Water of Death (14 page)

There was no reply to that. I was about to put the squeeze on one of the city's most dangerous men, one who had plenty of opportunities to lay his hands on illicit whisky. He also happened to have very little hair on his head.

Chapter Six

The sentry inside the dock gate stared out at us belligerently when our headlights illuminated his box. Eventually he came over and registered Davie's uniform. I held up my authorisation but he still wanted to check with his superior.

“Wait here,” he shouted after he put down the phone.

Davie edged forward till the Land-Rover's bumper was touching the gate then smiled humourlessly at his fellow guardsman. “Arsehole,” he said, turning to me.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Not you.” He scowled at me. “Though this is all your fault.”

Soon a pair of lights appeared deep inside the port area and came towards us.

“Looks like we're getting a welcoming committee,” I said. “Are they usually this touchy?”

“This is the Fisheries Guard base, Quint. You know how crazy those guys are.”

I nodded, remembering the time we'd taken a trip on a seriously rust-eaten hulk. Davie was right. The auxiliaries who get drafted into the Fisheries Guard are headbangers who are too fierce even for border duty. They're all male, of course. They man the small fleet of ex-trawlers that patrols the city's waters and intercepts hostile vessels, a Council euphemism for beating the crap out of smugglers and raiders from across the firth.

The lights inside the fenced compound came towards us at a hell of a rate.

“Jesus,” I said, getting ready to jump for it.

“I wonder if that's who I think it is,” Davie said.

I shaded my eyes from the dazzling white light and, after an excruciating delay, heard the screech of brakes.

A door opened and the lights were doused.

“Kill yours too,” shouted the driver. I recognised the heavy tones immediately.

Davie did as he was told then got out. I reckoned I was better off staying put.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Hiya, Harry,” Davie said. “I thought you'd be out killing raiders.”

My eyes got used to the dark and I watched as the bulky figure on the inside unchained the gate and pulled it open. It was Jamieson 369 all right.

“Davie, you mad bastard.” Harry punched him hard on the shoulder but kept on glaring at him. They'd been through the auxiliary training programme and had served together on the border but Harry didn't exactly look overjoyed to see him. He was even less pleased to see me.

“Fucking brilliant,” he groaned, coming over to my door. He was wearing a tattered cap, the peak half torn off. “Citizen Six Brains Dalrymple.” He bellowed a laugh that would have scared off a rutting stag. “Just the man I wanted to see.” He turned away. “Going into the dock lashed to an anchor.”

“I'm really pleased to see you too, Harry,” I called after him.

He looked back and gave me a malevolent grin. “Not for long you won't be.” He turned to Davie. “Since you've decided to honour us with a visit, I suppose you'd better come to the mess hall.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least we weren't going to the leaky wreck he commanded. As Harry's maroon pick-up pulled away in our lights, I made out the shafts of what looked like pick-axes and spades standing up in the back. The crossgrips at the top gave them the look of stunted, minimalist grave markers. Considering what had happened to Frankie Thomson, I felt they were very appropriate.

The crew mess wasn't much better than Fisheries Guard seagoing accommodation. It was at the end of a dilapidated dock building, the windows that still had panes in them flung open in the forlorn hope of attracting a cooling breeze. A sign bearing the unit's fish and heart emblem was hanging down over the entrance at one end. It quivered when Harry hit the door. Someone had drawn a harpoon through the heart, an act of unruliness that would have made Hamilton apoplectic. But, like all the guardians, he gave the Fisheries Guard a very wide berth.

Davie and I followed the big man inside. The mess was a three-dimensional pun vivant, sailors with legs in oil-stained overalls draped over the arms of armchairs that had spewed stuffing out of torn fabric. Everyone went quiet when we appeared.

Harry, his clothes even filthier than his men's, went straight to what passed for a bar – a table laden with beer and whisky bottles. “We've got company,” he shouted, pulling off his cap. “My good friend Davie from the castle – formerly of training squad J and border posts 12 and 16.” He tossed an unopened half-bottle of barracks malt in Davie's general direction. The crewmen roared in approval as he caught it. Then Harry looked at me. Since I'd last seen him he'd either lost his hair or started shaving his head. That made the large dent in his skull even more obvious. “And this is Quintilian Dalrymple. A Council investigator.” He spoke the words like they made his tongue smart. The room went quiet again. “Andy, see if we've got a sweet sherry for the citizen.”

There was a barrage of raucous laughter as the auxiliary minced out of the room. I let it die down before I went across to the table.

“I prefer the hard stuff,” I said, picking up the nearest bottle of whisky and raising it to my lips. The cheering started again and it was only after the fifth gulp that I realised what I'd done. Or rather, what I hadn't done. In my desperation to show I really was one of the boys, I'd completely forgotten to check the label.

After five minutes I began to calm down. Even though the whisky was called Salamander Pride and was a product of the Council distillery in Fountainbridge, it could still have been got at. But apart from the usual burning sensation that city whisky produces in your throat, I seemed to have survived. So I had another slug.

“Are you going to tell us what the fuck you're doing down here?” Dirty Harry demanded. He was still looking at me like I'd just crawled out of a septic tank.

I pointed at the table of bottles. “There's been a case of nicotine poisoning. A whisky called the Ultimate Usquebaugh. Were you not advised by the guard command centre?”

“I don't pay much attention to what those wankers say.” He grinned at Davie. A dark blue vein was pounding away on his misshapen skull. He'd taken a blow from a raider's crowbar years back. “Nicotine poisoning,” he repeated with a guffaw. “Pretty fucking good in a city where smoking's been banned for twenty years.” He glanced at me. “Someone dead?” His voice was suddenly more sombre.

