Body Politic (21 page)

“And everyone else in Edinburgh is?” she asked ironically. “Anyway, I thought you knew everything about me from the moment we met. Remember that little demonstration you gave?” The smile disappeared from her lips. “I told you, Quint. After my time on Cramond Island I do what I'm told.”

That was bullshit. It was clear from Patsy's file that Katharine wasn't being coerced. I kept on at her. “Does that include throttling the guy in the linen store?”

Her mouth opened slightly and I heard her breathing quicken. “What do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.

I stood up and faced her. “Why should I believe your story about the transvestite? Maybe you ripped the Greek's eye out with those long fingers of yours.”

The next few seconds would be crucial. She was about the most enigmatic person I'd ever come across, but I was still confident I'd be able to tell if she was lying.

“You've made your mind up already, haven't you?” she said, holding my gaze. “There's no point in me saying anything.”

I waited for a bit, then snapped my notebook shut. If she'd started to weep or plead, if she'd opened her legs and offered me sex, I'd have been seriously suspicious. As it was, she convinced me that she hadn't been involved in the attacks on Roussos and the others simply because she didn't care about them. Or about anyone else except her brother, it seemed.

“I want to assign a guardswoman to you,” I said on my way out. “The assailant might have seen you.”

“Forget it,” she said, her voice harsher. “I can look after myself.”

I didn't press the point. Suddenly the idea of arguing with her took on the aspect of Everest's south-west face from below. I went downstairs to the safety of the street.

“Dead ends,” said Hamilton laconically.

I looked out from the window of his office in the castle. The city looked unreal in the late afternoon sun, a thin layer of mist hanging over the buildings like the last exhalations of an intelligent but slow-moving species of dinosaur. “Looks that way,” I said.

“Do you think we can rely on the official t-vs' alibis?” The guardian pronounced the initial letters with distaste.

“Yes. We'll have to look elsewhere for the butcher.”

“But where, for God's sake? My people have checked all the gaming tents and nightclubs. Some of the staff remembered Roussos, but no one could say if he'd been with anyone else. The same in the hotel.”

“Did the consulate confirm his job?”

“He's an insurance consultant all right. Unless the contract they showed me was a fake.”

That wouldn't have surprised me, but there was no way of proving it. I walked towards the door. “Keep up the good work, guardian.”

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To follow up my long shot. Looks like it's our only chance.”

I leaned my bicycle against the front of the tourist shop opposite the Finance Directorate and went in.

Davie was behind a curtain. “She's seen my ‘ask no questions',” he said, glancing at a middle-aged auxiliary in a tartan plaid behind the counter who was studiously ignoring us. “And I showed it to the guardsman in the checkpoint.” He shrugged apologetically. “Had to – I did my auxiliary training with him. Don't worry, he'll keep quiet.”

I looked over at the imposing building, formerly the headquarters of a bank. It stands on a prominence overlooking the gardens and is about as close as you get to architectural opulence in the city nowadays. The Council would claim that they've just left it as it was, but I wouldn't buy that. Money still talks, whatever they say.

“Is he still in there?”

Davie nodded. “Been there all day, apart from when he went for a wander on the Royal Mile at lunchtime. He didn't meet anyone.”

“Or hand over anything?”

“I don't think so. It was pretty crowded. I suppose he could have slipped a note to someone. There were a lot of foreigners around.”

“How many of them were Greeks, I wonder?” I frowned at him. “Next time stay as close as you can to him.”

“Easier said than done. The High Street's like a wheelchair track. Have you noticed how many of them there are these days?”

“Yeah, it's . . . hang on . . . here we go.”

Billy Geddes had appeared outside the Finance Directorate. He stopped and exchanged a few words with the guardsman at the entrance.

“I'll take him now,” I said, jamming my woollen hat over my ears and wrapping a scarf round the lower part of my face.

“I thought you might have dressed in drag,” Davie said with a grin.

“Not on my bike. That would be a bit of a giveaway.”

