The Blood Tree (7 page)

“What did the old headbanger want?” Katharine asked as she pushed the main door open. She turned towards me. “Surely you weren't working on a case last night?”

I raised my shoulders. “You know how it is. Criminals never sleep.”

“And self-centred investigators never give up,” she said sharply. “Even when their fathers are at death's door.” She bit her lip. “Sorry. I didn't mean that.”

I led her down the corridor to the ICU, hoping that Sophia was elsewhere in the building. It seemed I was in luck.

“Your father's doing fine, citizen.” A young female nursing auxiliary with a splash of freckles across her pale cheeks had joined us at the glass screen. “If you get robed up, you can go in and talk to him.”

“He's awake?” I asked.

“Oh aye,” the nurse said with a wry smile. “He's very much awake.”

Katharine nodded at me. “You see? Hector will have been telling the nurse how much he likes the female sex.”

“That wouldn't have taken him long,” I muttered, accepting a green tunic from the cheerful auxiliary. The old man was a misogynist with knobs on, but she'd have seen it all before.

“Just don't tire him out,” the nurse said as she opened the door for us.

Some of the wires and lines had been taken off Hector and he looked less like Frankenstein's creature on the table now. But the skin on his face was still waxy and pale, and his breath was catching in his throat. I touched his forearm lightly and watched as the hooded eyes opened slowly.

“Is that you, Quintilian?” he said faintly, after struggling to recognise me under the surgical mask. “What happened?”

“Nothing serious,” I said, glancing at Katharine across the bed. “They've got you in for your annual service.”

He mumbled something that I didn't catch.

“What's that?” I asked, leaning closer.

“I'm glad you brought her,” he whispered, jerking his arm in Katharine's direction. “She's one of the few good ones in the monstrous regiment.” He had to pause frequently for breath.

“Katharine?” I said, looking up as she came closer. “Yes, she is.”

Hector frowned at me. “Ka . . . ?” He broke off and gulped air. “Ka . . . ?”

“Katharine,” I completed, nodding at her.

The old man twitched his head. “Ka . . .”

I moved my head nearer.

His eyes bulged with the effort to enunciate. “Caro,” he gasped. “Caro.”

I froze as the name of my first love struck me like a blow from a claymore.

“It seems like a long time since I've seen her,” Hector continued, his voice firmer now he thought he'd recognised his other visitor. He looked past me and smiled loosely at Katharine. “Caro,” he repeated. “How are you, my dear? Quintilian's been waiting for you.”

“Bloody hell,” I said under my breath. I turned my hands up helplessly at Katharine.

“It's all right, Quint,” she said through her mask. “He's wandering.” She looked at the old man. I thought she was smiling because the skin at the corners of her green eyes creased. “Take your time, Hector,” she said in a louder voice. “You're in the lap of luxury here.”

The old man moved his head weakly. His eyelids flickered and he drifted off. I squeezed his arm again and moved to the door.

“Sorry about that,” I said to Katharine on the other side of the partition. “It must be the drugs. He's never confused you with Caro before.”

“I don't usually wear a mask,” she said, taking off her gown. “It doesn't matter,” she added, turning away.

Obviously it did, despite the fact that Caro had been gone for eleven years. That didn't mean anything to Hector, though. Caro and I were together from my first term at the university; we joined the Enlightenment on the same day; we both ended up in senior positions in the Public Order Directorate. The old man had always contemplated our relationship with a benign air – even though he was a guardian and Caro and I, as auxiliaries, shouldn't have had close ties.

Katharine waited for me at the door of the ICU while I went over Hector's file with the nurse. The cardiologist had examined him again and his report was due soon, but the signs were good. I thanked her and headed for the exit.

Where I nearly collided with Sophia's protuberant midriff. She managed to fend me off with a clipboard. I heard Katharine's rapid intake of breath when she saw the medical guardian.

“Hello, Quint,” Sophia said, giving me an unrestrained smile. That was before she saw who was with me. Suddenly everything got a lot chillier.

