Body Politic Read online

  The commander stood back at last and let me into the windowless room. Then I waited till he’d locked me in. No doubt he’d be haring back to his office to call Hamilton.

  Now for the ENT Man’s brother. I pulled Scott 391’s file, relieved to find that the thick maroon folder hadn’t yet been sent to the central archive. The barracks are reluctant to hand over information on their people, even to other auxiliaries. So I sat down and learned all about the dead guardsman.

  Or rather, tried to fill in the gaps. Auxiliaries have to write a Personal Evaluation at the start of the training programme. Scott 391’s was remarkable because of the complete lack of reference to his older brother. He went on at some length about his parents, who were lawyers and strong supporters of the Enlightenment; he described his feelings about several schoolfriends and filled three pages about a girlfriend; he even wrote about the family house in Trinity and what he got up to as a kid in the area. But about his brother Stewart, not a word.

  I went on through the file, tracing the guardsman’s life through school, where he was particularly good at biology, to tours of duty on the border after he’d finished auxiliary training, to community service in Leith. He seemed like a conscientious enough guy, without much imagination. He fitted in well. It seemed pretty clear that he’d had no contact at all with his brother since the beginning of the Enlightenment, unless he’d been very clever about it. Auxiliaries get very little free time and they have to ask permission to move outside barracks areas – which, of course, would be recorded in the file. Gordon Oliver Dunbar spent most of his time off pumping iron in the barracks gym or writing seriously dull papers on Plato for the debating society. Then I got to the section about his sexual activities.

  I felt a bit guilty. I always do when I go through other people’s files. The problem is, I like it. I get a kind of vicarious pleasure from witnessing other lives, the successes and failures, the dreams and unachieved ambitions. No doubt voyeurs get the same rush.

  My subject was definitely hetero. All his sessions were spent with female auxiliaries. I took a note of the numbers for the last couple of years, as well as those of his friends – not that they’re described as such in Enlightenment-speak. His “close colleagues” amounted to eighteen barracks numbers. Either he was a liar or he was distinctly popular. It would take hours to go through all their files and, anyway, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. The poor sod had died before the first murder.

  I went on to the end of Scott 391’s file, turning the pages with rapidly decreasing interest. Then I got to the end and sat up like I’d been jabbed with a picador’s lance. I tore out the memo that had been stapled in last and hammered on the door for it to be opened.

  Scott Barracks is less than two hundred yards from the crematorium that serves the northern half of the city. The night the coffin containing the ENT Man’s brother was delivered, something very unusual had happened there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I PARKED THE Transit outside the low brick building. The sign said that services, secular of course, were held only in the afternoons. Judging by the state of the place, I reckoned that the mornings were devoted to maintenance and cleaning. The Council had obviously shied away from rebuilding the dilapidated facility.

  A thin, balding man with yellowish skin appeared on the steps. He rubbed his hands nervously and came over to the van. “Are you wanting to work in the gardens?” he asked, peering at the Parks Department sticker. “Only, they usually come on a Monday.”

  I jumped down and showed him my “ask no questions”. His lack of beard and uniform showed he wasn’t an auxiliary so there was no need to let him know my identity.

  “Em, I hope there’s no dissatisfaction with my work,” the official said warily. “I’ve always followed the Council’s instructions to the letter.”

  I shook my head. “There have been no complaints. You are . . .?”

  “Douglas Haigh,” he said, thumbs on the seams of his worn grey trousers and the upper part of his body bending forward like a heron following a fish. “Haigh with ‘g-h’,” he added. “I’ve been here for thirty years. How may I help you?”

  “I need to see your records, citizen.” I stepped away from him and into the building. I didn’t fancy his cadaverous appearance much. It looked like devotion to his work had kept him in a job that would normally be an auxiliary’s.

  “My records? Certainly.” Haigh overtook me and headed down the corridor with long strides. “What precisely do you want to know?” He had started rubbing his hands together again.

  “You sent a memo to Scott Barracks on 8 March. It was a Sunday . . .”

  “I work seven days a week,” he put in.

  “What a surprise,” I said under my breath, pulling the sheet of paper from my pocket. “‘I wish to point out that Scott 477, the sentry on duty on the night of 7-8.3.2020, was guilty of several serious breaches of procedure. One, he . . .’”

  “My word, yes. I remember that night very clearly.” He led me into a small office set back from the passageway that was echoing from our footsteps.

  “You were here during the night?” That sounded promising.

  Haigh sat down in an ancient chair that he had bound together with plastic-covered wire and motioned me to the other even more rickety seat. “Indeed I was.” He gave a brief, thin-lipped smile. “I don’t like the flat I was assigned. Saturday nights are quiet here. There are usually no deliveries. But there was one that night.” The joints of his fingers cracked. “And a very curious one it was too.”

  I leaned forward. “Why was that?”

  “Well, first of all, the documentation was incomplete. If I hadn’t happened to be here when the delivery was made, I would have had a terrible job chasing up the missing information.”

  “What exactly was missing, citizen?”

