Body Politic (35 page)

She got that right. Hamilton's face was bloodless. He sat down without looking in my direction.

I suppose I should have been grateful to my mother but I didn't want her to think she'd bought my silence. “What about the medical guardian's activities? Doesn't the city have a right to know what he was doing with the organs he obtained illegally?”

“You never give up, do you?” my mother said with an infinitely weary sigh. “The body competent to judge the rights of citizens is the Council of Guardians and it is perfectly capable of doing so without reminders from you.”

“The body?” I said. The joke was lost on them.

“Come on,” said Katharine, standing up. “There's nothing for us here.”

“On the contrary,” my mother said before we got far. “There is a great deal of work for you here.”

I slowed down a little, not enough to suggest I was interested in what she was saying.

“I would be gratified if you were both to accept an invitation to join the Public Order Directorate.”

I turned to see Hamilton close to cardiac arrest.

“In appropriately senior positions, of course.”

I looked at Katharine. Her lips twitched into a bitter smile.

“I think we'll need some time to think about that,” I said.

“Don't take too long.” The senior guardian's expression slackened. “As my colleagues are aware, the Council will shortly be restructured. That's why we have delayed naming a new medical guardian.” She lowered her head. “I shall be retiring.”

I wasn't sure whether to congratulate her or ask her why she'd waited so long, so I did neither. “We'll let you know our decisions,” I said. “In the meantime, Scott 372 is waiting to be escorted to Cramond Island.”

“There's no shortage of guard personnel capable of that task,” my mother observed drily.

“She's my prisoner.”

“Very well.” She was already poring over another file. “Don't lose her,” she said without looking up.

I raised my eyes to the ceiling of the chamber and followed Katharine out.

Hamilton came down the stairs behind me. “Look, Dalrymple,” he said, his voice unusually tentative. “It was my duty to write that memo, you do realise that, don't you?”

That wasn't worth an answer.

“What about the directorate? Do you think you'll come back?”

I knew the prospect was about as palatable to him as having Patsy Cameron installed as his personal assistant. No way was I going to put him out of his misery yet.

Evidently Katharine's mind was working the same way. “As far as I'm concerned, the invitation deserves serious consideration,” she said sharply and walked out into the evening sun.

Hamilton stared after her. “Strange woman,” he murmured.

“She thinks the guilty aren't being adequately punished. In some cases I think she's right.”

“You mean the murderess?”

“No. Locking someone up in solitary for life is the worst punishment I can imagine.”

“Who then?”

“Billy Geddes, for one. That talk about him staying in his job – are you people hypocrites or just cynical bastards?”

“His expertise would benefit the whole city. With the money . . .”

“Spare me the economics lecture. What about Patsy Cameron? I suppose she's back in Prostitution Services.”

“No, she is not, citizen. I have my own ideas about what should happen to her.”

I wondered if they involved an eighteenth-century costume and a length of rope.

“Guardian, do me a favour,” I said, making the words sound more like an order than a request. “Stay away from the esplanade. I want to handle Scott 372's transfer without you getting in the way.”

That shut him up.

Twilight had turned to darkness by the time the squad of guards appeared.

“Here she comes,” Davie said, pointing to the castle gatehouse.

I looked over from where the Land-Rovers were parked on the esplanade and watched as Amanda walked slowly towards us, flanked by a heavily armed escort. I felt Katharine stiffen by my side. The prisoner had been given yellow and black striped overalls and labourer's boots, and her hair had been cut short. She still looked like the representative of a superior race. When she caught sight of me, she smiled. She ignored Katharine completely.

“Quintilian,” she said. “I was hoping I'd see you again.”

We were bathed in light as the vehicles' headlamps came on. The whiteness made Amanda's features even sharper in outline.

“No talking, prisoner!” the guard commander shouted.

“It's all right,” I said. “I'm responsible.”

Katharine looked at me tensely. “Gag the bitch,” she said in a loud whisper. “Are you going to sit in the Land-Rover and have a conversation with her?”

