The Bone Yard (18 page)

And so it came to pass. I used the blue overalls I had when I was in the Parks Department a few years back, supplementing them with a bag of tools to make me look like a plumber. Pipes are always blocking up or cracking in the Council's Edinburgh and plumbers bring out the best in even the most granite-jawed sentry. I was also wearing a bright blond wig I'd picked up in one of the ragshops that ordinary citizens rely on when their clothing vouchers run out.

I strode purposefully up the steps to what used to be the Royal College of Surgeons in Nicolson Street. Trust the Enlightenment to choose a Playfair neo-classical temple for the city's science and energy base. The original Council members had little time for science. It had been misused so much in the late twentieth century, what with cloning (until the American religious right put a stop to that), the development of new, even more addictive consumer drugs and the nuclear industry's increasingly unchecked expansion. Such scientific experiments as were allowed took place in the King's Buildings where the toxicologist worked and at a few other locations, but the headquarters were symbolically situated in a building Plato would have approved of.

I got into the archive room and diagnosed a supposedly explosive leak. That scared all the file shufflers off. Then I locked myself in and headed for the records covering the years when William McEwan was guardian. In the limited time I had I was unlikely to find some as yet unidentified needle in this particular stack of bureaucratic hay, but I owed it to the old man to have a try. If he'd been keeping any documents to show me at the retirement home, they were long gone by the time I searched his room. I took a deep breath and started pulling open cabinets and maroon-coloured “guardians' eyes only” files.

As it turned out, I got even less than the hour I'd estimated. By the time the banging started on the steel-plated security door, I'd found nothing. But as nothings go, it was a very interesting one. What I wanted to know was, why was there a full set of top-security files covering one particular hot subject except for four months of William McEwan's period of tenure? That particular subject was what used to be the city's main source of electricity until the Council shut it down – the advanced gas-cooled reactor power station at Torness.

Whoever was laying into the door was doing a fair imitation of a blues drummer who's taken too many pills from the bag marked Speed Kills.

“Who is it?” I shouted, trying to stall them.

“Davie.”

I was impressed. “How did you find me?”

“Are you going to let me in, Quint?”

I finished putting the files back and opened the door.

“There's been a sighting of the bastard in the hood,” he said hoarsely. “A sentry's been attacked – knocked senseless. He's regaining consciousness now.”

“The attacker got away?”

“What do you think?”

We came out into the watery sunlight. Clouds had been gathering while I was inside and it didn't feel as cold as it had. No doubt the weather was laying another ambush.

“Where are we headed?”

Davie started the Land-Rover's engine. “Raeburn Barracks. Apparently the sentry was patrolling the waste land where that school used to be when he saw a guy in a long coat in the bushes. I don't know any more.”

“I know the feeling,” I muttered as we roared down the South Bridge. “So how did you find me?”

“I was in the ops room when the sentry here reported a plumber with an outrageous wig,” he said, turning to grin at me. “Who else could it have been?”

I looked away, pissed off that he'd clocked my disguise from a mile off. On the bridge a small boy in the maroon sweater all the city's schoolchildren wear flicked us a well-practised V-sign as we passed. I liked his spirit but I didn't give much for his chances if he tried that with the auxiliaries in his school. The Council is keen on the three Rs, but it's an even bigger fan of the three Ds: Discipline, Direction and Drill. I should know. My mother was the first education guardian.

Raeburn 497 was six feet two and about fifteen stone. That's how he survived. As it was, he was definitely a candidate for the small number of plastic surgery operations the Medical Directorate carries out each year – the Council has been having a big downer on non-essential use of resources.

“Shouldn't he be in the infirmary?” I asked the barracks commander.

“My medical officer's had a good look at him. She says his skull's undamaged.”

Which was more than I could say for the young auxiliary's face. It looked like someone had been tapdancing on it with steel-toed boots.

“Can you describe the man who laid into you?” I asked, bending over the swollen purple features.

A brief shake of the head. “Not really.”

I had to lean closer to make out the words. He'd lost most of his front teeth.

“The collar of his coat was pulled up and the hood was hanging down low.”

Sounded like our man all right.

“What colour was the coat?”

“Dark brown. It was long, almost down to his boots.”

“What colour were they?”

“Black. High, up to his knee. Badly scuffed.” He shook his head a couple of times. “Not like any I've ever seen before.” He tried to laugh and only succeeded in coughing up blood. “Except in the Westerns they show in the Historical Film Society.”

Cowboy boots? I hadn't seen a pair of those since the ones I saved up for when I was sixteen fell to bits years later. Another pointer to someone from outside the city. No doubt you can buy all sorts of exotic footwear in democratic Glasgow – if you can fight your way to the shop. It didn't look like our man would have any problem doing that. But something was bothering me. I didn't have any recollection of the hooded figure I'd chased from my flat wearing that kind of footwear. I was pretty sure I'd seen an ordinary pair of work boots.

The sentry's breathing was heavy and he was obviously in a lot of pain. I turned to his commander, a barrel-chested specimen in the standard iron boyscout mode. Before I could ask exactly where the sighting had occurred, the door to the barracks sick bay opened and Machiavelli walked in. His face immediately turned greyer than the contents of the pies ordinary citizens have to put up with. I couldn't tell whether that was because of the guardsman's injuries or my presence.

“What happened here?” he asked, his eyes opening even wider as he approached the bed. “It's Raeburn 497, isn't it? He's inter-barracks unarmed combat champion.”

I left the commander to fill him in. So our killer had taken out the city's best fighter. That made my day.

“Where were you when you saw him?” I asked the sentry.

He suddenly looked a lot worse, his head lolling over in my direction. “Fettes  . . . near the foundations of Carrington House. He was in the bushes by the gates  . . . here, I've lost my knife  . . .”

