Body Politic (29 page)

“Keep on his tail. He can't be going far if he's walking.”

“Quint, he looks pretty bloody keen. I smell big money. Are you coming?”

Did the former king have a predilection for feminine sanitary goods?

Davie, dressed as a labourer, was standing on the concrete path above the racetrack at the west end of Princes Street Gardens. Below, preparations were under way for the twelve o'clock race. Grooms were parading horses around the enclosure and large crowds of tourists were clustered around the Finance Directorate's betting booths.

“Where's our man?” I asked as I joined him.

Davie pointed to one of the refreshment stalls. There were fewer people there in the minutes leading up to the off. Billy was very conspicuous, the only man wearing a suit and an open camel-hair coat. He checked the time and looked around anxiously.

“He's waiting for someone,” Davie said.

“You'll make an investigator yet.”

“Here we go. Who's this then?”

I recognised the dark-haired figure in the tan leather jacket immediately. It was Papazoglou, looking even more shifty than he had in the museum. One hand was stuffed into his pocket and the other held a briefcase that he seemed to be very attached to – he kept it tight against his leg. The two of them met and exchanged a few words. Then the Greek handed over the briefcase.

“What now?” asked Davie.

They separated, Papazoglou heading towards the Mound and Billy to the right. Suddenly Billy stopped, turned back as if he'd forgotten something – and saw me. He stood stock still for a few seconds, his face inscrutable, then kept going in his original direction.

“Fucking hell. Call the guard on the exit over there and get the gate locked. I think it's time to pull the plug on Heriot 07's deals.”

Davie spoke rapidly into his mobile then signed off. “Done.”

The voice of the race announcer boomed out from speakers hung on trees and lampposts. There was a rush of bodies towards the fence alongside the track. Billy was caught in the crowd.

“Christ, we'll lose him,” said Davie.

“You cover the left.” I ran down the slope.

“I can't stand horse-racing,” he shouted as he followed me.

The six horses were in the stalls by the time I reached the concourse in front of the track. The spectators fell silent and the chimes of the clocks in the vicinity started to ring out.

Then I caught sight of Billy. He was pushing his way along the white rail, oblivious to the abuse from tourists he was banging into. The tolling of the bells seemed to rise to a crescendo and I realised what he was going to do.

“No, Billy, no!” Then I flinched as the gates of the stalls crashed open.

Billy had ducked under the fence and started to run across the track. He must have thought he could reach the upper exit. He didn't stand a chance. In an instant the horses were on him. Spectators screamed as his body was bundled up like a ball of rags and kicked around the turf by a blur of hooves.

“No, Billy, for fuck's sake, no,” I heard myself repeating. People got out of the way as they turned away from the track. The announcer was keeping quiet and all that could be heard now was the pounding of hooves further down the gardens as the jockeys tried to rein in their mounts.

The first thing I came to on the closely cut grass was the briefcase Billy had received from the Greek. It had been knocked open but none of the banknotes from the large number of wads in it had slipped out. The crowd hadn't even noticed the money. I closed the case and left it where it was, then ran over to where Billy lay. He was still crumpled in a ball, only his left arm extended. The forearm was bent back from the elbow at an angle that was all wrong. His face was pressed into the ground, the single eye that was visible half open and glazed.

Kneeling down beside him, I felt for a pulse. “Why, Billy?” I mumbled. “Why? Couldn't you see it was hopeless?” I knew he couldn't hear me.

Davie ran up. “They've got his contact at the Mound gate.” He bent down. “Is he dead?”

I looked up at him in amazement. “No, he isn't. There's a pulse, would you believe?” I pulled off my jacket and laid it over the battered body.

“There's an ambulance on its way.”

I stood up slowly. “They'd better be quick.”

“Why did he make a break? There wasn't anywhere for him to go.”

“I don't know. Panic, the survival instinct.” I went back to the briefcase. “One thing's for sure. There's a hell of a lot of money involved.”

The ambulance drew up, siren blaring. There was a guard vehicle behind it. Hamilton jumped down and ducked under the fence.

“What happened here?” he asked, peering at Heriot 07.

