Water of Death (28 page)

I flashed my authorisation at the sentry on the door and pushed through the scrum of craftsmen and women in the hall. A guy putting a last coat of paint on the staircase's ornate iron railings watched me approach.

“Do you know where Agnes Kennedy's working?” I asked.

The decorator gave me the suspicious look ordinary citizens reserve for members of their rank they suspect are actually undercover operatives.

“Who wants to know?” he demanded, licking his thin lips. The specks of paint on his face made him look like he was suffering from a terminal attack of blackheads.

“A friend,” I replied.

He laughed humourlessly. “Our Agnes doesn't have many friends, pal.” Then he gave me a smile I couldn't quite fathom. “Good luck to you. She's up there.” He swung his arm up, flicking black dots on to my T-shirt.

I looked up to where he was pointing. “Bloody hell.”

The citizen laughed. “Aye, you need guts to do her job.”

I started to climb the stairs, craning up at the glass cupola three floors above. An elaborate system of ropes had been strung beneath it, from which a harness was hanging precariously. I felt my stomach somersault. I'd rather dig turnips for a month on a city farm than dangle from a contraption like that. Even when I got to the third floor Agnes was about fifteen feet above me, her body out in the middle of the stairwell. She was painting the convex frame of the cupola, her face set in an expression of complete concentration. She had on her usual workclothes, the mauve scarf tied round her neck and her head covered by a paint-spattered cap.

“Agnes,” I called, not too loudly. I didn't want to provoke any sudden movements.

It seemed to take a few seconds for my voice to get through to her. Then she swivelled her head slowly and stared down at me. “Citizen Dalrymple,” she said without emotion. “What a surprise.”

“I told you before, call me Quint,” I said. “Can you come down?”

She gave a hollow laugh. “You must be joking. Have you any idea how long it takes the gang to get me up here?”

“I need to talk to you. It's important.”

“So talk.” Agnes took her eyes off me and went back to her work.

I glanced round and saw a pair of male and female citizens fitting a door further down the corridor. They seemed to be the only others nearby. I showed them my authorisation and asked them to go downstairs for ten minutes. They looked pleased to get an unexpected break but pissed off that they'd miss my conversation with Agnes.

When they'd gone I went back to the stairwell and leaned towards her. Despite the heavy railing, my gut started to complain volubly.

“Agnes, what really happened last night?”

She stared at me, on her guard immediately. “What do you mean?”

“Don't mess about. I know who came to your place. I know who sent the nursing auxiliary away. Why did you tell me she got a call?”

Agnes took her gaze off me. She wiped her brush carefully on the rim of the paintpot and put it in her pocket. “Are you sure that's important, citizen?”

“Of course it's important,” I shouted, annoyed by her reluctance to answer my question and by her refusal to use my name.

Her eyes met mine. “I'm sorry to disappoint you but there's no great mystery.”

“How about letting me be the judge of that?” I said, making the mistake of looking down. What little was inside my stomach went trampolining.

“Allie asked me not to say that Nasmyth 05 had been there,” she said with a shrug. “He said it wouldn't look good for a senior auxiliary to be seen in a citizen flat.”

She was right there. Segregation rules bar auxiliaries of the fat man's seniority from visiting ordinary citizens' homes except on official business. I didn't buy what Nasmyth 05 said about taking care of lottery-winners. That didn't extend to taking care of lottery-winners' families after lottery-winners were dead.

“What did Nasmyth 05 want?” I demanded.

This time Agnes's eyes shifted away. “He's  . . . he's got quite friendly with Allie.”

I watched her as she took her paintbrush out again and examined the bristles closely. According to their files, Nasmyth 05 and Alexander Kennedy were both registered as homos. Was that what this was all about? The fat man having a bit of illicit sex?

“What went on when Nasmyth 05 was at your flat, Agnes?” I asked.

“I wasn't there all the time,” she answered, sticking her brush in the paint again. That squared with what the nurse said about Agnes visiting the neighbours, but how long would that have lasted?