He passed out. Just as well. His commander would drag him over the coals in the barracks boiler room for mislaying his auxiliary-issue weapon. I was overjoyed to learn that the murderer's collection of sharp blades had grown by one.

“Commander,” I said, interrupting the conversation he was having with Hamilton's deputy, “This man's in a very bad way. For Christ's sake get him to the infirmary.”

For a sworn atheist, Raeburn 01 showed surprising alacrity in complying. Maybe he was just programmed to obey anything in the imperative mood.

Davie and I drove up to the place where the guardsman had been attacked. It was only about a hundred yards from Raeburn Barracks, which shows you the nerve of the guy. But what the hell was he doing here?

Before the Enlightenment what's now a lattice of foundation stones with untended grass growing over them had been one of Scotland's most expensive public schools. Which is one reason why the drugs gangs, who started out in the urban nightmare of Pilton up the road, decided to blow the place up. A lot of the stone had been carted off and used in other less exclusive building projects – though since most of them were tourist facilities, that isn't exactly accurate. Down by the remains of one of the boarding houses, the city's number one headbanger had been given a lesson in unarmed combat by the city's number one murderer.

We hunted around the area that was cordoned off by City Guard tape. Apart from a few scuffmarks on the bone-hard ground, there was nothing to see. I don't know what I expected. The killer had been careful enough so far not to leave anything he didn't want us to have. After a while I squatted down by the unkempt bushes and looked up through the trees at the dull red ball of the sun to the west.

“You know what I think?” Davie said.

“Surprise me, guardsman.”

“He was waiting for someone.”

“In the bushes, within spitting distance of a barracks? Doesn't seem too likely. What citizen would willingly come here? It'd be a real risk.” Then I raised my eyes to his. “You're not suggesting he was meeting an auxiliary, are you?”

Davie was suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Well, it's a possibility, isn't it?”

I thought of how Machiavelli looked in the sick bay. Something had washed all the colour from his face and I didn't think it was just the smell of antiseptic. But that was hardly conclusive. After all, Raeburn was his barracks. He had every right to be there even though his current billet was in the castle.

I stood up and shook the stiffness from my legs. “I wonder. Maybe the hooded man didn't have a meet arranged.” I turned to Davie. “Maybe he was doing the same thing as we are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he was looking for someone.”

“An auxiliary?”

“It wouldn't be the first one he's targeted.”

“Great. That means we've got the five hundred members of this barracks to check out.”

“Forget it, my friend. The Council would never allow it. Anyway, what would we be looking for? All Raeburn personnel with guilty looks on their faces?”

I headed back to the Land-Rover. As we were driving away, I remembered the last time I'd been in the public school's grounds. It was when I was investigating the murders two years ago. An ex-drug gang member called Leadbelly who was one of the few remaining prisoners in the city's prison had been clearing stones from the site. He gave me some information that turned out to be useful and I gave him some blues tapes in return. As we turned south and the long line of spires and gables leading along the Royal Mile to the castle swung into view, I wondered what had happened to my informant. Then my mobile rang and the thought exited my mind as quickly as a warm spell on an Edinburgh spring day.

“What exactly were you doing in the Science and Energy Directorate, citizen?” The senior guardian's voice didn't suggest that he was making anything other than a mundane enquiry, but I sensed he was a lot more interested than that.

“Checking on labs with personnel who could have produced the Electric Blues,” I lied.

“In disguise?” There was a silence that the chief boyscout presumably thought was meaningful. “You are wasting your time, citizen Dalrymple. No auxiliary would have anything to do with the manufacture of such drugs without a specific order from my directorate. No such order has been given.”

I was sure that if it had been given, there wouldn't be any reference to it in the archive. I considered passing that thought on to him but decided I was enjoying my freedom too much.

“Are you still there, citizen?” The senior guardian almost sounded impatient, an unusually human characteristic for him.

“I am.”

“What are you doing?”

I've never been able to handle close supervision. “Sorry, guardian, you're breaking up. I'll see you at the Council meeting. Out.”

Davie glanced across at me. “Are you messing the senior guardian about, Quint?”

“Why? Are you going to do me for insubordination, guardsman?”

He shook his head, but the expression on his face was girm. “He might look like a saint in a Renaissance painting, but he used to have a reputation in his barracks for breaking people he didn't like.” He slowed at the checkpoint on Raeburn Place and raised his hand to acknowledge the guardswoman on duty. She gave him a smile that would get her a job in the Prostitution Services Department any day.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

“Auxiliaries don't have friends,” he replied with a grin.

“Sorry. Close colleague?” I said, using the official term.

“Close enough a few years back.”

“You seem to have been close enough to every female auxiliary under thirty-five in the city, Davie.”

“Jealousy's a fearful thing, citizen.” The smile died on his lips. “Listen, I meant what I was saying about the senior guardian. Are you going into battle with him?”

I looked out at the citizens trudging up the hill towards the centre for the evening shift in the city's hotels and restaurants, casinos and strip joints. Their backs were bent, their faces drawn in the cold. Was this really the best the Council could offer them after nearly twenty years? The Enlightenment's ideals of education, work and housing for all were still intact, but only just. I didn't have much faith in the iron boyscouts and I wasn't the only one. The question was, could anyone else do any better?

“Well, are you?”

Davie's voice roused me from my thoughts. “Am I what?”

“Are you going into battle with the senior guardian?”

I looked ahead into the grey, lowering sky. “I don't know, Davie. I'm beginning to get the feeling that he's declared open season on me.”

A snowflake hit the windscreen and stayed there on its own for a few seconds. Another joined it. Then they got our range and a flurry of the white stuff carpeted the glass. The frayed wipers immediately had trouble clearing it. The Land-Rover slowed as Davie took his foot off the accelerator and peered out through the glass.