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  “I was worried about him,” she went on. “He’s smart but he’s easily led. I think he might be taking too many chances.”

  “And you’re going to look after him, are you?” I asked ironically. “Tell me, Katharine, why did you come to my place? You’d have saved us both a lot of trouble if you’d stayed out here.”

  She stared at me, then dropped her head. “You know what happened to the farm, Quint. I had nowhere else to go.”

  “So you decided to walk in on me three years after walking out on me. How kind.”

  “Stop it,” she said angrily. “Stop it, Quint. I still care for you. I . . .” She crouched into herself and I realised how difficult it had been for her to say that. It was a lot more than I’d managed.

  “Have you been back to the mill?” I asked in a softer voice.

  She shook her head, still keeping it bent. “I was waiting till it got dark.”

  “Shall we go and check it out together?”

  She looked up and gave me a surprisingly warm smile. “Yes. And then you’ll tell me about the whisky, all right, Quint?”

  I nodded then stood up, feeling the nerves in my legs tingling. It wasn’t the right moment to let her know that Davie was due to meet me upstream. The crows that had been haunting the vicinity all day exchanged their harsh cries again. I wasn’t sure whether they were mocking me for going along with Katharine’s story or railing at me for setting her up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As we approached the mill house, I could see no sign of Davie. He was obviously being a lot more fastidious in his search than I was, though the fact that he hadn’t contacted me on the mobile meant he’d drawn a blank. After meeting Katharine, I ignored everything else and headed straight for the semi-ruined building. It was two days since she’d been out here. I wondered if the stock of whisky was still buried in the mill. If we were lucky, we might even find its owners in residence. The prospect of catching Katharine’s ex-boyfriend drove me forward.

  The track veered towards the Water of Leith and I could hear its shallow stream trickling away behind a screen of dust-covered bushes to the right.

  Katharine stopped and sniffed the air. The crows were having a momentary break from choir practice. “Do you smell what I smell?” she asked, giving me a dubious glance.

  I breathed in and got a faint whiff of something sweet and sickly that immediately made the hairs on my neck rise. “Oh, oh.” I watched as an inky-black bird lifted off from the crumbling wall in a clearing ahead of us. “Carrion.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but is it animal or human?”

  I watched her as she started to move forward slowly. Was she spinning me a line? Did she already know what was in the mill? There was no way of telling. I was trusting her more than good sense advised and I should have got Davie over right away.

  “Come on,” she said, turning impatiently.

  I caught up with her and ran my eye over the place. Ivy was growing over the high walls of the old building. Most of the windows had been pulled out but there was one on ground level that still retained its panes. That was probably Katharine’s observation point. The ground in front of the mill house was overgrown apart from the pot-holed surface we were standing on. It looked like an idyllic scene from one of Walter Scott’s medieval poems where the knight brings his lady for a bit of courtly lovemaking, no tongues allowed – apart from the smell, which got higher as we approached the shattered doorframe.

  “See here,” Katharine said, pointing at the faded grass to our left. A piece of wood about three feet long was lying there. One end was partially crushed where a metal head such as a pick-axe had been attached. There was a dull brown coating of dried blood on it, as well as small pieces of greyish tissue. The comatose woman’s pounded face flew up before me again. She’d been found a quarter of a mile from here. It was beginning to look like she was the lucky one.

  I put my hand on Katharine’s arm. “I’ll go in first.”

  “You think I can’t take it,” she said angrily, her eyes flashing.

  “No, I know what you’ve seen in the past.” I was pulling on rubber gloves. “I just don’t want any potential evidence messed up. Stay here, okay?”

  She nodded grudgingly.

  I went in through the outer doorway and into a large open room – where I got, in quick succession, a couple of very nasty shocks. First, a gathering of black and dirt-grey crows flew up in a commotion of beating wings and alarmed shrieks, disappearing through a gaping hole in the roof high above. Then I saw what they’d been perching on and swallowed back what rose into my mouth. The birds hadn’t left us much to go on.

