House of Dust (14 page)

We left them to it, taking the next three flights of stairs at a run which hurt my legs more than Davie's – he worked out in the castle gym most evenings. On the way we passed several disgruntled tourists heading for the exit. A female Prostitution Services Department worker cast a weary eye over us then went back to darning a Supply Directorate fishnet stocking.

“Where was the spotter located in this building?” I asked Davie as we approached the top landing.

“The roof,” he grunted. “The command centre reported he called in after the shooting, said he saw nothing.”

I slowed as I reached a wide window giving a spectacular vista of northern Edinburgh, the firth and the wastelands of Fife beyond. “Where is he now?”

Davie glanced at me. “I don't know. Still up there, I suppose.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Shall I find out?”

I stepped towards the velvet-covered door halfway down the hallway. There was only one room on this floor. “Let's check on the Minister for Screwing first.” I put my ear against the door but couldn't pick up any sounds. So I made my own, laying on a heavy pounding that would have impressed the drummer in an electric blues band.

Nothing.

“Mr Minister?” I shouted.

Still nothing.

“Oh shit,” I said, turning to Davie. He'd already moved back as far as he could. “It's all yours, big man.”

He dropped his shoulder and ran into the door. It never stood a chance.

It didn't look like the overweight man on the bed or the woman draped across his legs had either.

“What happened here?” Davie had pulled open the heavy curtains to let in the light. The windows gave a perfect view of the New Bridewell and its exercise yard. The armoured turret of the Hume mausoleum was glinting in the sunlight.

I stood beside the wide bed and tried to work out if the body count had gone up. The naked female was on her front, her head hanging over the edge of the bed, long blonde hair touching the carpet. I took her wrist and felt for a pulse, then kneeled down and checked for breathing. Nothing that I could detect, though there was no sign of injury anywhere on her pallid skin.

“This guy's been abusing his body in a big way,” Davie said, peering at the corpulent form that was taking up much of the bed. The Arab was lying with his arms outstretched in what was almost the crucifix position. The only small things about him were his genitalia.

I nodded. “The question is, what stopped him abusing this female citizen's body? He doesn't appear to have sustained any injuries. Can you get a pulse?”

After a few moments Davie shook his head. “No chest movement either.”

Then I remembered the one-armed youth gang member in Leith. He'd appeared to be stone dead as well. “Call the Medical Directorate. We may have another couple of deep sleepers on our hands. You'd better get the scene-of-crime squad over as well.” I cast an eye round the opulent chamber. “Not that I can see much for them to go on.”

While Davie was making the calls I went over to the window, pulling on a pair of protective gloves. I examined the window frame with my magnifying glass but could see no marks or scuffs. Then I flipped the catch and swung the tall pane open. It was well oiled and moved smoothly. Outside there was a stone parapet. I was looking for a place where the gunman might have rested his weapon. I didn't find any sign of that.

I turned back and saw Davie draping a blanket over the seemingly lifeless woman. He didn't bother covering up the tourist.

“They're on their way,” he announced.

“Right. Let's see if we can find the Mist's spotter.”

“Aye.” Davie hit the buttons of his mobile again and got through to the command centre. As he waited for an answer to his question his expression became more serious. “Are you sure?” he barked. “All right. I'll check it myself.” He signed off, shaking his head. “Bugger's not answering. It turns out they haven't heard from him since not long after the guardian went down. What with all the chaos, he was forgotten about. I'll have someone's barracks badge for this.”

“Never mind that now,” I said, heading out of the door. “We need to find the way to the roof. There must be access around here somewhere.”

“How about there?” Davie was pointing to a green baize door marked “Fire Exit” further down the corridor. When we reached it, he tried the handle. It moved, but the door didn't. “Not much of a fire exit, is it?”

“Do your Open Sesame trick again,” I said, standing aside.

He used the other shoulder this time. The effect on the door was no less shattering.

“Why would the guardsman have put a broom handle up against the door?” Davie said from the other side, rubbing his collarbone.