Billy's Toyota was driven up by a porter. He got in and moved off down the Mound, followed by a Supply Directorate lorry that was pumping out clouds of fumes. I took a deep breath and dived into the smog. There was no getting away from it. Billy Geddes was a lucky bastard to have his own car and I was jealous as hell. Not that I was going to let that prejudice my handling of the investigation.

Either Billy wasn't really a bad boy or he was being very careful. He went straight back to his flat and stayed there. I took cover in the bushes lining the lower edge of Queen Street Gardens. Twice I was approached by track-suited auxiliaries. They backed off when they saw my “ask no questions”. Twilight deepened and the lights from Billy's high windows shone out over the street. I caught a glimpse of him moving past, a mobile phone to his ear. There was no way of finding out who he was talking to.

Later the lights were dimmed, though not extinguished completely. I was shivering in the gloom, trying to convince myself that I wasn't wasting my time. Even the unchanged sheets and coarse blankets on my bed began to tempt me. I forced myself to concentrate on the elegant Georgian façade across the road. Nearby was number 17, where Robert Louis Stevenson lived as a boy. Perhaps he had the first intimations of Dr Jekyll here when the mist was swirling around, swallowing the drumming of horses' hooves from passing carriages. The doctor and his sinister doppelganger seemed very close. Then I thought of the Ear, Nose and Throat Man's hulking figure, a knife glinting in each hand, and felt a tingling in the stump of my finger.

I was so caught up that I hardly heard the dull click of the door closing behind Billy. I looked over in time to see his small figure move quickly down the steps and along the street. There was no sound from his feet – he must have put on a pair of well-worn shoes – and that made me wonder what he was up to. I stepped away from the bushes and ran along the grass by the all-weather track, hoping he'd think I was a jogger. It was too late to vault the fence. I'd have to wait till Billy was off Heriot Row and use the nearest gate. The question was, where was he heading?

When he got to India Street, he turned and walked downhill rapidly. I sprinted to the gate then froze as I saw Billy stop and look round. Fortunately I was obscured. He carried on. Then disappeared.

My heart skipped a couple of beats. I went down India Street cautiously, looking at all the basement flats and the steps down to them. Nothing. Then it came to me. I'd forgotten about the narrow entrance to Jamaica Street. There was a bar patronised by senior auxiliaries further down. The lights were low, curtains covering most of the window space. A buzz of voices was audible despite the heavy door. Billy must have gone for a pint. I got my breathing back to normal and wedged myself behind a large rubbish container to see if he came out with anyone interesting. If I'd been spotted by a resident, the guard would be along any minute. They weren't.

Half an hour later I heard high-heeled footsteps coming from the darkness beyond the bar and swore under my breath. My geography was all screwed up. Jamaica Street looked like a cul-de-sac, but there were actually a couple of lanes leading on from it. They were unlit by streetlamps. Billy could have met someone there or kept going and shaken off a tail as incompetent as me. The footsteps came closer. I crouched motionless, wondering if they were a woman's or a transvestite's. As they passed, I looked out and got a clear view of the straight body and unmistakable chest of Simpson 134 from the infirmary. Except instead of a nurse's uniform, she was dressed up in a flashy wool coat, black stockings and shoes that didn't come from the Supply Directorate. She was also carrying the briefcase I'd seen her with outside Patsy's office. She turned the corner and vanished.

Jigsaw pieces began to come together in my mind. She must have been Billy's contact, the one who told him when I left the infirmary. But what was she doing meeting him in a pitch-black backstreet?

A faint noise came from the lane. Billy turned the corner and pulled open the bar door, to be greeted by raised voices.

After a few minutes, I decided to leave him to it and set off home. My long shot had hit an interesting target but I couldn't say I was much further on. None of what I'd seen was worth reporting to the Council. To confront them I needed evidence and that was in shorter supply than Danish bacon in the city's foodstores.

