The Bone Yard (7 page)

I got a lift in a guard vehicle back to Drummond Street. Davie had spoken to most of the neighbours. They'd all been well into the bevy from the early evening, but some of them said they heard music coming from Roddie's flat after midnight. The guy across the stairwell had knocked on his door to wish him happy New Year but got no reply and assumed he was pissed like the rest of them.

I told Davie about the cassette. “Let's borrow a machine and listen to it. I don't want to go into the Council meeting blind. Or deaf.”

We borrowed Jimmie Semple's cassette player and set it up in Roddie's flat. The scene-of-crime people had finished, having found, so Davie told me, no fingerprints apart from Roddie's and no sign of illicit goods. They'd left the place as it was, so we had to step over books and cushions to get to the single power point. I pushed what was left of Roddie's orange hat under the sofa – it was giving me a lot of angst.

I stuck the cassette in and waited for what I was pretty sure was some kind of message from the killer.

What I got was a hell of a surprise.

“Is that what I think it is?” Davie asked after a minute.

“If what you think it is is Eric Clapton playing ‘Tribute to Elmore', then yes, guardsman, it is.”

We listened until the music stopped and left the tape running. There didn't seem to be anything else recorded.

Davie rubbed his beard. “Well, boss, you're the expert. What does it mean? What's this got to do with Roddie Aitken?”

“And why was it stuck inside him?” I looked into the darkness outside, then glanced both ways in the street below. No hooded man. “God knows.”

“A non-standard-issue tape with banned music on it.” Davie nudged my arm. “It must mean something, Quint.”

I wasn't arguing with that. A series of unpleasant thoughts had struck me. The blues had been banned not long after the Enlightenment came to power because the drug gangs that used to terrorise the city took them as their trademark. The leader of each gang gave himself the name of a famous bluesman – Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, John Lee Hooker – and the gang members followed suit. My love affair with the blues had started before that. When I was a kid in the nineties, contemporary music was so poor that my friends and I ended up turning to what we thought was the genuine tradition. But I couldn't say the blues were only a source of pleasure to me. The psycho who killed Caro and eleven others called himself Little Walter. And now we had a clown messing about with Clapton and Elmore James. This was bad news almost on a par with the Stop Press from Sarajevo in August 1914.

“It's an instrumental,” Davie said, breaking into my thoughts.

“A chance for ‘God' to show off his skills on the bottle-neck that Elmore was famous for. What's your point, Davie?”

He shrugged. “I was just thinking that if there had been a lyric, it might have told us something.”

I headed for the door. It was half six and I needed to talk to Hamilton before the Council meeting at seven. “It might have,” I said over my shoulder. “But then again, we might not speak this particular language. The message is presumably directed at someone who does.”

Davie's boots clattered down the stair behind me. “I thought you knew all there is to know about the blues, Quint,” he said.

I shook my head. “Not when they're being played by a lunatic, my friend.”

Some of the most unpleasant experiences of my life have occurred in the Council chamber. As a result, I hate the place. The building used to be the Assembly Hall where the Church of Scotland had its annual knees-up. It was an attempt at steepling Gothic splendour, but its blackened façade strikes me more like the castle of a vampire with a taste for coal dust. Hamilton was doing an imitation of a sentry on autopilot outside. Behind him the central tourist area was lit up brighter than a Christmas tree in the days before trees became an endangered life form. In the suburbs beyond, where the ordinary citizens live, the lights were a lot dimmer.

“Are you aware of the fact that Raeburn 03 was at the autopsy?” I demanded, warming up for the fight I was about to have with the boyscouts.

The guardian looked surprised. “I was not. Did he get in your way?”

“He did, Lewis. Pull his chain, will you?”

Hamilton smiled grimly. “With pleasure.” His face darkened. “We're in trouble, aren't we, citizen?”

“I reckon so. This killer's more than just a butcher. He's playing mind games too.” I told him about the tape.

The guardian swore under his breath, an action which would have definitely convinced his colleagues that he was past it. Guardians pride themselves on being above coarse language. Me, I'm a big fan.

