The Bone Yard (22 page)

Davie looked at his notebook. “All personnel on duty in the castle, all personnel in Raeburn Barracks  . . .”

“How about the senior guardian?” I looked at Hamilton.

“He's been informed. He hasn't seen him since the end of the Council meeting last night.”

I nodded, remembering Machiavelli's urgent conversation with the chief boyscout outside the Council chamber. “I think we'd better run a check on your deputy, guardian. Is your computer operational?”

Hamilton strode away down the passage. “It was the last time I looked. Useless piece of junk. I don't know what you expect to find there.”

“It's amazing what you come across in the database sometimes,” I replied, grinning at Davie.

We set off after him, our boots ringing like drumbeats on the flagstones. I wondered where Machiavelli's auxiliary-issue footwear was at this moment; and if he'd gone there willingly.

Hamilton was overjoyed when I offered to handle the computer. I was pleased too. That way he wouldn't notice the tell-tale line informing him that he'd logged off ten minutes ago. I remembered to ask him for his password. He went all coy and wrote it down rather than say it in front of Davie.

I got into the senior auxiliary section of the Serving Auxiliaries archive and typed in Raeburn 03's barracks number. It was then that the guardian began to have second thoughts.

“Em, Dalrymple,” he said, leaning over my chair. “What exactly do you expect to find out about my number two? You know how many checks personnel have to go through to reach his level in the hierarchy.”

I looked up at him. “He's a missing person, isn't he? Guard regulations state that anyone absent from their post for more than three hours is required to attend a review board.”

Hamilton looked at me like a medieval abbot who'd suddenly detected signs of demonic possession in one of his monks. “Since when did you care so passionately about guard procedure?”

I shrugged. “I did write most of the regulations when I was in the directorate.”

“That was a long time ago, citizen. You surely can't suspect Raeburn 03 of any involvement in the murders.”

Even I wouldn't have gone that far, at least not yet. “Look, guardian. He's been very interested in the case since the beginning. He turned up at the first post-mortem, he was in the second victim's barracks not long after her body was discovered, he's been—” I broke off. Telling Hamilton that I was suspicious about Machiavelli's friend the senior guardian was probably not a very good idea.

“Well?” demanded Hamilton. “He's been what?”

I gave him a smile to pacify him. “He's been someone the Council has had its eye on for promotion.”

My smile had the wrong effect. “You mean when it manages to get rid of me?” the guardian said, his cheeks scarlet. “Well, I'm not going anywhere. This is my directorate and I'm staying till I drop.”

Behind him Davie had his eyes raised to the inlaid ceiling. “I know that, guardian,” I said, scrolling down Machiavelli's service record. I realised that I knew as little about him as I knew about his superiors in the Council. They'd all appeared out of the woodwork when my mother's regime began to crack.

“Auxiliary training 2010 to '12, then a year on the border, a couple of years in Raeburn Barracks administration, three years in the guard, a year in the Tourism Directorate  . . . that's interesting, guardian. Your deputy was in the Prostitution Services Department.”

“Get on with it, Dalrymple.”

I could see from Hamilton's expression how impressed he was by that aspect of his deputy's career. “Then he was in the Science and Energy Directorate for a year. As assistant to the present senior guardian no less.”

“That's probably why he follows him around like a lost sheep,” the guardian growled.

“Uh-huh.” I kept on scrolling, then stopped abruptly. “And his last posting before this one was in the Finance Directorate, from 2019 to '20.” I paused. There was no way Hamilton was going to let that pass without comment.

“Yes. As one of your friend Heriot 07's assistants.” The guardian sounded like he'd just inhaled deeply in a pigsty. “I wonder what he learned from him.”

“My ex-friend Heriot 07,” I said, trying to stall him. Heriot 07 was the barracks number of Billy Geddes, who used to run all the city's money-making scams. I was beginning to wish I'd kept a much closer eye on him since he'd been confined to a wheelchair. Jesus. There were wheelchair tracks in the street outside my flat this morning.

The door burst open.

“What is Citizen Dalrymple doing at your terminal, guardian?” The senior guardian's voice wasn't exactly sharp. He still sounded like he could sweet-talk the Lord God Almighty into passing on to him the secret of eternal life, but there was an edge to his voice that would have put the wind up Satan. “Kindly leave us, guardsman.” Davie didn't hang around.

Hamilton hit the shutdown function. “I was supervising the citizen, senior guardian.”

“Never mind that.” The chief boyscout moved into the centre of the room and looked around like a pre-Enlightenment estate agent working out his percentage. “About Raeburn 03. I am handling the search for him personally.” He gave me a stare that he no doubt hoped would send my body temperature through the floor.

“I think there may be some connection with the murders,” I said, looking straight back at him. You could almost hear the clang of invisible sabres crossing.

“I will be the judge of that, citizen. If any such connection exists, you'll be the first to know.” The senior guardian turned his attention back to Lewis Hamilton. “In the meantime, guardian, you will not pass any information from the Council Archive to citizen Dalrymple. Understood?”

The guy was about thirty years younger than Hamilton, but he was treating him like an auxiliary trainee on his first day in uniform. Lewis had his face set hard, but there was nothing he could do.

“I wish to speak with my colleague, citizen.” That was guardian-speak for “Close the door on your way out, scum.”

I left them to it.

And spent the rest of the day trying to work out how to dig up more information on Machiavelli, Billy Geddes and the dead physicist Hamish Robin Campbell. By the time I went back to the flat, I was beginning to make progress on two of those fronts.