  Haigh cleared his throat like a professor about to start a lecture. “The Consignment of Human Remains form must show the barracks numbers of the auxiliary who approves release from the hospital or wherever the death was registered. It must also show the number of the guardsman or woman who accompanies the coffin and the name of the civilian driver.” He spread his arms dramatically. “In this case, none of them was filled in.”

  I suddenly realised that the old ghoul was about to give me something precious. That was what prevented me from grabbing the desiccated bureaucrat by the throat to speed things up.

  Haigh turned quickly to the grey metal cabinets behind him and produced a folder. He must have seen the look on my face.

  “I took down the guardswoman’s and the driver’s details,” he said proudly. “And I even succeeded in obtaining the nursing auxiliary’s number.”

  I snatched the file from him. The top page was a mass of boxes and numbers, some filled in, others ticked or crossed out. It was what I found at the bottom that made me whistle. The dead guardsman had been logged out of the infirmary by Yellowlees’s girlfriend, Simpson 134. The guardswoman accompanying the coffin was Sarah Spence, the murder victim we found first. After that, I wasn’t too surprised to see Rory Baillie’s name in the box marked “Driver”. But what the hell did it all mean?

  “Anyway,” Haigh continued, “after the coffin was brought in, I went off home, thinking that was enough disorder for one night.”

  The memo I’d taken from the barracks was making sense now. “And when you came back in the morning, you found all the screws on the coffin loose and the documents strewn across the floor.”

  “Quite so.” He shook his head. “The sentry must have had a look at the body. After all, he was in the same barracks.” Now he was rubbing his hands like Lady Macbeth on speed. “I wonder if that’s what drove him to kill himself.”

  “What?” I looked up in astonishment. “The sentry committed suicide?”

  Haigh’s face turned even paler. “Oh, I . . . I assumed you knew about that. I . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”

  The constitution is firm about suicide. People who kill them
selves become non-citizens without any memorial. No one, not even family and friends, is allowed to talk about them. The rules are even stricter when it comes to auxiliaries. No wonder Haigh was worried.

  “I’m s . . . sorry,” he stuttered. “I heard it from one of the sentries last week. I . . . promise I won’t . . .”

  I raised my hand. “It’s all right, citizen. You’ve been a great help.” As I left his office I saw a self-satisfied smile creep across the parchment of his face.

  The commander of Scott Barracks looked up wearily when I burst back into his office.

  “You had a suicide here recently,” I said.

  That seemed to bring him even nearer to the end of his tether. “Scott 477,” he said in a faint voice. “It was a great shock. The barracks hasn’t been the same since.”

  Now I understood the atmosphere of the place. “When did it happen?”

  “A week ago today – 25 March.”

  I checked the barracks number in my notebook. “Scott 477 was a ‘close colleague’ of Scott 391, the guardsman who was killed on the border.”

  The commander nodded. “He was. And he was very down about his death. But . . . but he wasn’t suicidal. I spoke to him at some length after I received the memo from the crematorium manager.” He shook his head slowly. “There was something else. Something happened afterwards.”

  I thought about the date: 25 March. The news of Rory Baillie’s murder had been made public by then. Could there be a connection? Something else struck me.

  “How did Scott 477 commit suicide?”

  There was a flash of hostility at my question in the commander’s eyes. “He hanged himself, if you must know. In the storeroom.”

  I nodded. “I’ll need to see his file. You can have it brought to me here.”

  Before it arrived, my mobile buzzed.

  “It’s Davie, Quint. Where are you? Billy Geddes has just left the Finance Directorate. He’s heading down the Mound on foot.”

  “Keep on his tail. He can’t be going far if he’s walking.”

  “Quint, he looks pretty bloody keen. I smell big money. Are you coming?”

  Did the former king have a predilection for feminine sanitary goods?

  Davie, dressed as a labourer, was standing on the concrete path above the racetrack at the west end of Princes Street Gardens. Below, preparations were under way for the twelve o’clock race. Grooms were parading horses around the enclosure and large crowds of tourists were clustered around the Finance Directorate’s betting booths.

  “Where’s our man?” I asked as I joined him.

  Davie pointed to one of the refreshment stalls. There were fewer people there in the minutes leading up to the off. Billy was very conspicuous, the only man wearing a suit and an open camel-hair coat. He checked the time and looked around anxiously.

  “He’s waiting for someone,” Davie said.

  “You’ll make an investigator yet.”

  “Here we go. Who’s this then?”

  I recognised the dark-haired figure in the tan leather jacket immediately. It was Papazoglou, looking even more shifty than he had in the museum. One hand was stuffed into his pocket and the other held a briefcase that he seemed to be very attached to – he kept it tight against his leg. The two of them met and exchanged a few words. Then the Greek handed over the briefcase.

  “What now?” asked Davie.

  They separated, Papazoglou heading towards the Mound and Billy to the right. Suddenly Billy stopped, turned back as if he’d forgotten something – and saw me. He stood stock still for a few seconds, his face inscrutable, then kept going in his original direction.

  “Fucking hell. Call the guard on the exit over there and get the gate locked. I think it’s time to pull the plug on Heriot 07’s deals.”

  Davie spoke rapidly into his mobile then signed off. “Done.”