“The deputy finance guardian may well have made his last transaction,” I said slowly.

The medics lifted Billy carefully on to a stretcher and moved him towards their vehicle.

Hamilton was glaring at me. “Have you had Heriot 07 under surveillance?”

I turned away. “He was the long shot,” I said over my shoulder. “Pick up the money, guardian. It belongs to the city.”

I watched the ambulance drive away.

“This is all foreign currency,” Hamilton said. “Where did it come from?”

“Heriot 07's been selling the city's assets,” I said. “Come on. Let's see what the medical guardian thinks. I'm sure he'll be keen to treat Billy personally.”

Robert Yellowlees finished drying his hands at the basin in his office and turned to face us.

“I've never seen anything like it,” he said, shaking his head. “Most of his ribs are broken, one lung is punctured, his left elbow is shattered, his skull's cracked in two places – and he's still alive.”

I wondered how important that was to Yellowlees. “How long will he be unconscious?”

The medical guardian shrugged. “Who knows? The brain scan showed remarkably little damage. He may well regain consciousness soon.” He didn't sound very optimistic. “You want to question him, I suppose.”

Bloody right I do, I said to myself.

“He hasn't got some connection with the murderer, has he?” Yellowlees narrowed his eyes. “With the bastard who killed Margaret?”

I watched him as he walked round his desk. His normally steady surgeon's hands were trembling. Again I wondered what he knew about Billy's activities.

“We'll need to keep a close guard on Heriot 07,” I said, turning to Hamilton. “Davie – I mean Hume 253 – will supervise. He'll need a couple of experienced squads.”

“I'll see to it.” Hamilton came up to me. “Still nothing on your father, I'm afraid.” He went out.

Before I could say what I wanted to Yellowlees, my mobile went off. I moved away when I heard Katharine's voice. “I'm in conference,” I said.

“Got you. I'll do the talking. I can't speak for long anyway. Patsy Cameron's on the move. On foot. I'll shadow her.”

I looked round at the medical guardian. He was watching me, making no attempt to disguise his interest. “Are you sure you can handle it? The subject may have some unpleasant friends.”

“I'll be all right. Don't call me in case I'm close to her.”

“Don't take any independent action,” I said, realising before I'd finished that she'd rung off.

“What was that all about?” Yellowlees asked.

I ignored the question. “I need your help, guardian,” I said, walking up to the desk. “There's a medical file I want.” His face remained impassive. “An auxiliary who was killed on the border a few weeks ago. Scott 391.” Unless the file had been doctored, it might give me an idea of what the sentry saw when he opened the coffin in the crematorium.

Yellowlees was finding the papers on his desk a lot more interesting than my face. Finally he raised his eyes. “I remember the case,” he said hoarsely. “Bullet wound to the head.”

I heard the door open behind me. It was Hamilton.

Yellowlees looked both relieved and anxious. “Lewis was asking me about it this morning.” His gaze dropped again. “Since Margaret . . . died, everything's fallen apart here.” He shook his head at me helplessly. “I can't locate the file.”

He was treating my mother so I gave him one last opportunity to come clean. It was obvious that the file contained something that he didn't want me to know. “Are you quite sure about that, guardian? There could be serious consequences.”

No reaction. Well, I tried. The medical guardian would have to take his chances. I filled them in on what I found out at the crematorium. “It looks like the murderer is working his way through a list of victims. They all had some connection with the dead guardsman except the Greek in the Indie – and I suspect the killer must have seen him with one of the others.”

“But what's the motive?” asked Hamilton. “If he's got a list, he must have a reason for attacking these people.”

“I'm not clear about that yet.” I glanced at Yellowlees. “But I can hazard a guess at who's next on the list.”

I left them to think about that. If the medical guardian wouldn't talk, maybe Billy's Greek contact would.

Chapter Eighteen

INTERROGATING NIKOS PAPAZOGLOU
turned out to be as productive as asking an auxiliary to sing “God Save the Queen”. The Greek stared sullenly at the wall in the cell, mumbling over and over again, “I want to call the consulate,” in heavily accented English. Eventually I lost my cool.