“You don't have to come,” I said. “It'd be better if you didn't.” I'd tried to get her to go back to the flat but she insisted on seeing the murderess to her cell.

“Don't start that again,” she said grimly. “I'm coming.”

“Shall we get on then?” asked Amanda politely.

Davie opened the vehicle's rear door and watched as a guardsman secured the prisoner's hands, attaching her handcuffs to the stanchion behind the front seats.

“How many men do you want in there with her?” said the commander.

“One'll do,” I replied. “The three of us will be in the front.”

“And we'll be right behind you.” The grizzled auxiliary strode away to his vehicle.

Doors slammed all around, then engines revved. Katharine and I climbed in. Davie drove off across the esplanade and down on to the Royal Mile.

“So what's next on the agenda, Quintilian?” asked Amanda. She was right behind me but she still needed to raise her voice above the engine noise. “Any more multiple murderers to be caught?”

“Shut her up, for God's sake,” Katharine said, turning round to face the prisoner. “If you don't, I will, Quint.”

“Calm down, will you?” I looked round as well, first at the guard then at Amanda's handcuffed wrists.

“Bloody right,” said Davie. “How do you expect me to drive with all this racket?” He slowed down to take the left turn on to Bank Street by the gallows.

And suddenly I remembered Yellowlees when the lights went out in Moray Place. Amanda had been cuffed to him but when the lights came on again she was free. I jerked my head back round and saw the intent expression on her face. But before I could do anything, she struck, lashed out with her right foot and caught the guardsman sitting opposite on the chin. His head shot back with a sickening crack and he slid lifeless to the floor. At the same time Amanda slipped her right hand out of the handcuff and looped her arm round my neck. I felt the grip tighten.

“I can kill him in a split second,” she shouted to the others. “You know I can!”

I sat motionless, my body taut. She only had to wrench her arm round and my neck would snap like a stalk of dried grass. I knew Katharine and Davie understood that – the hold was one that all auxiliaries are taught. The pressure of Amanda's six fingers at the top of my spine sent tingling shafts all over my body.

“What do you want us to do?” I heard Davie ask calmly.

“Call the escort commander and tell him to get his vehicles off our tail. Be very explicit about what I can do to citizen Dalrymple.”

He spoke on the mobile. “Where do you want me to drive?” he asked when he'd finished. We were still on the Royal Mile; he'd aborted the turn into Bank Street.

“Go straight ahead,” Amanda said. “We're going to take a trip to the border. Turn right on to the South Bridge and head south out of the city.” I felt her lean over. “You. Katharine. Call ahead to each checkpoint and make sure they let us through.”

“How did you get free?” Katharine asked hoarsely.

“These handcuffs aren't designed for women. I've got thin wrists.” Amanda rested her head on the back of mine. “You were weak, Quintilian,” she murmured. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

I felt her warm breath against my skin. Her body was curiously odourless apart from the faint residue of carbolic soap and the musty prisoner's clothing. Members of the superior race probably don't sweat. Outside it was completely dark. We had passed the last of the suburbs. I closed my eyes and wondered if this was how it would end – a quiet interlude before sudden blinding pain and permanent night. With the murderess's lips against my neck I almost felt comfortable, despite her vice-like grip. I remembered how she looked in the interrogation cell. Firm breasts, the nipples visible under thin fabric, smooth thighs leading to her secret place. How did she feel when she killed? How did she feel with my life in her hands? I lost track of time and drifted away, unafraid, into a limbo. I thought I could hear a guitar playing. John Lee Hooker was crooning “Think Twice”.

The next thing I knew was Katharine's voice on the mobile advising the border guards at Soutra not to approach the Land-Rover. I opened my eyes and saw the lights of the fortified post standing out against the dark mass of the hillside that marks the extent of the city's territory. The farmhouse where Caro died was only a few hundred yards away.

“You're going to cross the fence, aren't you?” My voice croaked from parched throat and lips.

