”
“If it was good enough for Plato’s academy . . .” Raphael let her words trail away in an obvious rebuke to Slick. “In order to ensure our minds remain on the subject in hand, I suggest we do the same.”
“Excuse me if I rest my arms,” Billy said with a slack grin.
The rest of us started pacing slowly up and down the long room like a gang of philosophers chewing the fat about the major questions of existence. But it soon became clear that the administrator’s problem wasn’t an abstract one at all: it came down to a simple proposition, one directed at me.
“Citizen Dalrymple, you feel that my colleagues and I have been concealing the truth from you.” Her tone was polite enough but I sensed disquiet beneath the surface.
“I . . . yes, I do,” I said, deciding that I might as well be straight with her.
Raphael caught me in her gaze and I felt the power in her eyes. “Good answer,” she said, beckoning me to approach her. We were at the far end of the room, near the Walter Scott settee. She spoke some words I didn’t recognise and then held up her nostrum, the screen towards me.
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