  “Jesus,” Katharine said from the door, catching her breath. “Is Peter here?”

  I motioned to her to stay where she was and kneeled down by the first body. The clothing had been torn apart by the crows’ sharp beaks, as had the skin. All the soft tissue and organs accessible from above had been lacerated and pecked – eyes, lips, liver and so on. The only obvious way to identify the corpse’s sex was by the stubble on what remained of the face. It was a man. I stepped over the reeking body to the next one. It was in a similar state, also lying on its back. Also male. And the same went for the third, although he was on his side, meaning that his left eye was still in situ. I turned the stiffened body round. Despite the post-mortem lividity, heavy bruising to the lower side of the face was visible. It was difficult to tell if there were stab wounds on the bodies as well as the marks of beating. I reckoned there were. Then I found something even more interesting. The man’s shirtsleeve was ripped. Underneath was a yellow mark, a tattooed number four. I checked the first two bodies. The skin on their arms was torn, but I made out signs of four that matched the one on the woman in the infirmary.

  “I’m coming in, Quint,” Katharine said, moving forward before I could stop her. She bent down and studied the first body. “Oh no,” she groaned, dropping to her knees. “Oh no.” She put her hand out to the lacerated face.

  “Don’t touch him!” I shouted. “Sorry. Here, put these on.” I handed her a pair of protective gloves. “Is it your . . . is it Peter Bryson?”

  She nodded slowly.

  I pointed to the yellow tattoo. “Have you ever noticed this before?”

  “No,” she said in a low voice.

  “Are you sure?”

  Katharine looked at me contemptuously. “Of course I’m sure. I saw him without his shirt often enough.”

  “Did you?” I said sharply. Her face tensed as she fought back tears. “Sorry.”

  “Who did this?” she whispered. Her face had lost its healthy hue and her voice was unsteady.

  “I’d say there was more than one assailant. It looks like these guys were wiped out before they could fight back.” There was no sign of defence wounds on their hands or arms so I reckoned they’d been taken by surprise and clubbed mercilessly. I looked at the earth-covered floor. There were no clear footprints. “It’s almost like someone went over this surface with a branch to obscure any giveaway marks.”

  Katharine’s head jerked up. “Why would a gang of violent killers bother with that?”

  “Exactly.” I didn’t like the way this was going. But before I could take it any further, my mobile buzzed.

  “Quint? Davie. I’m finished on this side. Nothing’s turned up. How about you?”

  I leaped to my feet, remembering that Katharine shouldn’t be anywhere near a member of the guard. “No, nothing yet. Give me ten minutes.”

  “Right. Out.”

  I put my mobile back in my pocket and took Katharine’s arm. “That was Davie. He’ll be on this side of the river soon.”

  She slumped against me, her head on my shoulder. “I’d better go.”

  “Aye. It’s probably not a good idea if he finds you at a multiple-murder scene.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “No, the idiot would probably think I did it.”

  I raised her head. “He wouldn’t be the only one. Katharine, I’m taking a big chan
ce letting you walk.”

  She looked at me, her face hardening. “You don’t think I had anything to do with the killings, Quint?” She sounded seriously aggrieved.

  I examined the features that had appeared in my dreams so often in the past. Katharine’s high cheekbones were more prominent now that her face had become thinner and the green eyes were as unfathomable as ever. I tried to imagine how Sophia and Hamilton would judge her. They wouldn’t have bought her story about how she’d run into an old friend here and how she’d got the whisky. They’d assume she was in with the dead men or that she was involved in their deaths. Katharine had experienced all sorts of brutality as auxiliary, dissident, prisoner, Tourism Directorate prostitute and deserter; I’d seen her carry out a clinical killing myself. But she’d always been a victim reacting to violence rather than an instigator.

  “Well, do you suspect me?” she demanded.

  I shook my head. “No, Katharine. I trust you.”

  Her mouth slackened and she gave me a brief smile. “That’s big of you.”