I looked around cautiously. Steps led downwards into the bowels of the building but I was more interested in the steel ladder at the other end of the narrow landing. “Got your auxiliary knife?” I asked, glancing round to see that Davie had already drawn the weapon. Although I've always had an aversion to firearms, at that moment I wouldn't have minded if Davie had one in his hand.

“I'll go first,” he said, brushing past me.

I wasn't going to argue with him. I watched as his heavy frame moved slowly up the ladder.

“There's an angled trapdoor,” he said, grunting as he applied pressure to it. “Christ, there's something bloody heavy on it.” He drew himself back then drove upwards. “Shit!” he yelled with a great effusion of breath.

Natural light flooded into the stairwell. Davie disappeared rapidly out of the hole and the sun shone in even more brightly.

“What have you got?” I shouted as I started up the ladder.

“Fuck!” His voice was hoarse. “Fucking hell!”

I poked my head out into the open air and realised why he was cursing. The trap opened just below the top of the slated roof. At the northern end of the building there was a semicircular gable and Davie was leaning against it, his arms round the motionless figure of a middle-aged guardsman.

“Take his legs,” Davie gasped.

I did and we fought to get the auxiliary down the ladder, finally laying him out on the landing.

“That was bloody close.” Davie panted. “The guardsman's legs were over the trapdoor. When I forced it, he went flying. I managed to grab him before he dropped.”

I was on my knees beside the spotter. His eyes were open and unfocused and his skin was cold. “Another one for the medics,” I said, glancing up to the square of blue above us. “Let's hope the effort you put in to catch him was worth it.”

We spent another hour in the Skin Zone then headed for the street. The three inert bodies had been removed to the infirmary and hooked up to whatever machines Sophia could muster. Apparently they were all alive and in a similar state to Dead Dod, their functions reduced to the level of complete catatonia. The toxicologists were no nearer identifying the compound that had brought that about, nor was the Medical Directorate clear about how it had been administered: no needle marks had been found on Faulds or the latest victims.

“What next?” Davie said when we were back in the Land-Rover. On the other side of the road tourists were hanging around outside the hotel, attracted by the stream of ambulances and guard vehicles. Perhaps some of them were waiting for their turn in the brothel. If so, they were going to be disappointed: the premises had been closed while the SOCS went over them with a nit comb.

“What next indeed?” I said, trying to gather my thoughts. “To tell you the truth, I'm surprised we haven't been pulled off the investigation by now, big man.”

“Maybe the Mist hasn't got as much influence as she thinks.”

“Maybe not.” I looked at my notes. “We haven't got much to impress the Council with ourselves.”

“I don't know,” Davie said. “We've found the shooter's location.”

I gave him a sceptical glance. “Have we? The shooter didn't leave anything behind: no shell casing, no scrapes on the parapets. I'll bet you there are no identifiable fingerprints either.”

“Come on, Quint. We found three comatose people in there.”

I was rubbing the stubble on my cheek. “But no staff members who saw anyone they couldn't account for, no clients your people haven't questioned; their statements have all been compared with the prostitutes they visited, haven't they?”

He nodded slowly. “What if the shooter was dressed up in a guard uniform?”

“Like may have been the case at Ramsay Garden?” I shrugged. “We spoke to the local commander. She was able to account for the movements of all her personnel. The only person on the upper floors was the spotter.” I screwed up my eyes. “It's hard to see what happened up there, right enough. Let's say the sniper managed to get into the Skin Zone without being spotted.”

“Aye, it's possible,” Davie put in. “The place is a rabbit warren. There are doors on different levels round the back where it gives on to the steps leading down to Market Street.”

“Doors that are supposedly alarmed,” I said, looking at my notes.

Davie stared at me grimly. “It looks like this individual has the skills to handle most obstacles.”

“Mmm.” I gulped water from the guard flask in the glove compartment. “And the local knowledge. Anyway, let's say he – or she, I suppose – has made it to the top floor. Why does he knock out the Arab and the hooker?”

“He was looking for a secure place to make his shot.”

