Body Politic (22 page)

“Are they looking after her properly?”

“I think so. Apparently the medical guardian's treating her himself.”

“Is he?” My father looked at me curiously. “But even the great Robert Yellowlees hasn't found a cure yet?”

I shook my head, remembering that the old man was one of the few people in the city with a poor opinion of the medical guardian. He thought his loyalty to the Enlightenment took second place to his research interests.

“He's working on a new approach, Mother said.”

Hector twitched his head impatiently. “And what about your investigation? Did your killer have something to do with the fire at the hotel?”

“I think so.” I gave him a downbeat report, keeping Billy Geddes out of it. That didn't escape him.

“What about your friend in the Finance Directorate? Did you find anything more out about his activities?”

“Sort of,” I answered, remembering too late how much he loathed vagueness.

“What the hell does that mean?” he raged. “You went to university, didn't you? Express yourself properly.”

“Sorry,” I replied lamely. At least Hector was back to his normal self. “What I meant was that I've discovered things, but I can't link any of them to the murders.” I glanced at my father, who was studying me through his battered spectacles. “I'm sure there is a connection though.”

He smiled broadly. “At least there's one thing you're sure of.” He got up and moved purposefully towards his desk. “You'll work it out,” he said, picking up his pen. “You always did.” His face clouded. “Until Caro was . . .”

“I thought we agreed we wouldn't talk about her again.”

He raised his hands placatingly. “Mea culpa, Quintilian.” He frowned. “It's just that the city has needed you these past five years. You might have stopped things going the way they have.”

I walked to the door. “I'm an investigator, not a political philosopher.”

“What's the difference?”

“I'll see you next Sunday.”

“She's much worse, you say?” Hector's voice was almost inaudible.

I nodded then turned away. Before I reached the stair, I heard the scratch of his pen start up again.

“Hume 253, advise your location,” I said into the mouthpiece of my mobile, using Davie's barracks number because of the severe guardsman in the driver's seat.

“My location?” Davie demanded. “Up to my knees in the hole you told me to dig.”

“Subject's still in his hutch then?”

“Correct. Maybe he thinks he can have the day off after working on Sunday. When are you coming to relieve me?”

“As soon as I pick up the relevant vehicle.”

Davie grunted. “Try and get here before I strike oil.”

“A piece of advice. If you want to avoid blisters, keep spitting on your hands.”

The driver gave me a sidelong glance.

“Now you tell me,” moaned Davie despairingly.

The fat commander of the drivers' mess peered at the ancient Ford Transit like an ornithologist who's just spotted a dodo in his back garden. “We can't give him that,” he said.

All around us mechanics in heavily stained overalls were tinkering with vehicles ranging from ten-year-old taxis bought on the cheap from Slovakia to minibuses with more rust on them than the German High Seas Fleet in Scapa Flow.

Anderson touched the crack that ran down the centre of the windscreen and laughed. “It'll be fine.” Although it was hot in the garage behind the drivers' mess, he was still wearing his leather jacket. “It hasn't been used for a few years, mind.” He leaned into the cab. “Only 148,000 on the clock. You'll not be planning on doing too many more, will you?”

“I shouldn't think so.” I looked at the Parks Department stickers that had been fixed to the doors. “Where is there to go?” I sat behind the wheel.

“Citizen Dalrymple,” the auxiliary said, “you do have a driving licence, don't you?”

“Of course,” I replied, trying to remember how the controls worked. “I took my test when I was seventeen.”

“Could I see it?” the fat man asked officiously.

I turned the key. To my surprise the engine fired immediately. I closed the door. “You'll just have to take my word for it.” I stirred the gear lever and produced a grating cacophony.

Anderson jumped in from the other side and found first for me. “Just out of interest, when was the last time you drove?”

I lifted my foot cautiously from the clutch pedal. “Six or seven years ago, I suppose.” I saw the leather jacket exit rapidly. “It's like riding a bike, isn't it?” I shouted after him. “You never forget.”

