Water of Death (32 page)

Hamilton swerved round a tight corner and joined the road that led to the city line. As we approached the high walls of the gatepost, the ground on either side levelled out. It had been bulldozed to give the guard personnel an unimpeded view – and a clear field of fire.

“Exactly,” the guardian said, shaking his head. “It's a possibility and nothing more. You're so obsessed by the idea of corruption in the system that you ignore other explanations. It's obvious that smugglers or drugs gangs are the most likely perpetrators.” He slowed as he approached the steel barrier but not much. Fortunately the sentry saw the look on his superior's face. He swung the gate open in time. “Anyway, don't you think the senior guardian's got enough on her plate without you badgering her with crazy ideas?”

“She can handle them,” I said, wondering if Lewis had any idea about my affair with Sophia. If he did, he wasn't showing it. Dissembling was never one of his strengths. I wanted to see if she would give any indication that she'd set the whole thing up as a means of increasing her power in the Council. It was a waste of time. She hadn't even blinked. I suppose Hamilton's hardline attitudes towards law and order should have made me suspect him too, but he was too straight to sign off on that kind of subtle conspiracy. I came back to the real world. “You agree now that it's a good idea to lower the flag?”

He nodded reluctantly. “I suppose so. You're right that someone else must have posted that ultimatum. It could just be a messenger who isn't in possession of any more bottles of poisoned whisky, of course.”

“You hope.” I looked out at the run-down suburbs around the slaughterhouses in Slateford. If the water supplies had to be restricted even more because of the threat of poisoning, it wouldn't be long before major unrest broke out. Citizens had already been deprived of whisky. You could hardly blame them if they rioted. Had that been part of the poisoners' plan?

Hamilton kept quiet as we headed towards the central zone, his mood no doubt improved by his rant at me. As we drove up George IVth Bridge towards the central archive, I thought of Ray and how jumpy he'd been the last time I saw him.

“Stop here!” I said.

Lewis jumped in his seat and braked hard. At least I was keeping him on his toes.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” he demanded.

“Something I need to check. I'll see you on the esplanade. Make sure your spotters are ready.” I slammed the Jeep door. “Not that we've got more than a billion-to-one chance of nailing our man. He's hardly likely to stand on a street corner proclaiming, ‘Oh, good, the nicotine poisonings have scared the Council into acceding to my demand,' is he?”

Hamilton grunted and drove on.

I went up to the fresh-faced sentry at the archive entrance and showed him my authorisation. “Is Nasmyth 67 in the building, guardsman?”

“As far as I know, citizen.” He looked down at the log. “He hasn't signed out.”

“Thanks.” I headed into the relative cool of the former library.

Ray's door was half open. I tapped on it then stuck my head round. No sign of him but it looked like he'd been there very recently. There were files open on his desk and a cup of iced tea was on the blotter. I turned towards the window and looked out at the street. The spot at the kerb where Lewis had pulled up was right outside and Ray would have seen me getting out if he'd been sitting at his desk. I wondered if he was avoiding me. I couldn't think of a reason why.

“Oh. Excuse me.” A middle-aged female archivist had appeared at the door. “I have a meeting with Nasmyth 67. Is he not here?”

I shook my head.

She looked at me dubiously through thick lenses in standard-issue Medical Directorate black frames. “I'll come back in a minute,” she said.

I went over to Ray's desk and had a look at the folders. They seemed to be nothing more than a heap of records that he was checking. He'd started a list headed “Citizens Qualifying for Additional Library Cards” – if you take out more than a hundred Council-approved books a year, you get improved access to the stacks. I couldn't see anything suspicious in that. Then as I moved away I noticed that the floor in the corner behind the desk was covered in a thickish layer of dust. I moved the chair away and kneeled down. The dust was slightly gritty and had a musty smell that I didn't recognise. I've spent long enough in the archives to get acquainted with all the various odours; this one was new to me. What had Ray put there and where had it gone? I knew it must have been moved recently as the floors of senior auxiliaries' offices are cleaned every day.

“What are you doing, citizen?” The short-sighted woman was back at the door. “Who are you?”

I flashed my card at her then went for the exit. There wasn't time to look for Ray now but I was pretty sure he was up to something he didn't want me to know about.

“Did you find him?” the guardsman asked as I passed.

I shook my head.

“I'll tell him you were looking for him,” he said, eager to please.

“No you won't. Unless you fancy a year digging coal.”

The look on his face suggested that wasn't one of his fondest ambitions.

I found Hamilton and Davie at the northern wall of the esplanade. They were both scanning Princes Street and the gardens with binoculars.

“Any interesting sunbathers?” I asked.

The public order guardian lowered his bins and looked at me sternly. “What have you been doing, Dalrymple? It's nearly time.”

I turned and gazed up at the black and white flag with the maroon heart that was moving sluggishly. Even at the top of the pole on the octagonal tower that's the castle's highest point there was hardly any wind. The sun was sinking gradually in the west but it was still hot enough to melt an ice floe. Which made me think of Sophia. I wondered where she was. Keeping up her close interest in the case by performing the post-mortems on the three dead men?

I looked down to the right. There was a lot of activity round the neoclassical temples that used to house Scotland's artistic treasures. These days the Culture Directorate uses the area around them to promote the lottery. Workmen were busy erecting mini-pavilions and stalls for the imminent official opening of Edlott to tourists that Billy Geddes had told me about. Advertisements for it had suddenly appeared on the hoardings. That would mean more foreign currency for the Council's coffers, though God knows what kind of prizes they were planning to attract their new well-heeled customers with. I had a feeling the lads and lassies in the Prostitution Services Department would soon be working double shifts.