“We're
going to cross the fence, Quintilian.” The pressure on my neck relaxed slightly. “You were the one who gave me the idea. I haven't got much else in my diary for the next few years.” She leaned closer again. “Besides, I haven't finished purging the body politic.”

I felt the blood surge through my veins. The idea of going away with her was strangely attractive, even though I knew she only wanted me to cover her escape.

“Call the post again,” Amanda said to Katharine. “Don't worry,” she breathed in my ear, “we'll soon be on our way.”

It happened in an instant. Before I could speak, before I could tell her that I would go with her willingly, I felt a momentary tightening of her grip, then heard a gurgling noise. There was a viscous wetness on my neck.

“So go, bitch,” Katharine said. “What are you waiting for?” She pulled away the arm that was suddenly heavy on my shoulders.

I turned round, the pain from trapped nerves lancing into my shoulders, and saw Amanda fall back slowly to settle on the legs of the guardsman she had killed. The haft of the knife Katharine had taken from Davie's belt protruded from her throat, blood welling up around it like a subterranean spring. By the time I clambered over the seat, the quivering in all her fingers had completely stopped.

“Come with me.” Katharine took my arm and led me towards the border fence. “You were going to go with her.” She looked at me accusingly for a second then glanced back at the guard vehicles that had pulled up around the Land-Rover. “What's there to keep you in this bastard city?”

“Nowhere else is any better,” I said dully. In the dark I was scarcely conscious of Katharine but I could still feel the warmth of Amanda's breath on my neck, as well as her gradually congealing blood. I didn't want to wipe it away.

“Well, I'm not staying. They'll put me in the cell they had ready for her.”

“Because you committed murder? I think we'll be able to argue sufficient cause.”

She turned away. “I don't want strings pulled on my behalf. Christ, Quint.” She shook the wire in frustration. “Why don't you come with me? Don't you want to be with me?”

I couldn't find an answer that would have satisfied her.

“It's torn your heart out, the perfect city.” She looked back at me and shook her head. “And still you stay.” She tried to pull herself up the high fence.

“Here.” I cupped my hands for her foot.

Katharine grabbed my shoulders and kissed me once, hard, on the lips. “Don't turn into one of them.”

“Katharine,” I asked before I lifted her up, “did you kill her for Adam or for me?”

There was no reply. I helped her over and heard her tumble into the grass on the other side. There was a rustle, then she vanished like the last wind of winter.

As I turned to walk back to the lights I felt something against my foot. I knelt down and found a book. When I picked it up, I caught her scent. I knew without looking that it was the copy of Chinese poetry she always carried, the same one that her brother had in his flat. I don't know whether she dropped it deliberately or not. Maybe she meant it to be my reward for finding Adam.

The next day was warm. I opened all the windows of my flat and let the breeze raise the dust from my bookshelves. Katharine's poems were translated by Arthur Waley, so I slotted them in where they belonged alphabetically. They ended up between Barbara Vine's
No Night is Too Long
and Colin Wilson's
Casebook of Murder
. I thought I'd done it quickly, but her perfume came off the spine like a friendly bacillus and made me step back.

There was only one thing for it. I dug around in my tapes for the recordings I was going to send Leadbelly, then found what I was really after: the bootleg of the Millennium Blues concert that packed out the Albert Hall on Hogmanay,
AD
1999. B.B. King, Clapton, Thorogood, Moore, Cray, Page, they were all there. This time I wasn't going to listen with the volume turned low and my ear pressed against the speaker. I gave Gilmore Place and the whole neighbourhood “The Lemon Song” and felt a hell of a lot better.

It wasn't long before I saw a guard vehicle pull up. A few moments later, my door burst open.

“Really, citizen, you should be more careful. This music could start a riot.”

“Why do you think I'm playing it, Davie?”

“I brought you a couple of things.” He threw over a bottle of reasonable malt. “I owed you that from the Waverley, remember?”