The van juddered its way out of the garage. I wasn't sure if Anderson had wished me good luck or something else that rhymes with it.

I parked fifty yards from Billy Geddes's flat and walked through the gardens towards the pile of earth that was being heaped up by a broad-backed labourer.

“Hit bedrock yet?”

“Hours ago.” Davie wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

“Any sign of our man?”

“He's still inside. I saw him through the window a few minutes ago.”

“And there's no rear exit, unless he's prepared to shin down a rope.” I looked at Davie. Without the heavy beard and guard uniform he was very different. “Christ, you look almost human now.”

“Thanks a lot.” He tensed. “There he is.”

Through the bushes we watched Billy Geddes come down the steps, resplendent in a light blue suit and pink tie. He obviously wasn't bothered about sticking out from the crowd. He glanced up and down Heriot Row, paying no attention to the Transit, then got into his Toyota.

“Time to knock off here,” I said.

We ran to the van. I jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine.

“When did you learn to drive?” Davie asked suspiciously.

“Not another one.” I accelerated away, narrowly missing a couple of track-suited guardswomen. “I learned before the Enlightenment, if you must know.” The lights changed and I had to brake sharply. “Haven't had much practice recently.”

“So I see.” Davie's knuckles were white.

Fortunately the Toyota stayed in sight. It went round St Andrew Square, turned left on to Princes Street and headed up Waterloo Place, past the former main post office which is now a video game centre for the tourists. Then Billy drove up the road behind the old Royal High School and stopped.

“What's he up to?” I said. “Going for a walk during office hours? What kind of example is that to set?” I parked on the pavement and climbed over my seat into the back of the van. “Keep an eye on which way he's going.”

Davie got out and watched the short figure start off up Calton Hill.

When I was ready, I opened the back door and walked over to Davie. “Hello, big boy.”

“Christ, Quint, is that you?”

It looked like my disguise worked.

“Do you get a kick out of wearing women's clothing?”

“Not really. I'm just trying to get an insight into the transvestite mentality.”

Davie didn't look convinced. I'd put on the uniform of a certain kind of female American tourist: mauve slacks tight over the arse and baggy everywhere else, crinkly showerproof jacket, sneakers, baseball cap pulled low, shoulder bag and camera. The yellow bouffant wig I'd ordered from the Theatrical Productions Department was set off by an excess of rouge and glistening purple lipstick.

“Do you think I'll get picked up?”

Davie stifled laughter. “No danger of that. Does the camera work?”

“You better believe it, lover boy. One of the directorate's finest.” I set off up the hill. “I've taken my mobile, but don't call me in case he hears it.”

Over my shoulder I heard Davie muttering, “Madam, there is no way I'll be calling you.”

Billy was standing by one of the National Monument's ten columns. The tableau in front of me was loaded with symbolism. There was the city's financial genius dressed up in non-regulation clothes silhouetted against the tourist-ridden, soulless state he'd helped create. Not that Billy was the only long-standing member of the Enlightenment on the hill at that moment. Despite my demotion, I'd never actually handed in my party card.

A group of Filipinos came past, chattering and taking photographs of the sights their guide pointed out. The clicking of their cameras reminded me that I should be capturing Billy on film. I wondered what he was doing up here. One thing was certain – he wasn't simply taking the air. Even at school he never had any time for activities that didn't provide some tangible benefit.

Time dragged by and I began to feel conspicuous. Amateur theatricals are all very well in the local church hall, but you've got to be a hardened female impersonator to hang around on a windswept hilltop.

Then Billy moved away from the pseudo Parthenon towards the Nelson Monument. There was a rattle and a thud as the time ball dropped from the top of the inelegant Gothic tower, provoking a round of applause from the Filipinos. I took up position behind the column where Billy had been standing and checked my watch. By the time I looked up again, he'd met someone I knew.