“Come on, guardian, we're going to be late.” I let him go first through the doorway and up the wide staircase. Busts of Plato were all over the place, the philosopher's wrinkled brow and featureless eyes giving a greater impression of fallibility than the first Council intended. He was their master,
The Republic
and
The Laws
the cornerstones of the new constitution. Unfortunately he didn't specify how to deal with murderers who stick music cassettes inside their victims.

We were admitted into the chamber. When my mother was senior guardian, there had been a vast horseshoe table. The Council members sat round it and people like me who had to give reports sat between the horns and felt small. The iron boyscouts have changed things. In an attempt to show that they're even more devoted to Plato than their predecessors, they emptied the hall of all its furniture and remain on their feet throughout the daily meetings. As the meetings sometimes go on long into the night, they've taken to moving around the hall – the senior guardian playing at Socrates wandering the streets of ancient Athens with the rest of them as his interlocutors. I suppose it keeps them off the freezing streets of Edinburgh.

“Good evening, guardian. Citizen.” The senior guardian nodded briefly at us and led us into the middle of the hall. The other thirteen guardians gathered around. They were all carrying clipboards. I saw the medical guardian. She had her notes under her arm and her hands stuffed into the pockets of her light brown tweed jacket.

“The meeting is in session,” said the senior guardian, his head held high and his hands behind his back. He looked like a preacher about to address a congregation, the thin beard backing up his earnest expression. “I understand from the public order guardian that Citizen Dalrymple is to lead the investigation into the unwelcome discovery at Drummond Street.” He glanced at Hamilton. For a moment I thought there was going to be trouble about control of such a serious matter being given to a non-auxiliary, but the senior guardian let it pass. He knew I could do a better job than anyone in the Public Order Directorate. “Perhaps you will favour us with your report, citizen,” he said, turning his unwavering eyes on me.

“All right,” I said. I've always got a kick out of trying to stamp my authority on the guardians. Shocking them out of their routine is a good ploy. “Let's start with a bit of music.” I pushed through the ring of tweed jackets and put the cassette in the player that was kept in the chamber.

I couldn't really say that Clapton went to the top of the Council charts. Most of the boyscouts were too young to have much more than a vague idea of what kind of music they were hearing. Those who did know – like the heritage guardian, an expert on eighteenth-century Scottish art who had the look of a poorly preserved mummy but was actually five years younger than me – tried to appear scandalised that the blues should be heard in the Assembly Hall. As for the senior guardian, he kept his head held high. There was a faint smile on his lips but I couldn't make up my mind if he looked more like a tolerant saint suffering for his faith or a public-school headmaster about to use his cane in the old days. The music stopped and there was a long silence.

“Thank you for sharing that with us,” the senior guardian said eventually. “I presume this was the cassette that was found inside the victim.”

Obviously the grapevine was working well.

“It is, guardian,” I replied.

“And what exactly is the significance of this particular  . . . how shall I describe it  . . . piece?” The guardian moved towards where I was standing by the cassette player, his colleagues close behind.

I shrugged. “Search me, guardian.”

He gave me a thin smile. “But you know what it is and who performed it?”

“Oh, aye. It's Eric Clapton's ‘Tribute to Elmore'. Elmore being Elmore James, leading proponent of the bottle-neck guitar.”

Some of the guardians made a note but most didn't bother.

“Very interesting, citizen,” said the heritage guardian, holding his pen vertically like a child trying to attract the teacher's attention. “But what did the murderer mean by putting it—”

“I think we're getting ahead of ourselves, guardians,” interrupted Hamilton. I'd been wondering how long he'd keep quiet. “Clearly some information about this case has become available to you already.” He looked around balefully. “I'd like to know how.”

Nobody volunteered an answer. Gossip between the directorates is the lifeblood of the system, but none of the iron boyscouts could admit that openly – certainly not in front of an ordinary citizen like me. I let them stew for a few moments, then outlined what I'd found in Roddie Aitken's flat. This time all of them took notes.