As I crossed Heriot Row I had another thought. I'd completely forgotten to make the Sunday visit to my father. There was definitely something wrong with my memory.

Chapter Thirteen

When Davie arrived at six the next morning I was already working on the lists Hamilton had sent over.

“What's all that?” he asked.

“Auxiliaries who were involved in the fire and the rescue.”

“Have you found me there?”

“Don't worry, you're not a suspect.” I glanced at the faded labourers' fatigues he'd dressed himself up in. “Your feet aren't the right size.”

“What a relief.”

I threw down my pencil. “This is a waste of time. There were hundreds of your lot at the Indie. Even if the killer is an auxiliary, he could have been off duty on Thursday evening and gone to the hotel earlier.”

“To start the fire, you mean? What did the fire chief's report say about arson?”

“He's still investigating, but there's a good chance it was started deliberately. The heat around the kitchens was so intense that there's not much evidence.”

Davie scratched what remained of his beard. “You know what I think? If he was dressed as a t-v, he already had the freedom of the hotel. So he didn't need a distraction.”

I looked up at him. “What are you getting at?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he set the fire just to show us what he can do.”

I shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Bloody hell, Davie, that's an idea which makes me look forward to the rest of my life.” It was also one with a definite ring of truth. I told him about Billy Geddes and the nursing auxiliary.

“Why don't you take her in and interrogate her?” he asked.

I shook my head. “That would make Billy run for cover. Anyway, he'd just say he was giving her a knee-trembler against the wall.”

“Very likely. That woman would crush all his ribs.”

I laughed. “I'm going to ask Hamilton to put a guard on her. We can say it's for her safety. Then at least we'll know where she is all the time.”

“You want me to stay on Heriot 07?”

“Yes. Hide yourself in the bushes opposite his flat till he comes out then tail him.”

He looked unusually anxious.

“What's the problem? You've got your ‘ask no questions'.”

“It's not that.” His cheeks reddened. “I've got something I have to do in the castle.”

“Something to do with that redhead in the guardian's office, guardsman?”

“You could say that.”

“I'll try to spare you later on.” I looked at my watch. “Let's get going. I want to see my father before the fun starts.” I knew Hector would be unimpressed that a mere double murder investigation had stopped me visiting. Besides, I had something to tell him.

The door on the top floor was half open. I looked in and saw the old man bent over his desk. I could hear the rasp of the fountain pen he always used. It was a mystery where he found the ink for it – the city's stationery shops provide only pencils and cheap ballpoints. He didn't look up when I went in. I took in his worn cardigan and the loose skin on his neck. His characteristic wheeze came regularly, like the revolutions of a decrepit but still serviceable pump.

“Hello, old man.”

Hector sat up and swung round with surprising speed. “Ah, there you are, failure.” He gave me a smile that was both ironic and welcoming. “Let me finish this page.”

I went over to the window and looked out over the waves that were dancing away in the sunlight. My father had started writing again.

“I saw her last week,” I said when I heard his pen stop.

He put the cap on the pen and laid it carefully on the desk. “The standard view of Juvenal is that he hated women.” He put his hand on a pile of books, all containing slips of paper covered with minuscule notes. “That's what the experts say.” He got to his feet, hands spread on the desk for support. “What I say is bollocks to that. The old bugger was so obsessed with women that he spent all his time abusing them and . . .”

“I said, I saw Mother.”

Hector turned to me, his eyes wide. “I'm not deaf,” he shouted. Then he asked more quietly, “Why do you think I'm spending my dotage trying to make sense of this Roman misogynist? There must be more to life than despising women.” He lowered his head. “Or in my case, one particular woman.”

I moved closer. “She looks terrible. The lupus is much worse.”

“And what the hell can I do about that?” he demanded, clutching at my arm as I went to close the door. “Did you come down here just to tell me her condition's worse? Surely she's not asking for my sympathy?” He suddenly looked his age.

I led him to the sofa. “You know Mother. Sympathy's not something she's ever needed.” I kept my hand on his forearm.