Body Politic (3 page)

“Why do I have the feeling that I've suddenly grown jackass's ears?” I waited for her to raise her eyes again but she didn't oblige. “Forget it. I'll have to trust you.”

“How kind.” She smiled bitterly then stood up. “I've got the night shift. When will you know something?”

I moved over to the bookshelves. “In a couple of days. I live in Gilmore Place, number 13. Come round about eight in the evening.” I pulled out the book that had attracted my attention. It was the same edition of Chinese poetry translations Katharine had in her bag. Between pages twenty and twenty-one I came across a single foreign banknote. I kept my back to her. “Any idea why your brother would have secreted fifty thousand drachmae in his copy of this?”

She was at my side instantly, staring at the garish pink bill. “I haven't the faintest idea,” she said, her voice fainter than it was hoarse. “What's it worth?”

“More than you or I will earn this month. But where did he get it? You know it's illegal for Edinburgh citizens to have foreign currency.”

Katharine shook her head in what looked like bewilderment. I was almost sure she knew nothing about this part of her brother's life but you never know – she could have been the most accomplished actress in the city. Glancing at her profile, I made another discovery. The line of her nose was exactly the same as Caro's. I thought I'd got over seeing aspects of her in other women. This case was already full of surprises.

I wheeled my bicycle back to Gilmore Place. It was dark now and the fog was even thicker than before, but City Guard vehicles were still careering about like decrepit maroon dodgems. My watch had finally succumbed to the soakings it got every day in the city's parks so I didn't have much idea of the time. Fortunately curfew wasn't imminent. Then I remembered the sex session. All citizens have to attend a weekly session with a partner allocated to them by the Recreation Directorate. The Council claims we get a more stimulating sex life, but everyone knows it's just another way of keeping an eye on us. At least it was a home fixture this time. A month ago I ended up stranded for the night at a crazy woman's flat in Morningside. She got her money's worth. Thank Christ the regulations forbid further encounters between partners of my status.

Back in my place I sank into the sofa, which was even more hamstrung than the one at Adam Kirkwood's. My room, a testament to Housing Directorate grot, was so similar I almost thought I was back at his. The only difference was that I had a lot more books. One of the few Council decisions I completely go along with is the banning of television. As a result Edinburgh citizens are seriously well read and cheap copies of most kinds of books are available. Nothing too subversive, of course, and writing in any Scots dialect is right out. I've forgotten all the dirty bits from Irvine Welsh books I memorised when I was a kid. But the worst thing the idiots in power have done is to ban the blues, though they had their reasons. My collection of recordings is hidden under a tartan rug with my guitar case on top. I listen to them with my head against my moth-eaten speaker, straining to hear and hoping the neighbours won't report me. What a thrill.

The street door three floors below banged open and heavy, ringing steps sounded on the stairs. Only the City Guard and citizens working in the mines are issued with nailed boots. Either I was about to have sex with a large female miner or someone in number 13 was in trouble.

I should have known that someone was me. My door took a pounding before I could get to it.

“Citizen Dalrymple?” The auxiliary was tall and barrel-chested, the kind of guy who gets picked first in playground team games. His black hair was longer than mine and the regulation beard thick on his face. “I'm Hume 253.” He handed me an envelope bearing the seal of the Council. “This is for you.”

I opened it, expecting one of the public order guardian's regular warnings to keep my nose out of his directorate's business. Instead I read: “CONFIDENTIAL: Murderer codenamed Ear, Nose and Throat Man appears to have resumed his activities. Accompany Hume 253 to Council meeting.”

I was having trouble standing up, let alone concealing my shock from the guardsman.

“Are you coming, citizen?” the guardsman asked with an unusually patient smile.

I followed him out. Halfway down the stairs we passed a middle-aged female citizen with tired eyes and a soft, sad face. I wished I could have spent some time with her, but she was better off without me.