“So, to summarise,” the senior guardian said when I'd finished. “We are dealing with a murderer who took care to leave no fingerprints, who took advantage of the only night of the year when there is no curfew to effect his escape, who tortured his victim to discover the whereabouts of some object as yet unknown and who left this piece of music as some kind of message.”

Not bad for a scientist. And the senior guardian isn't just any scientist. He was a senior researcher in the mechanical engineering faculty at the age of twenty-one and a key member of the Science and Energy Directorate a few years later. The word is that when he became senior guardian he never even considered assigning his original directorate to someone else. But no matter how much they fancy themselves, guardians aren't investigators and he hadn't mentioned everything.

“Correct – as far as it goes,” I said. Then I gave them something else to chew on. “I'm assuming the murderer was the hooded figure seen by the victim four times before he was killed. What does that tell us, guardians?”

Rustling of papers and eyes definitely lowered. I felt like a professor leading a seminar for a group of students who were never given reading lists.

“What are you getting at, Dalrymple?” Hamilton asked suspiciously. He wasn't impressed that I was springing something we hadn't discussed on him.

“Simply this. The hooded man – not that I'm necessarily convinced it's a male at this stage – showed himself several times to Roddie Aitken. Why? Why didn't he just follow him back to his flat the first time and do what he did last night?”

The senior guardian was nodding, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “I see what you mean, citizen. He was trying to frighten his victim.”

“Very good, guardian,” I said. “The killer was trying to frighten him into handing over something.”

“But what was that something?” Hamilton said, his brow still furrowed.

“I don't know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “Either he found what he was looking for in the flat or—” I broke off. It had occurred to me that maybe Roddie never had what his killer wanted. He didn't seem to be the kind of guy who was into the black market. So why was the bastard after him? Could it be a case of mistaken identity or was it something more sinister? Possibilities started to bombard me.

“Wake up, citizen,” said the medical guardian, her pale face looking unusually impatient. “Or what?”

“Or  . . . I don't know,” I said, smiling lamely.

The senior guardian gave me a dubious look then turned to the Ice Queen. “Very well. Let's have your report.” He paused momentarily before addressing her. “Guardian.”

One of the problems the guardians have constructed for themselves is how to address each other in front of ordinary citizens. I'm bloody certain they use their first names when they're on their own, but they can't do that in front of the likes of me.

The medical guardian ran through her preliminary report, putting the time of death around two a.m. and the cause of death shock-induced heart failure. She thought the knife the killer used had a large non-serrated blade – possibly a hunting knife. (Or possibly a standard-issue auxiliary knife, but I didn't feel like raising that point for the time being.)

“We are carrying out tests on matter removed from the victim's fingernails,” the guardian said. “No other traces of the killer have been found, apart from the bite mark on the throat. This is being analysed as I speak and I am cautiously optimistic that we will have sufficient data to carry out a search of dental records.” She looked around her colleagues, ending at the senior guardian. “I hope to be able to provide further information at tomorrow's meeting.”

“Thank you, guardian.” The senior guardian turned to me. “Anything else you feel we should know, citizen?”

I could think of a lot of hints concerning the way they run the city, but I bit my tongue. “We'll be looking at all aspects of the victim's background and following up leads.” I gave the information guardian the eye. She was a nervous-looking redhead who had survived from my mother's time. “Are you intending to publicise the killing?”

“That is a matter for the Council,” the senior guardian said, his gaze hard. “I suggest you get back to your investigation, citizen.”

I headed for the door, then decided to give them a farewell gift. “Guardians,” I said over my shoulder, “we're not dealing with an average murderer here. This one walked away with Roddie Aitken's tongue and genitals as well as leaving us a cassette. A cassette that was not standard issue and suggests some connection with the world beyond the city border.” I turned and faced them. In the air above the guardians' heads I could almost read the word “dissidents”. It has the effect on senior auxiliaries that “Brussels” used to have on Conservative politicians in the 1990s.