“What went on?” I repeated. There was no way I was letting her off the hook, even if her brother's activities embarrassed her.

She ran her brush along a casing then shot an annoyed glance down at me. “They were in Allie's room.”

“When did the auxiliary leave?” I asked.

“I was in bed. I suppose it was about midnight.”

There had been no report of the fat man leaving the tenement from the undercover operatives who were on the lookout for Allie. I'd have to check that.

“What's the problem?” Agnes said. “It's not Allie's fault that the auxiliary likes him.”

That was true enough. Someone as senior as the Edlott controller could make life very difficult for an ordinary citizen who rejected him. Not that it sounded like Alexander Kennedy had done that. There was something dubious about their relationship, especially considering that his father, who was Nasmyth 05's original link with the family, had been poisoned to death.

“Can I get on with my work now, citizen?” Agnes asked in a long-suffering voice. “We're supposed to be out of here in two days.”

“Thanks for your help, Agnes,” I said. “Will you do something for me?”

She gave me a suspicious look.

“Will you let me know immediately if Nasmyth 05 shows up again? I'll leave my mobile number down here.”

“All right. Goodbye.” She dismissed me with a vacant look like a shop assistant in pre-Enlightenment times who'd just completed a sale.

I wrote my number on a scrap of paper and stuck it in the scroll of a railing. Then I returned to ground level, much to the approval of my internal organs.

I walked out into the blazing sunlight and immediately felt in need of water. Fortunately there was a mobile drinking station for the workers outside the building. I joined the queue but before I got to the front my mobile rang, provoking distrustful looks from the citizens around me.

“Is that you, Dalrymple?” Hamilton said, puzzled when I didn't answer with my name.

“It is. What's the problem?”

“I'm not broadcasting any details on air but you can take my word that ‘problem' is an understatement. Try disaster.”

“Great.” I pulled out of the water queue.

“Where are you, man?”

I told him.

“Good, you're not far away. I'll be there in a couple of minutes.”

I stood at the street corner, watching the lucky bastards who had the time and inclination to drink. I'd completely lost interest in wetting my throat. I was pretty sure Lewis's problem that was really a disaster had more than a passing connection with the fluid in the mobile drinking station.

The public order guardian's Jeep pulled up, brakes screeching. I jumped in.

“What's the story, Lewis?”

“An emergency Council meeting's been called. We've had a communication from the lunatics behind the poisonings.” Hamilton drove away from the kerb, took a right turn that sent me crashing into him then accelerated down the Pleasance.

“A communication?” I said as I struggled to put my seatbelt on.

“The buggers had the nerve to put a letter into the Direct Access box at the Council building.”

I didn't manage to suppress a laugh. Someone knew exactly how to get to the guardians, both literally and metaphorically. The Direct Access box was set up by them a year back as a way for citizens to bring their problems to the Council's attention without involving the City Guard or any other layer of the bureaucracy. Confidentiality was guaranteed, although some of the guardians – including Hamilton, I heard – had wanted to put the box under permanent surveillance so they could identify the senders of anonymous messages. The new, user-friendly Council had voted against that and located the box round the corner from the entrance to the Council building. So whoever was behind the killings had found the perfect way to get in touch and the perfect way to shout “Can't catch me!”

“Shit,” I said.

The guardian swerved on to Holyrood Road and headed towards the former parliament building. “What is it?” he demanded.

“I wish we'd put a surveillance camera on the box,” I said. “It was the obvious way for the killers to get a message through without risk and with a guaranteed quick response.” The Council had made a pledge to citizens that the DA box would be emptied every half-hour and urgent messages passed to the relevant guardian immediately.

“I'm amazed, Citizen Dalrymple,” Hamilton said as he turned into the Council yard. “I thought you were in favour of increased citizen rights.”

“Not for serial poisoners,” I said, pushing the door open. “Anyway, what makes you think ordinary citizens are behind this? Personally I'm more inclined to suspect auxiliaries.”

His reply was lost in the babble from a herd of nervous guardians on the steps outside the Council chamber. The upturned boat design of the building seemed very appropriate – as far as the investigation was going, we were flailing around in the water without the benefit of life jackets.