“All right,” I shouted. “I'll let you talk to your people.” I slapped down in front of him the copies Katharine had taken of the pages Billy passed him in the museum. “After you tell me what this is all about and why you gave Heriot 07 that case with two hundred and seventy-five million drachmae.”

When he saw the papers, the young man gave an involuntary start and his eyes opened wide. “How did you—?” He broke off and went back to stonewalling. “I don't know what you're talking about, mister.”

I leaned over and glared at his sallow face. “You know what happened to Andreas Roussos, don't you?” I said, my voice not much more than a whisper. “You know that someone took his eye out? Without an anaesthetic. As I see it, you've got two choices. Either you tell me what these pages mean and I let you out of here in five minutes . . .” I paused and moved in closer to him. “Or I print in the newspaper that you had links with Roussos and the killer comes after you.” I sat back and smiled. “I wonder which organ he'll go for this time.”

Papazoglou's chin quivered and his tongue appeared between dry lips. Then he raised his hand so quickly that the guardsman at the door jumped forward with his truncheon raised.

“Okay, okay,” the Greek jabbered, cowering. “You guarantee I face no charges?”

“Sure,” I lied.

He raised his hand very slowly, eyes fixed on the auxiliary, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “All right. These papers are—”

There was a clang as the bolt was drawn back and the door pulled open. Hamilton came in, followed by a man with a heavy moustache whom I'd been hoping I wouldn't see that day.

“I'm sorry, Dalrymple. Mr Palamas from the Greek consulate insisted on being brought down.”

The Greek I'd seen on the Calton Hill with Billy ignored me, standing behind Papazoglou and addressing his lecture to the public order guardian.

“Under Edinburgh law, the prisoner is entitled to have a representative of his country present at all interviews. I am concerned that we were not officially informed that this” – he looked at me like I was an Untouchable – “this interrogation was taking place.”

Hamilton opened his arms in a gesture of hopelessness. “I apologise on behalf of the Council for this lapse.”

I stared at him in disgust, my arms folded tightly to stop myself offering violence to a guardian.

Palamas nodded brusquely. “What are the charges, please?”

Hamilton glanced at me.

I shrugged; now that Palamas was pulling strings, Papazoglou would clam up. There was no point in holding him.

“Em, no charges will be pressed,” the guardian said lamely. “Guardsman, escort these gentlemen to the esplanade.”

I watched as Papazoglou left, relief etched into his face like acid. “Couldn't you have stalled him for a bit longer? I almost got what I wanted.”

Hamilton was examining his feet. “He got on to the deputy senior guardian. What could we do? You know how important Greek business is to the city.”

I wished I knew a lot more about that particular matter. I could either tell Hamilton that I'd found out about the missing young people and that I suspected Patsy Cameron of being involved in some horrendous scam with Billy, or I could hit Billy's flat. The latter would be much less hassle.

“How did Palamas know we had Papazoglou?” I asked on my way out.

“Every Greek at the race meeting saw him being arrested by the gate.” Hamilton sighed. “At the rate you're going, there won't be any tourist trade left in the city.”

I parked the Transit outside Billy's flat and got the guardswoman who'd been sent down after he was injured to let me in. The hallway was cool and the smell of floor polish filled my nostrils as I ran up the marble staircase.

Inside the flat there was dead silence. I stood motionless for a few moments, breathing in deeply and listening. I suddenly had a premonition that someone was about to appear, someone who didn't care too much about my health. I could have called the sentry up but instead I ran from room to room like a child certain that a monster was lurking. There was no one, of course. I'd been living on my nerves too much recently. Tearing the place apart would be good therapy.

For a senior auxiliary sworn to live according to the Council's ascetic standards, Billy had accumulated an amazing collection of luxury goods. The wardrobes in his bedroom were stuffed with Italian suits and shoes, silk shirts and ties, a couple of leather jackets – even a fur coat which the label showed to have originated from independent Siberia. Billy must have made a business trip there. It wasn't the greed that pissed me off, it was the waste. He could get away with dressing up in flash suits, but not even Billy would venture out wearing a fur coat in Edinburgh. Mind you, in winter most buildings are cold enough to warrant one.