“I hear there's been a murder,” Hume 253 said in a low voice. He must have been in his late twenties and on the surface he looked like a typical muscle-bound guardsman, but his enthusiasm was surprising. The average auxiliary these days displays about as much emotion as the tarts who service the tourists in the city's hotels. “What do you know, citizen?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I lied as I climbed into the battered Land-Rover.

“The first killing in the city for five years,” the guardsman said. It sounded like he approved. He let in the clutch and set off round the corner even faster than his kind normally drive.

I hung on to the worn edges of the seat and wondered exactly what kind of birthday present I was about to be given.

Chapter Two

“I don't want to die.”

The fog had now reduced visibility to a couple of vehicle lengths. Only the knowledge that the disciplined citizens of Edinburgh wouldn't be jaywalking enabled Hume 253 to head towards the Royal Mile at high speed. Fortunately there weren't any tourists around Tollcross.

“Don't worry,” the guardsman said cheerfully. “I passed out top of my driving course.”

“Great.” I blinked in the chill air that was whistling in through numerous holes in the bodywork. The best of the Land-Rovers were reserved for border patrols and farm protection. “What time is it?”

“Coming up to seven,” Hume 253 said without taking his eyes off the road for more than a second. “The Council's daily meeting has been brought forward an hour because of the killing. That shows you how seriously they're taking it, doesn't it, citizen?”

“Call me Quint, will you?”

He knew I was trying him out. “Use of first names is prohibited between auxiliaries and ordinary citizens. So is inducing a guardsman to break regulations.” He glanced at me, then laughed. “I seem to remember that my name's Davie, Quint.”

So I'd found a guardsman who wasn't completely robotic. The more dedicated of them even address their barracks colleagues by number. “How long have you been in the Public Order Directorate, Davie?”

“Seven years, ever since I finished auxiliary training. I like it. I'm going to stay in the guard. Not even six consecutive tours on the border put me off.”

That sounded more like your typical guardsman. I was interested in his background, though. “Did you have anything to do with the last operations against the drug gangs?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “How do you know about those?” Five years ago the Council sealed the border around what used to be Midlothian and laid into the remaining heavily armed criminals who had plagued the city since independence. Those guys were led by a ruthless bastard who called himself Howlin' Wolf, after the blues singer. There was some evidence that the Ear, Nose and Throat Man was one of the gang. The high casualty rate among guard personnel had led the Information Directorate to suppress all the facts, despite the success of the mission.

“You were involved, weren't you?” I said, waiting for him to nod. “How do I know about the operations?” I wondered if I would manage to shock an auxiliary. “I ran them.”

“Shit!” he gasped, taking his eyes off the road long enough to make me nervous. “You're Bell 03.”

The sound of my old barracks number was definitely not sweet music to my ears. “Used to be Bell 03,” I corrected.

“They still talk about you in the directorate,” Davie said. He was more excited than any auxiliary I'd ever seen. “If it hadn't been for you . . .”

“Fewer people would have died,” I said, looking away. “That's all in the past. I don't want to talk about it.” I wished I hadn't encouraged him. The stump of my forefinger was tingling and my gut felt like something with a sharp beak had just hatched in it.

The Land-Rover turned sharply into Mound Place and I caught a glimpse of the city from the high point; the blaze of illumination through the fog in the tourist area at the centre was like a weird version of the northern lights, but the suburbs where the ordinary people live had been cast into the outer darkness.

Davie pulled up outside the mock-Gothic façade of the Assembly Hall. The Church of Scotland used to hold its annual gathering here. It was typical of the Council's desire to replace religion with its own philosophy that it chose this location rather than the former City Chambers or Parliament House. They probably had too many associations with democracy. Banners were draped around the blackened walls proclaiming the Council's ideals; “Education, Employment and Health”, “Edinburgh – Independent and Proud” and “The City Provides”. Deep down I still felt some admiration for them. Then, beyond the flagpoles, I saw the memorial stones inscribed with the barracks numbers of auxiliaries who had died for the cause. Caro's name survived only in my mind.