Sophia was already in the senior guardian's chair, her white blouse showing signs of wear and her hair untidy. She didn't favour me with an acknowledgement. She ran her eyes wearily round her colleagues then signalled to the doorman to shut us in. I wasn't surprised to note that the citizen members were again absent. They were no doubt being fobbed off with an extended stay in one of the city's top tourist hotels – full eating, drinking and screwing privileges thrown in to shut them up.

“This emergency meeting will come to order.” The moment she started speaking, Sophia shrugged off every sign of tiredness and become the model leader. That's what power can do for you. “No doubt you are all aware why it has been called.” In between her sentences there was total silence in the chamber. Despite – or perhaps because of – the senior guardian's authority, several of her colleagues looked out of their depth. They reminded me of auxiliary trainees after a showing of the documentary film
Mob Rule, London 2003
, which is used to weed out the faint-hearted.

“Public order guardian?” Sophia said icily.

Lewis Hamilton wasn't bewildered; he was in his element. He stood up and brandished a clear plastic folder containing a sheet of A4 paper. “This was found in the Direct Access box at two o'clock this afternoon. It was in an envelope bearing the words ‘Council. Urgent'.” He held up another plastic folder. From where I was sitting the contents looked like a standard-issue envelope made of greyish low-quality paper. “The writing is the copperplate taught in the city's schools, executed with a nib and the blue ink obtainable in any Supply Directorate outlet.”

“What does it say, guardian?” I asked impatiently.

“I'm coming to that, Dalrymple.” There was no hurrying Hamilton when he had the floor.

“Come to it now, please,” Sophia said from her throne.

Red patches appeared on Lewis's cheeks. “Very well. The message reads:

Council members, this is not a hoax. We are the purveyors of the Ultimate Usquebaugh. We are responsible for the deaths of Francis Dee Thomson at the Colonies and Fordyce Bulloch Kennedy at Murrayfield. We also put nicotine in three kettles in the retirement home at Trinity. You know what we can do. Imagine how easy it is for us to poison the water supply. We can kill hundreds of citizens. Hundreds of tourists. But we're not unreasonable. We're willing to do business. Fly the Enlightenment flag on the castle at half-mast at seven o'clock tonight to show you're ready to negotiate. This is your ultimate ultimatum.”

Jesus, we were being terrorised by a bunch of comedians. At least I thought so. The Council members were sitting round the chamber with doleful expressions on their faces. Humour had never been their field of expertise.

“Citizen Dalrymple,” Sophia said, “What do you make of this?”

I went over to Lewis Hamilton and took the plastic folders from him. “Any prints?”

He shook his head. What a surprise.

I scrutinised the writing. True enough, it was the standard copperplate that the original Council imposed on all the city's schools. It may have been good for social engineering but it was hopeless if you were trying to trace anyone. Still, it did suggest that the writer was a local, as did the use of Supply Directorate writing materials. The word “we” implied there was more than one of them. I made those points to the guardians.

“You mean we have spawned a group of mass poisoners in the city?” the culture guardian asked, a shocked look on his face.

“There's no shortage of dissidents who grew up in Edinburgh and took exception to the Council for one reason or another.” I thought of Katharine as soon as the words left my mouth and twitched my head to expel the idea.

“Their background is hardly the point. How are we going to catch these madmen?” Hamilton said, managing to put his directorate's collective foot in a heap of elephant dung.

“Quite,” Sophia said, zeroing in on him. “How are you going to catch them, guardian?”

I intervened before Lewis made a complete idiot of himself. “Let's concentrate on the message. What does it tell us? First, the writer and his or her associates have direct knowledge of the murders. None of the details given about the victims, locations and poison used have been made public. Second, they know enough about the set-up in Edinburgh to find a secure method of communicating with us. As the writing and the materials also suggest, at least one of them is a local. And third  . . .” I ran my eyes round the guardians to get their full attention “. . . and third, they have an agenda.”