It was Palamas, the Greek diplomat with the moustache Nietzsche in his moments of sanity would have been proud of. He was wearing the same herringbone coat and carrying a black leather briefcase. I raised the camera and shot the pair of them repeatedly before they went into the Nelson Monument and disappeared.

I called Davie. “He's made contact – with a guy from the Greek consulate.”

“What are they doing?”

“They're up the tower. I'll wait for them here then tail the Greek. You take our man. Out.”

I fancied trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, but I wasn't confident enough of how I looked to risk meeting Billy in the narrow confines of the building. After half an hour he reappeared, carrying the briefcase, and headed down the hill towards his car. As he passed me, he didn't even turn his head.

Five minutes went by before the Greek came out. This time I had a narrow escape. He gave me a long glance and seemed to be weighing up making a move on me. He must have been short-sighted. Either that or his taste in sexual partners was a matter for serious concern. Then he saw the error of his ways and stalked off to the consulate.

I went back to my flat to change. That was enough of life from the other side of the great sexual divide.

Davie called not long after I got home.

“Subject returned to his place with the briefcase, then came out empty-handed and went to the Finance Directorate.”

“Care to hazard a guess at the contents of the case?”

Davie grunted. “Why don't we search the flat and take him in?”

“And do him for accepting bribes?” I thought about it for a moment. As well as all this, I was pretty sure Billy was behind the authorisations Sarah Spence had to leave her barracks after midnight. But he'd have made sure all reference to them in Finance Directorate records had been expunged. I shook my head. “We've nothing that'll get us any nearer to catching the murderer yet.”

“Listen, Quint, there's something I want to do. Can you take over in Bank Street for a bit?” His voice was suddenly breathless.

“The redhead?”

“Aye.”

“All right. I'll give you an hour.”

“As long as that?” He didn't sound too disappointed.

I hadn't been behind the curtain in the tourist shop opposite Billy's office for more than twenty minutes when Davie burst back in. He had a large brown envelope in his hands and the wide-eyed look of a man who's just struck very lucky in the draw for the weekly sex session.

“That good?” I asked.

He ran over to the counter and pulled the female auxiliary out. “Early closing,” he said firmly.

She was out in a flash.

“What is it?” Now he was pulling me to the counter, having locked the shop door.

“Look what I've got hold of.” He pulled a buff folder out of the envelope. On it was embossed the city's heart emblem. The words “Guardians' Eyes Only” were stamped in large black letters above and below it. Considering the fact that possession of this file constituted guaranteed grounds for demotion, Davie was looking very pleased with himself. I didn't think I'd had that much of an influence on him.

“You realise the risk you're . . .” I stopped when I saw the file's title. “‘Citizens Reported Missing as of 1.1.2020'. Bloody hell. Let's have a look.”

There was a thick wad of City Guard Missing Persons forms. What grabbed my attention was the cover sheet. Forty-eight people, twenty-eight female and twenty male citizens, had gone AWOL in the last three months. All of them were under twenty-six years old. Underneath the front page was a list of the names. I felt my heart race. One of them was Katharine Kirkwood's brother Adam. There were six others that clients had asked me to find.

“Do I get a coconut?” Davie asked with a grin.

“If Hamilton finds out you took this, you'll get a whole lorry-load of them dumped on you. The redhead?”

“She made sure she was out of the office long enough for me to have a look at the guardian's personal files. This one was on top. I saw Adam Kirkwood's name and thought you'd go for it.”

“But why didn't you tell me what you were up to?”

He shrugged and looked awakward. “Well, you know, I wanted to show you I could do something on my own initiative.”

I laughed. “Christ, Davie. Not even I would have gone through Hamilton's confidential files.”

He chewed his lip, as if the significance had finally struck him. I had plenty more bad news for him.

“Well done, pal. But I haven't got a clue how this fits in to the rest of what we're investigating. If it fits in at all.”

“All these people missing while there's a psycho on the loose? Course it fits in.” He was looking pleased with himself again.