  The voice of the race announcer boomed out from speakers hung on trees and lampposts. There was a rush of bodies towards the fence alongside the track. Billy was caught in the crowd.

  “Christ, we’ll lose him,” said Davie.

  “You cover the left.” I ran down the slope.

  “I can’t stand horse-racing,” he shouted as he followed me.

  The six horses were in the stalls by the time I reached the concourse in front of the track. The spectators fell silent and the chimes of the clocks in the vicinity started to ring out.

  Then I caught sight of Billy. He was pushing his way along the white rail, oblivious to the abuse from tourists he was banging into. The tolling of the bells seemed to rise to a crescendo and I realised what he was going to do.

  “No, Billy, no!” Then I flinched as the gates of the stalls crashed open.

  Billy had ducked under the fence and started to run across the track. He must have thought he could reach the upper exit. He didn’t stand a chance. In an instant the horses were on him. Spectators screamed as his body was bundled up like a ball of rags and kicked around the turf by a blur of hooves.

  “No, Billy, for fuck’s sake, no,” I heard myself repeating. People got out of the way as they turned away from the track. The announcer was keeping quiet and all that could be heard now was the pounding of hooves further down the gardens as the jockeys tried to rein in their mounts.

  The first thing I came to on the closely cut grass was the briefcase Billy had received from the Greek. It had been knocked open but none of the banknotes from the large number of wads in it had slipped out. The crowd hadn’t even noticed the money. I closed the case and left it where it was, then ran over to where Billy lay. He was still crumpled in a ball, only his left arm extended. The forearm was bent back from the elbow at an angle that was all wrong. His face was pressed into the ground, the single eye that was visible half open and glazed.

  Kneeling down beside him, I felt for a pulse. “Why, Billy?” I mumbled. “Why? Couldn’t you see it was hopeless?” I knew he couldn’t hear me.

  Davie ran up. “They’ve got his contact at the Mound gate.” He bent down. “Is he dead?”

  I looked up at him in amazement. “No, he isn’t. There’s a pulse, would you believe?” I pulled off my jacket and laid it over the battered body.

  “There’s an ambulance on its way.”

  I stood up slowly. “They’d better be quick.”

  “Why did he make a break? There wasn’t anywhere for him to go.”

  “I don’t know. Panic, the survival instinct.” I went back to the briefcase. “One thing’s for sure. There’s a hell of a lot of money involved.”

  The ambulance drew up, siren blaring. There was a guard vehicle behind it. Hamilton jumped down and ducked under the fence.

  “What happened here?” he asked, peering at Heriot 07.

  “The deputy finance guardian may well have made his last transaction,” I said slowly.

  The medics lifted Billy carefully on to a stretcher and moved him towards their vehicle.

  Hamilton was glaring at me. “Have you had Heriot 07 under surveillance?”

  I turned away. “He was the long shot,” I said over my shoulder. “Pick up the money, guardian. It belongs to the city.”

  I watched the ambulance drive away.

  “This is all foreign currency,” Hamilton said. “Where did it come from?”

  “Heriot 07’s been selling the city’s assets,” I said. “Come on. Let’s see what the medical guardian thinks. I’m sure he’ll be keen to treat Billy personally.”

  Robert Yellowlees finished drying his hands at the basin in his office and turned to face us.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, shaking his head. “Most of his ribs are broken, one lung is punctured, his left elbow is shattered, his skull’s cracked in two places – and he’s still alive.”

  I wondered how important that was to Yellowlees. “How long will he be unconscious?”

  The medical guardian shrugged. “Who knows? The brain scan showed remarkably little damage. He may well regain consciousness s
oon.” He didn’t sound very optimistic. “You want to question him, I suppose.”

  Bloody right I do, I said to myself.

  “He hasn’t got some connection with the murderer, has he?” Yellowlees narrowed his eyes. “With the bastard who killed Margaret?”

  I watched him as he walked round his desk. His normally steady surgeon’s hands were trembling. Again I wondered what he knew about Billy’s activities.

  “We’ll need to keep a close guard on Heriot 07,” I said, turning to Hamilton. “Davie – I mean Hume 253 – will supervise. He’ll need a couple of experienced squads.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Hamilton came up to me. “Still nothing on your father, I’m afraid.” He went out.

  Before I could say what I wanted to Yellowlees, my mobile went off. I moved away when I heard Katharine’s voice. “I’m in conference,” I said.

  “Got you. I’ll do the talking. I can’t speak for long anyway. Patsy Cameron’s on the move. On foot. I’ll shadow her.”

  I looked round at the medical guardian. He was watching me, making no attempt to disguise his interest. “Are you sure you can handle it? The subject may have some unpleasant friends.”

  “I’ll be all right. Don’t call me in case I’m close to her.”

  “Don’t take any independent action,” I said, realising before I’d finished that she’d rung off.

  “What was that all about?” Yellowlees asked.

  I ignored the question. “I need your help, guardian,” I said, walking up to the desk. “There’s a medical file I want.” His face remained impassive. “An auxiliary who was killed on the border a few weeks ago. Scott 391.” Unless the file had been doctored, it might give me an idea of what the sentry saw when he opened the coffin in the crematorium.