  “You’re bloody right it is. I don’t think even my powers of persuasion could convince the Council that you’re in the clear. You were hanging around the murder scene on top of being in possession of poisoned whisky.”

  Her eyes opened wide. Shit, I’d forgotten she didn’t know what was in the Ultimate Usquebaugh. Or if she did, she was doing a brilliant impersonation of a woman who’d sat on a live cable.

  “What? There was poison in that whisky?” She turned towards the far corner. “It’s been dug up, Quint.”

  We stepped round the bodies. Earth and stones had been piled up, and three spirits cartons with torn lids were protruding from a roughly excavated hole.

  I looked round. “No bottles,” I said.

  “Quint?” Katharine said insistently. “Tell me about the whisky.”

  So I did. Her reactions were totally credible. She shook uncontrollably as she recounted how she’d almost opened a bottle to take a slug before she crossed the city line. Fortunately she’d decided she needed all her wits about her. That was a close one.

  “Did you hear these guys mention the whisky when you were outside?” I asked.

  “No. I told you, Quint. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. But I did wonder afterwards what they were doing with it in this area. I mean, most smugglers use the coastline or hide the stuff in loads of incoming farm produce.” She shook her head. “I was going to ask Peter about that.” She glanced back at his remains and swallowed hard.

  I put my arm round her. “Is there anything I should know about Peter Bryson, Katharine?”

  “Such as what?” she demanded, shaking herself free. “How good he was in bed?”

  “Calm down.” I touched her hand. “Such as why he left the city?”

  She looked at me less aggressively. “I don’t know, Quint. Why does anyone leave the city?”

  “Was he on the run? Did he have any criminal record or friends the guard knew about?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. He never spoke about the past.” She shrugged. “None of us did. We weren’t fans of the perfect city like you.”

  “Katharine, the whisky’s been used to murder people. Was Peter Bryson a killer?”

  “No!” she screamed. “No.” Her voice lowered as she thought about it. “I saw him kill intruders on the farm.” She raised her shoulders. “We all did. It was us or them.”

  That was a great help. “Davie’ll be here in a minute. What are you going to do?”

  She shrugged. “Go back into the city, I suppose.”

  “All right, but be careful.” I scribbled my mobile number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. “Ring me later. I’ll let you know when you’re in the clear. Don’t go anywhere near my flat.”

  She nodded then leaned forward and kissed me hard on the lips. “Don’t you go anywhere near that Ice Queen woman, Quint.” She moved towards the bushes without looking back.

  I rang Davie and told him where I was, then called the guard command centre. As I waited outside the ruined mill, I listened to the crows lamenting their lost meal from the branches of the surrounding trees.

  The place rapidly turned from deserted sylvan glade to guard vehicle parking lot. Hamilton and Sophia arrived neck and neck, the senior guardian’s Land-Rover just pipping Lewis’s Jeep to the bridge. I could see how impressed he was by that. Then there was a lot of crawling around and watching Sophia work out a provisional time of death, which coincided with the attack on the female dissident last night. She also found stab wounds on all three victims. I left the guardians and the scene-of-crime squad to sift the details while I scouted around the building. A search team would be doing that soon – not before time – but I was worried about the fact that the crates Katharine had pilfered from in the mill were now completely empty. Had we found the poisoners but lost the poisoned whisky?

  It didn’t take me long to find at least a partial answer to that question. About fifty yards past the mill, the path swings even closer to the Water of Leith. At first I thought there were some unusually shiny stones in the flow. Then I realised that what had caught my eye were shards of glass. I called Davie then stepped gingerly into the shallow stream. The water was surprisingly cold despite its shallowness and the tropical ambient temperature. I lost my balance more than once on the moss-covered stones and in the patches of sticky reddish-brown mud. Then I reached the remains of the first bottle. The neck had been broken off but the label was clear enough. At least these bottles of the Ultimate Usquebaugh had been rendered harmless.