“Morning, Sophia,” I said. “Hector seems to be on the mend.”

She nodded, her eyes on her papers and nowhere in the vicinity of Katharine. “I've just received the cardiologist's report. It's still early but he's very optimistic that your father's condition can be controlled. He should be able to live a relatively normal life.”

“In as much as anyone can do that in the so-called perfect city,” Katharine said, giving the guardian a belligerent smile.

Sophia pretended she hadn't heard and ran through the report quickly. “The prognosis I can give you at the moment is that Hector will remain in the ICU for at least another day. After that he'll be moved to a geriatric ward until he's stronger.”

“And then he can go back to the retirement home?” I asked.

The guardian nodded. “I think so.” She handed the clipboard to the nursing auxiliary. “I've got to get on. Goodbye, Quint.” She turned away without acknowledging Katharine.

That wasn't such a good idea.

“Guardian?” Katharine called. Her face was set firm and her eyes wavered as little as those of a sentry on the city line with a smuggler in her sights. “You don't seriously intend to bring a child into this crazy city, do you?”

Sophia gave Katharine a glacial glare. “Not all women in Edinburgh have the same attitude towards procreation as ex-prostitutes like you, Citizen Kirkwood.” She moved away with her head held high.

I'd had my hand over my eyes while they were talking, but I managed to grab Katharine's arm before she launched herself at the guardian. Katharine had been forced to work in the Prostitution Services Department after she served time for dissident activities years ago.

“Come on,” I said. “Let's get some fresh air.”

I led her outside. The clouds were even lower than they had been. They were holding the fumes from the brewery in Fountainbridge over the city like a chloroform pad.

“Fresh air?” Katharine scoffed. “We'd have to leave this necropolis to find that.”

“Necropolis,” I repeated. “Neat word. City of the dead. Let's hope that's not where Hector's going.”

She gave me a look which combined embarrassment with irritation. “He'll be all right, Quint.” Her face hardened again. “And no doubt that deep-frozen cow will produce an immaculate child as well.”

I glanced at her and decided against calling for a guard vehicle to take me to the castle. Katharine needed a walk to work off her indignation. We turned right on to Lauriston Place and headed for George IV Bridge. Hamilton could wait a few more minutes.

“What does she think she's doing?” Katharine raged as she strode over the cracked paving-stones. “Guardians can't bring children up.”

“They don't have to,” I said, struggling to keep up with her. “The Welfare Directorate's children's homes do that, remember?” The original guardians had tried to do away with the family, offering state care from birth – mainly because able-bodied adults were needed to work full-time. A surprisingly large proportion of parents went along with that, though the new-look, user-friendly Council has allowed more freedom of choice since 2025.

“Why does she want to have a kid anyway?” Katharine demanded. “It made more sense when the guardians shut themselves off from procreation, as the stupid bitch called it. They say she doesn't even know who the father is.” She jabbed her elbow into my ribs. “You haven't been at her again, have you?”

“Get a grip, Katharine,” I said with a glare. “You know I haven't. Everything finished between Sophia and me when you came back to the city.” We passed a pair of stern-looking guardsmen. “Calm down,” I said, worried that she was about to come out with an even coarser description of the medical guardian. “I don't know. She probably feels she has to make her contribution to the city's birth-rate.” I shrugged. “She's in her late thirties. Maybe her body's putting pressure on her to reproduce.”

Katharine flashed an angry look at me. “So women like me who choose not to reproduce – delicate turn of phrase, Quint – are failing in our duty to the city and the species, are we?”

We had to separate as a scruffily dressed elderly citizen on a ramshackle bicycle clattered down the road which used to be overlooked by Greyfriars Bobby. The statue of the wee Victorian dog was blown to pieces by a grenade during the drugs wars – now the plinth bears one of the city's many memorials to auxiliaries and citizens who didn't make it through the Council's early years.

By the time we joined up again Katharine's expression had changed.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “It's not been a very good morning so far.”

“No,” I agreed. I made a decision. “Do you want to give me a hand with the case I'm working on? Just for today.”