“There it goes.” Hamilton was staring up at the flag, shaking his head slowly. “Bloody disgrace.”

“Calm down, Lewis,” I said, watching the banner of the Enlightenment drop several feet. “No one except our friend will notice.”

“Of course people will notice, man. Not everyone's as cynical as you.”

Davie was shaking his head in resignation. I gave him an encouraging smile.

We stood around for five minutes like a bunch of prophets waiting for the end of the world. We were as disappointed as them when nothing happened. There was no sign of anyone in our view even realising that the flag had been lowered.

The guardian looked at his watch and pulled out his mobile. “Right, that's enough. Raise the standard again.”

“How are you going to pull that off?” I said under my breath.

Hamilton missed that. He signed off and turned back to us. “What next?”

“We wait,” I said, shrugging. “It's the other guy's move now.”

“I've put a surveillance detail on the Direct Access box, Dalrymple.”

“I hope they don't mind wasting their time,” I said. “The chances of that channel of communication being used again are about as large as the chances of me winning the lottery.”

“All citizens have the same chance,” Hamilton said sarcastically, repeating one of Edlott's mantras. Even he didn't believe that the Culture Directorate went with whoever's ID number was tossed up by the draw. They only wanted worthy specimens like Fordyce Kennedy as winners.

“All citizens except troublemakers like me,” I said.

Davie grinned derisively. “Don't flatter yourself, Quint.”

An hour and a half went by and no contact was made. I went over to the infirmary to check on the post-mortems – nothing unexpected so far – then called up Peter Bryson's file in the directorate databank's Deserters Register. He was in it all right but there was nothing juicy to report. He'd been a cook in a school before he jumped the city line and there were no Offence Notifications against his name.

Davie and I took a break and went down to the castle canteen to refuel.

“What's on the cards then?” Davie asked after he'd disposed of what the serving woman described as a meat pie. She hadn't been too specific when I asked what kind of meat so I stuck with the cheese rolls.

“What's on the cards is I haven't a clue, my friend.” I emptied my glass and refilled it with barracks beer. “Either the messenger gets in touch again – in which case he's probably a full-blown gang member with his hands on the poisoned whisky – or we're in the clear.”

“What about the son of the second victim?”

“Allie Kennedy? Good question. I don't suppose there have been any sightings of him?”

Davie shook his head. “The command centre would have notified me.”

I looked round the soulless basement room. There was no one near us. “How about the undercover people on Nasmyth 05?” I asked quietly.

“The Edlott auxiliary? He's been in the Culture Directorate all day. I told them to contact me when he leaves.”

I nodded and drained my glass again.

“Quint?” Davie looked at me curiously. “You haven't asked about Katharine Kirkwood.”

“Ah.”

“What does ‘ah' mean, arsehole?” Davie growled. “Have you been in touch with her?”

“Em, kind of. Keep that to yourself.”

He glared at me then shook his head in disgust. He'd been doing a lot of that recently. “I hope you know what you're doing, pal. She's a suspect and—”

His mobile rang. Saved by the buzz.

“What?” Davie yelled. “You're in deep shit, son. Where are they now?” He listened. “Right. Hold on.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

“It's the undercover man on Nasmyth 05. Apparently the auxiliary left his office twenty minutes ago. He walked to the Grassmarket and went into a citizens' bar.”

I got up. “What are we waiting for?”

“There's more. He met up with someone. A young man with very short hair.”

“Jesus. Tell the operative to wait for us there.” I ran towards the door, knocking into a female auxiliary. “Why didn't the moron call us earlier?”

Davie caught up with me. “He said something about not wanting to bother us.”

I came out into the crimson glare left by the setting sun. “Wanting to make a name for himself, more like. Well, he's done that all right. If we lose Allie Kennedy now, the jackass won't be undercover any more. He'll be under the bloody ground.”

Chapter Fourteen

We screamed down the Royal Mile, went round the corner at the gallows on what seemed like two wheels and turned right on to Victoria Street. Tourists stood gawping as if we were part of the entertainment laid on for them.

“Which bar is it?” I asked Davie.

He leaned forward as he reached the bottom of the West Bow and weaved deftly through a detail of guardsmen dressed in seventeenth-century costume, their steel helmets and muskets attracting a bevy of Japanese with digital cameras. “Labourers” Bar Number 7,” he said. “Shit!” he added in a shout as a small black tourist girl jumped forward, waving a plastic Enlightenment flag her doting parents had been conned into buying.

“Number 7?” I groaned. “That's all I need.” When I was in the Parks Department after demotion, my squad of workers often used to go there for a couple of watery beers after our shift. Even five years on there was a good chance that some of the buggers would be there.

Davie stopped about thirty yards away from the bar. It was only two doors down from the Three Graces Club, one of the city's top nightclubs for loaded tourists, so the outside was well maintained. The black paint of the windowframes and the varnished wood panelling made the place look reasonably salubrious, but a gorilla in maroon dungarees was making sure no foreigners got further than the outer door.

“That's the undercover operative,” Davie said quietly as we got out, inclining his head towards a nondescript young man in Cleaning Department overalls to our left. He was sweeping behind the replica of Canova's three divine naturists, his grey cap poking out behind one of the rounded buttocks. At least he had a job with a view.

“I'm Dalrymple,” I said, leaning round the plaster statue's flank. “Is the target still inside?”