“Yeah, he could have fired from that window, though there were no marks on the stone.”

“Maybe he's such a good shot that he doesn't need to rest his weapon on anything.”

“That's a comforting thought, guardsman.”

He grinned weakly and started rooting around in the glove compartment. His face lit up when he found an oatmeal ration biscuit.

“But if the shot came from the room, why was the spotter on the roof taken out?”

Davie chewed hard and swallowed. “He must have seen him earlier and decided to deal with him.”

I shook my head. “Not necessarily. The shooter might have a solid gold source of local information.”

“What do you mean?” Davie demanded, his mouth full.

“I mean he might have known there was a spotter up top. I mean he might be monitoring guard communications.”

Davie's mouth opened even more. “Bloody hell. Sounds a bit far-fetched, Quint.”

“No, it doesn't. I reckon it was him – and this suggests that the shooter is male – who made the call to the command centre after Hamilton went down, not the spotter. I think he drugged the guardsman before he took the shot – whether from the window or the rooftop doesn't really matter. And he knew enough about guard reporting procedure to convince the command centre operative.” I opened my hands. “Ergo he might well have been listening in.”

Davie still looked dubious. “You'd need pretty sophisticated gear to do that. We don't have anything like that in the guard.”

I looked at him seriously. “Edinburgh's not exactly at the cutting edge of scientific endeavour, guardsman. But I can think of one city that is.”

The look of enlightenment that spread over his face suggested that Davie didn't need me to tell him that the name began with the letter “O”.

A few moments later my mobile rang.

“Quint, it's Sophia. Something urgent.”

“Oh aye?”

“I've sent the bullet I extracted from Lewis Hamilton to the ballistics man. He's ready to report and I'm going over there now.”

“I'll join you at the range. Out.”

Davie already had the engine running. “The range? Don't tell me. We're summoned to an audience with Trigger Finger.”

I nodded, the grin immediately wiped from my face by the hundred-and-eighty-degree turn he put the Land-Rover into. Trigger Finger, a.k.a. Nasmyth 99, was one of the few remaining colourful personalities in the City Guard. I'd never had anything to do with him because of my aversion to firearms, but he was notorious for being as camp as the tented city on the Meadows where auxiliaries used to be trained.

“I hate that guy,” Davie said, shaking his head. “He gets right up my—”

“Spare me, guardsman,” I said, watching as the solid grey walls of the university's Old College flashed past on the right. The original Council regarded it as the Enlightenment's spiritual home since so many of the guardians had been professors; recently there's been more of an emphasis on animal cunning, Sophia excepted. “You can wait in the vehicle, if you prefer.”

“No chance,” he growled, giving an elderly citizen on a bicycle the benefit of his horn. “I want to be in on everything to do with this case.”

I glanced at the burly figure at the wheel and realised how much Lewis Hamilton's death had affected him. Until the aftermath of the investigation in Glasgow in 2026 Davie had been the public order guardian's blue-eyed boy. It would be too much to say that Lewis had been grooming Davie to succeed him – the old martinet probably thought he was immortal – but the two of them definitely had an understanding. If I hadn't cultivated a taste for free-thinking and insubordination in him, Davie might well have been as bone-headed a guard commander as the rest of his colleagues.

“Fair enough,” I said in a low voice. “We'll get the bastard who killed Lewis, don't worry.”

He nodded, his expression determined.

I was bloody glad my feet weren't in the shooter's boots.

Edinburgh's only firing range had been set up during the drugs wars on a piece of land just inside the city line that forms the fortified inner ring of defences. The place had been a shopping centre called Cameron Toll before independence. In the months after the last election, mobs of desperate citizens ransacked the stores and burned the complex down. The large expanse of asphalt that had accommodated the cars that people used to own was now covered by a series of long, dun-coloured sheds, all of them flying the City Guard pennant. In the centre was a low stone-built edifice surrounded by a double line of razor wire and guarded by a squad of armed gorillas. That was the armoury, Trigger Finger's lair.