Katharine looked at me suspiciously then nodded. “Why not? It won't be the first time.”

That was true. She'd been deeply involved in some of my biggest investigations. She was also about as far as you could get from being Lewis Hamilton's cup of auxiliary-issue tea. I told her about the break-in as we walked towards the checkpoint below the Royal Mile. She asked so many penetrating questions that, by the time we got to the castle, I already had second thoughts about my invitation.

The cloud around the castle was even thicker now, shutting out the sights and sounds from the tourist shops and bars on Princes Street.

The guardswoman on duty in the gatehouse told us that the public order guardian was in the command centre. She gave Katharine a dubious stare but she couldn't argue with my Council authorisation – it entitles me to full co-operation from all citizens, auxiliaries and guardians. The Council's occasionally tried to have the wording changed, but I've managed to keep it intact. There's no point in being the city's chief special investigator if guardians can mess you around.

We walked up to the square formed by what used to be the palace and museums. Apart from the Scottish National War Memorial, left unchanged in a rare display of respect for the past by the Council, the buildings are all used by the City Guard now. The command centre is in what was the Great Hall, a tacky late-nineteenth-century restoration of the banqueting hall. The hammerbeam roof has been left but the rest of the decor is grade one barracks drab, the brightly coloured tapestries that used to adorn the walls removed to provide space for city maps, barracks reports and guard rosters. The hall's vast open space gives guard personnel the opportunity to impersonate ants in perpetual motion. They do that very well.

Hamilton met us at the entrance. “What's she doing here, Dalrymple?” he demanded, glaring at Katharine.

That only made me more determined. “She's helping me out, Lewis. If you don't like it, find another investigator.”

“Oh, for God's sake, man.” He turned away and went to the large central table which was his base camp. “Very well,” he said unwillingly. “I suppose we need all the help we can get.” He pointed up at the daily situation report board. “Look at that. Two sightings of unauthorised vessels off the coast, three gaping holes cut in the wire on the city line, four youth gangs rampaging in the suburbs—”

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” I put in. “Any sign of the bogus workmen or the vehicle they used?”

The guardian shook his head. “All barracks and guard patrols have drawn a blank.”

Davie came up. “And no sign of any discarded workmen's gear or clothes,” he said. “Morning, Quint.” He didn't offer the same courtesy to my companion.

“Katharine's working with us on this today,” I said.

“Great,” he mumbled.

“What about the scene-of-crime squad and forensics?” I asked, raising my voice above the ringing of numerous phones and the clatter of typewriters – even in the command centre there aren't many computers. “Have they found anything hot?”

“Not really.” Davie ran his eye down a clipboard. “The traces of blood you found on the floor and the file are both group O. They haven't found any fingerprints on the file covers or in the archive generally.”

“All our burglars were wearing gloves,” I said. “Anything on the footprints?”

Davie shrugged. “Three different sets under the rubble from the roof. All standard-issue work-boots, sizes seven, ten and eleven.” He looked up. “Only prints from the size eleven boots were found in the stack where the file was taken, and not many clear ones there.”

“He was trying to cover his tracks,” I said. “Lucky we found the blood spots.” I rubbed the stubble on my jaw. “And maybe he was the only one who knew what they were after.”

“You keep saying ‘he'.” Katharine's voice was sharp. “How do you know it wasn't a woman?”

“With size eleven feet?” Hamilton scoffed.

“It wouldn't be the first time a woman's disguised herself by wearing over-size footwear,” Katharine replied. She was right. That reference to one of the city's worst murder cases back in 2020 didn't exactly lighten the atmosphere.

“How about the files?” I asked. “Any others missing?”

“We've only just started checking that,” Hamilton said. “I had to ring round my colleagues in advance of the Council meeting to obtain authorisation for these restricted files to be seen by people beneath the rank of guardian. A team of senior guard personnel is going through them now. When they've finished checking the files we took from the shelves close to the one that was tampered with, they'll go down to the archive and start on the other stacks.”