I nodded. “A male citizen.”

The serious tone vanished. “So it was definitely his ultimate—”

“That's getting to be a bit of an old joke, Harry,” I interrupted, pulling a mock-up of the label from my pocket. “Ever seen this in the consignments you've seized from raiders or smugglers?”

He held it close to his face then shook his head. “No. It doesn't even look vaguely like any I've come across.” He gave me a macho grin. “And I've come across more illicit whisky labels than you've had hot dicks.”

His crewmen let out another roar.

“Any of you maniacs seen this?” Harry shouted, waving the label at them.

The roaring gradually died away.

“I'll take that as a no then, shall I?” I asked, retrieving the mock-up.

Now for the difficult bit. The Fisheries Guard commander had a shortage of hair and a reputation as one of the most violent men in the city. He also came across plenty of previously unknown whisky on the vessels he boarded. Could he be the mystery man that Frankie Thomson's neighbour saw and heard? Several things counted against that already, things I'd pushed to the back of my mind till I saw him in the flesh again. For a start, unlike the man in Bell Place, Dirty Harry was built like a Sewage Department outside lavvy. Also, his voice was as deep as a bull elephant's, baritone in triplicate. And the clincher was that, like all his crewmen, he had a thick beard.

I had to be sure. “Were you guys on patrol last night?” I asked, trying hard to make the question sound innocent. I failed.

Silence fell over the mess like a sodden blanket. All eyes were fixed on me, including Davie's. He was staring in disbelief, his lower jaw loose. The crewmen's faces were set hard, but Harry grinned and came over to me. Close up, I registered that his left eye was glassy and immobile and remembered that the first time I met him he was wearing an eye patch. Apparently the Medical Directorate had found a false eye that fitted the cavity left by some no doubt long-dead assailant. Unfortunately it was green and the big man's other eye was brown.

“Is that an official question, citizen?” Dirty Harry asked, pronouncing my rank like it was a disease of the bowel. “Or are you just being sociable?”

“Sociable?” I laughed nervously and glanced at Davie. He was shaking his head hopelessly. “Just answer the question, Harry,” I said, hardening my tone.

The big man stared down at me, the vein pulsing hard in his skull. He raised his hands and flexed the fingers in front of my face. The skin was deeply stained by oil and the fingernails were full of some dark-coloured earthy muck. For several very long moments I thought I was dead meat. Then he laughed loudly.

“Aye, citizen, we were on patrol.” His good eye didn't shift off me. “All of us. Got the logs to prove it if you want.”

I held his gaze then nodded. “I'll take your word for it.” The tension in the room began to slacken as soon as I said that. I felt an even greater stickiness in my armpits than normal during the Big Heat. “Time to go, Davie,” I said, making for the door.

Dirty Harry suddenly appeared in front of me, moving much faster than I imagined he could.

“No, citizen. Time to drink.” He gave me a leer to tell me that refusing the invitation would be an even worse decision than checking his movements. “We auxiliaries may not be allowed to do the lottery like ordinary citizens but we still get our hands on better booze than the winners are given. And since our masters and mistresses decided to cut back on patrol time to save fuel costs last spring, we're on for a heavy session more nights than not, aren't we, boys?”

The piratical mob yelled and whistled its agreement. I wasn't aware that the Fisheries Guard's activities had been curtailed. The Council had probably run short of ammunition to supply them with. After the land-based drugs gangs were driven out of the city years ago, Harry's guys were the only auxiliary unit authorised to carry firearms apart from the guards on the city line and border posts.

He led me back to the table.

“Right then, how many have we got?” He started counting the different brands in front of him. One of them was Braes of Oblivion so it was pretty clear who'd brought that into the city. “You're in luck, citizen. Only seventeen.” He grinned. “That'll mean doubles.”

I looked at the bottles. At least six of them were unopened. It was going to be a worrying night whether or not there was any nicotine around. Either way, oblivion was definitely on the cards.

I woke up on the floor of the mess hall, my mouth open and a pool of dribble next to it on the threadbare carpet. I thought I'd pulled off the great escape till I moved my head.

“Look at it this way, Quint. At least you're alive.” Davie was sitting on one of the ruptured sofas, the skin above his beard pale but his voice jaunty. His capacity for drink never failed to amaze me.

I had my hand over my eyes as the sun was streaming in the unshuttered windows. “Where is everyone?”

“Don't ask me. They were gone when I woke up. Playing with their toy boats probably.”

I staggered out of the building and took refuge from the sun in the Land-Rover. On the way out of the port area we saw no sign of the crews, though their boats were tied up in the Enlightenment Dock.

“Where to?” Davie asked as he waited for the gate to be opened.

“Pull up outside while I make some calls.”

I spoke to Hamilton, who wanted to know why the hell I hadn't been answering my mobile. Not that he had anything spectacular to report. There had been no other bottles of the ultimate magic found, no traces of nicotine in the whiskies tested and nobody admitted to the infirmary with symptoms that could have resulted from poisoning. I told him no news was good news and signed off. Then I tried to get hold of Sophia. An auxiliary told me she was resting so I didn't disturb her – just wondered for a few moments if she'd been looking for me. And if she'd missed me like I would have missed her if I hadn't been forced to get shit-faced.

Davie was peering at me. “Where to then, Quint? I want my breakfast.”

I examined my watch. It was smeared with something that looked like it had come from deep inside my body. Eight o'clock. My old man's retirement home in Trinity wasn't far away. I told Davie to head there and got a sour look.

“The food's terrible in that place.”

“Oh, you've eaten there before, have you, guardsman?”