  “What have you got?” Davie called from the bank.

  I looked across at him, holding up some of the larger pieces of glass. “Last orders, gentlemen, please,” I shouted. “This was the ultimate whisky and water.”

  An hour later we gathered outside the mill to compare notes. The chief toxicologist had arrived and taken possession of the fragmentary bottles that had been fished from the river. A couple had their lower parts intact and there were drops of amber liquid in them so he’d be able to confirm what the labels already made clear – that this was the poisoners’ base camp.

  Hamilton was wearing a self-satisfied smile. “A pretty good afternoon’s work, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, looking round at Sophia, Davie and me.

  “It’s far too early to jump to conclusions, guardian,” Sophia said, undoing her protective overalls and stepping nimbly out of them. She turned to me and gave me a look that was marginally less glacial than I’d been getting recently. Perhaps taking off her outer garments in front of me had revived a happy memory. “Citizen Dalrymple, what do you think?” she asked. We were still on last-name terms though.

  I rubbed the stubble on my chin, trying to get my story organised. I had to be careful not to make any mention of Katharine and what she’d told me. “Well, we’re making progress. The dead men were obviously involved in the poisonings. The bottles of the Ultimate Usquebaugh in the river show that pretty conclusively.”

  “And they were connected with the woman who’s still in a coma in the infirmary,” Sophia put in. “The tattoos on their arms confirm that.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s it then,” Hamilton said, rubbing his hands. “Three bodies here plus one in the infirmary equals four. The gang is well and truly broken up.”

  “Hold on, Lewis,” I said. I remembered Katharine’s uncertainty about whether there had been three or four men in the mill. “It’s not that simple.” I paused as a young guardsman came up and offered waterbottles. We all drank deeply. “As I was saying, it’s not that simple. For a start, who killed these guys? The same people who threw the whisky into the river?”

  The public order guardian was still smiling grimly. “I would guess that another gang of dissidents or smugglers disposed of them. Perhaps they strayed on to someone else’s patch.”

  “But why would smugglers destroy the whisky?” Davie was taking his life, or at least his career, in his hands by going up aga
inst his boss. “Surely they’d be more likely to peddle it or drink it themselves.”

  “Exactly,” I said, giving him some support. “And if they’d drunk it, we’d have found more bodies.”

  “Quite so.” Sophia looked dismissively at Hamilton. “The fact is, we cannot be sure all the poisoned whisky has been destroyed. There’s no way of telling how many bottles were in the cases to start with.”

  “And the scene-of-crime squad leader reckons that the glass in the river comes from seven or eight bottles,” Davie said, flipping pages in his notebook.

  “Right,” I said. “So there could be twenty or more from this cache still at large. And who’s to say there aren’t other caches?”

  Lewis was shaking his head but he didn’t have the nerve to argue with Sophia in public.

  “Anyway, there’s something else.” Three pairs of eyes focused on me. “The floor in the mill house has been swept. Even the earth around the hole in the corner has no clear prints. Probably branches were used. There are leaves all over the place.”

  “And what is the significance of that, Dalrymple?” Hamilton asked suspiciously.

  “The significance is that the killers didn’t want to leave any footprints we could trace.”

  Davie nodded. “They did a good job too. The squad haven’t found a single decent footprint. They’re still working on fingerprints but they haven’t found any yet. The pick-axe handle is clean. Whoever used that was wearing gloves.”

  “Where is this leading, citizen?” Sophia looked at me with her trademark coldness.

  “Well, dissidents and drugs gangs don’t give a shit about prints.” I glanced around them then went for the collective jugular. “But people wearing guard boots might.”

  For a few moments the only audible sounds were the hum of insects and the chatter of small birds. Presumably the crows had gone to find another source of nourishment.

  Sophia turned to Davie. “Leave us please, Hume 253.” She watched as he retreated to his vehicle then turned on me. “Be very careful, citizen,” she said icily. “Do you have any hard evidence that auxiliaries carried out this crime?”