Chapter Fourteen

There was a tap on the door just after eight o'clock that evening.

“Where the fuck have you been?” I yelled. “I told you to stay indoors.”

Katharine stood in the doorway of my flat, shaking off melting snow like a dog that's been in a river.

“You told me?” she said, eyeing me blackly. “And who exactly are you to tell me what to do?”

I got up and went over to the kitchen area, not wanting to show her any more of how I felt. “You must be freezing. I'll make coffee.”

She spread her coat over a chair and sank down into the sofa. “Coffee,” she said wistfully. “I haven't had that for a long time.”

“Not many people in the city have – at least, not decent stuff. You can still find it if you know the right people.”

“How corrupt.”

I turned and saw that she was smiling ironically. “How realistic, more like. Since you object so strongly on moral grounds, can I have your share?”

She didn't reply but the smile remained on her lips.

“So where have you been?” I asked, handing her the least chipped mug I possessed.

She laughed. “Now he wants to know where I've spent my day.”

“For Christ's sake, Katharine, there's a double murderer out there.” I gave her what I hoped was an unconcerned shrug. “Anyway, it's better for me if you don't hang around here. I don't fancy being done for harbouring a deserter.”

She was about as far from buying that line as the city was from purchasing a fleet of Chinese limousines to ferry citizens to the mines.

“If you must know,” she said with a nervous flick of her head, “I was trying to score some drugs in the Cowgate.”

“You were what?” My voice went soprano.

“Don't worry. I was pretty subtle about it.”

Somehow I managed to get a grip on myself. “Let me just get this straight, Katharine. You went down to the street in the city that's most infested with undercover operatives and tried to find out if a new drug has appeared. You do know that Edinburgh has what
Time
magazine described as the most ferocious anti-narcotics programme in the western world, don't you?”

She gave me a monarch-of-all-she-surveys look that would have impressed the long dead Margaret Thatcher. “Of course I know about the Council's drugs policy. I also know that there are ways and means for tourists to get hold of stuff.”

I slumped back on the sofa beside her. “Don't tell me. You pretended you were a tourist.”

She shrugged. “Obviously it worked,” she said in a remarkably convincing sing-song Scandinavian accent. “The guard haven't turned up on my tail.”

“Not yet they haven't,” I said, resigning myself to the idea that my staircase might at any moment become a physical training location for most of the auxiliaries stationed in the castle. “Did you get a sniff of anything?”

Katharine shook her head. “Bugger all, apart from some hash that even schoolkids in the old days would have laughed at.”

“So for some reason it's not being distributed yet. That confirms what I know from guard sources.”

“Well, I'm glad I've been of some service,” she said acidly.

“It wasn't worth the risk, Katharine.”

“I can look after myself, Quint. You know that.”

Except when there's a gang of Cavemen around, I thought. I didn't share that with her.

“What about you?” she asked. “Found out anything interesting?”

I had to make a decision. I looked across at her, wondering if it was a good idea to involve her in the case. I'd get shat on from the stratosphere if the Council discovered I was sharing classified information with a deserter. On the other hand, I needed all the help I could get if it turned out that senior auxiliaries like Machiavelli had been bad boys. She turned towards me when she felt my eyes on her and fixed me with her bottomless green gaze. It was no contest. But I needed to check something out first.

“Did the guy who died ever say anything about the old nuclear power station at Torness?”

Her eyes were still on me. There was a long pause before she spoke. “No, he didn't. At least not that I understood. He was raving most of the time. Like I told you, he just kept going on about the Screecher and the Bone Yard.”

I'd begun to wonder if there might be some connection between Torness and the Bone Yard. But even if there were, what could that have to do with the Electric Blues and the killings in the city?

“That was truly disgusting,” Katharine said, pushing her empty plate away.

“Sorry. It's not like it was when supermarket chains still existed. These days, if something's out of season, you don't get it, end of story.”

“So in winter the only vegetables are potatoes, turnips and kale. They don't have to be half rotten though. And as for the tinned soup  . . .”

“I suppose you're spoilt on your farm.”

“You obviously haven't tried growing root crops without the benefit of machinery.” She sat upright. “Anyway, you still haven't told me what you found out today.”

I nodded. “I'm going to. But, Katharine  . . .” I waited for her to look at me. “It won't be like it was the last time we worked together two years back. You won't be an official member of the team. Davie and the others can't know about you.”

“Suits me,” she replied. “What makes you think I wanted to be in the team?”

“Nothing. But you risked your freedom by coming to tell me about the drug formula, so you must still have some feeling for the city.”

She laughed harshly. “I don't give a shit about the city, Quint. The Council has always done exactly what it wants with it.” She broke off and looked down. “But you're right in a way. I was an auxiliary once and I swore an oath to serve the bloody place. As far as I'm concerned that means the people. And the people are being fucked by the system.”

“You'd get on well with the democrats in Glasgow.”

“I'd have gone there long ago if there weren't so many gangs of lunatics between us and them.” She looked up and her eyes flared in the dim light. “Are you going to tell me what you know or not?”

“Okay. I'll just put some music on.” If my place had been bugged, Katharine and I were already up the Crap River without a punt-pole. But at least the bastards wouldn't find out the latest news. Muddy Waters seemed appropriate.

“You remember Billy Geddes?” I asked as the master belted into “The Hoochie Coochie Man”.

“Your schoolfriend? How could I forget him? I thought he was crippled.”