“You all right?” The guardsman sounded strangely concerned. “Know your way?”

“I've been before the Council often enough, my friend. Thanks for the lift.”

“Don't mention it. I'll be waiting to take you back.” A grin split his face. “If they leave you in one piece.”

I nodded wearily, remembering that Council meetings were more rigorous than City Guard physical training sessions, though at least they didn't take place at half past five in the morning. Then I felt the envelope in my pocket. What the hell was it all about? I raced up the steps three at a time.

Council members sat round a great horseshoe table in the main hall. I always used to find the setting a bit theatrical, but I could just remember the building's use as a venue in the Festival before independence. I sat down between the ends of the horseshoe, suddenly very aware of my dirty fatigues in the bright lights that were directed at me. I screwed up my eyes and saw the guardians. Behind them was the large bust of Plato that was the only concession to art in the austere chamber.

“Citizen Dalrymple.” The deputy senior guardian's voice hadn't changed in the five years since I last heard it. She must have been over seventy by now. When I was a kid, she was a frequent visitor to my parents' house. She was the only university professor I ever met who found children more interesting than her subject – well, she was a sociologist. She also had a liking for vintage champagne. I wondered when she'd last sampled that. “It is some time since we last had the pleasure of seeing you,” she said drily.

“I haven't been counting the days, guardian.” Like all those who pass through the rank of auxiliary, the city guardians don't use names. The roof would have come down if I'd addressed her as Edith.

“I'm sure you haven't. I think you know most of the Council members. Only my colleagues in the Medical and the Information Directorates are relatively new appointees.”

I looked at the red-haired woman to her left, then at the improbably handsome man with the mane of silver-blond hair. His thin fingers formed an arch beneath his nose, giving him the appearance of a monk at prayer. The speaker was wrong. I knew Robert Yellowlees well enough. Before the Enlightenment he had played rugby for Scotland. After the party won the last election and took the city into independence, he worked as a surgeon. Later his research into neurology and endocrinology became known around the world, as journals I saw in the library confirmed. He could have jumped ship and worked anywhere, but he preferred to stay and move slowly up his directorate. He'd been in the pathology department when I was in the Public Order Directorate.

I couldn't avoid the unwavering glare of the figure sitting next to Yellowlees. While the other Council members had studied expressions of gravity on their faces, the public order guardian at least showed what he really felt – which was hatred of my guts.

The deputy senior guardian glanced at the unoccupied chair in the centre of the horseshoe. “I'm afraid the senior guardian is again unable to attend the meeting due to illness.”

First I felt relieved, then uneasy. I made myself ignore both emotions.

“To the business in hand. Today's meeting has been brought forward because of the murder that has been reported.” The speaker took a deep breath. “The murder of a female auxiliary right in the heart of the city.” She was unable to restrain a shiver. “This was an act of unspeakable barbarity.”

“Can it really be the otolaryngologist after all this time?” Yellowlees, the medical guardian, looked at me quizzically. I remembered he used to refer to the Ear, Nose and Throat Man by the technical term.

“It's incredible. After all the work that's been done to divert the urge to criminality . . .” The high-pitched voice trailed away. I looked at the bald head of the finance guardian which was glinting under the lights as he moved back and forwards animatedly. You'd have thought he'd be more concerned about the city's tourist income, but deviant behaviour had always been one of his specialities. Though he'd been a well-known economics professor before the Enlightenment, in certain Edinburgh bars he was more famous for his pursuit of male undergraduates. Under the strict celibacy rules that guardians submit themselves to, the only person he'd have laid hands on recently would have been himself.

“Quite so,” the deputy senior guardian acknowledged, sympathetic but eager to continue. “I will not go into the details of this atrocity as I do not wish to prejudice the opinion of citizen Dalrymple. He is to investigate and find the murderer.”