Body Politic Read online

  “Citizen Dalrymple.” The deputy senior guardian’s voice hadn’t changed in the five years since I last heard it. She must have been over seventy by now. When I was a kid, she was a frequent visitor to my parents’ house. She was the only university professor I ever met who found children more interesting than her subject – well, she was a sociologist. She also had a liking for vintage champagne. I wondered when she’d last sampled that. “It is some time since we last had the pleasure of seeing you,” she said drily.

  “I haven’t been counting the days, guardian.” Like all those who pass through the rank of auxiliary, the city guardians don’t use names. The roof would have come down if I’d addressed her as Edith.

  “I’m sure you haven’t. I think you know most of the Council members. Only my colleagues in the Medical and the Information Directorates are relatively new appointees.”

  I looked at the red-haired woman to her left, then at the improbably handsome man with the mane of silver-blond hair. His thin fingers formed an arch beneath his nose, giving him the appearance of a monk at prayer. The speaker was wrong. I knew Robert Yellowlees well enough. Before the Enlightenment he had played rugby for Scotland. After the party won the last election and took the city into independence, he worked as a surgeon. Later his research into neurology and endocrinology became known around the world, as journals I saw in the library confirmed. He could have jumped ship and worked anywhere, but he preferred to stay and move slowly up his directorate. He’d been in the pathology department when I was in the Public Order Directorate.

  I couldn’t avoid the unwavering glare of the figure sitting next to Yellowlees. While the other Council members had studied expressions of gravity on their faces, the public order guardian at least showed what he really felt – which was hatred of my guts.

  The deputy senior guardian glanced at the unoccupied chair in the centre of the horseshoe. “I’m afraid the senior guardian is again unable to attend the meeting due to illness.”

  First I felt relieved, then uneasy. I made myself ignore both emotions.

  “To the business in hand. Today’s meeting has been brought forward because of the murder that has been reported.” The speaker took a deep breath. “The murder of a female auxiliary right in the heart of the city.” She was unable to restrain a shiver. “This was an act of unspeakable barbarity.”

  “Can it really be the otolaryngologist after all this time?” Yellowlees, the medical guardian, looked at me quizzically. I remembered he used to refer to the Ear, Nose and Throat Man by the technical term.

  “It’s incredible. After all the work that’s been done to divert the urge to criminality . . .” The high-pitched voice trailed away. I looked at the bald head of the finance guardian which was glinting under the lights as he moved back and forwards animatedly. You’d have thought he’d be more concerned about the city’s tourist income, but deviant behaviour had always been one of his specialities. Though he’d been a well-known economics professor before the Enlightenment, in certain Edinburgh bars he was more famous for his pursuit of male undergraduates. Under the strict celibacy rules that guardians submit themselves to, the only person he’d have laid hands on recently would have been himself.

  “Quite so,” the deputy senior guardian acknowledged, sympathetic but eager to continue. “I will not go into the details of this atrocity as I do not wish to prejudice the opinion of citizen Dalrymple. He is to investigate and find the murderer.”

  So that was it. For a nasty moment I thought the Council was finally on to me, even though I’d disposed of the ENT Man’s body in a site I knew had never been disturbed. No matter how many times I told myself it was an accident, that he’d skewered himself on his own knife, I was responsible. I tried to strangle him like he strangled Caro. I wanted to kill the animal and that’s what counts.

  Hamilton, the public order guardian, shot to his feet, the iron line of his jaw visible even under his beard’s thick grey curls. “I object.”

  I can’t say I was surprised.

  “This matter comes under the jurisdiction of my directorate. Citizen Dalrymple . . .” He paused, then repeated my name like it tasted putrid. “Citizen Dalrymple chose to withdraw his services from the Council at a critical time – while, I might add, the Ear, Nose and Throat Man was still at large. If it is indeed the case that the killer has struck again, this citizen can be seen as responsible. He never completed his investigation.” The city’s chief policeman looked round his colleagues. “Besides, he has been working as a labourer in the city’s parks since then. What possible use can he—”

  “One moment, guardian.” The speaker interrupted him without raising her eyes from her papers. “There is to be no discussion about this. The senior guardian has sent a written directive.” She turned to him. “You will provide citizen Dalrymple with everything he needs to track down the murderer.” She looked around. “That applies to all directorates.” Her eyes rested on me. “I’m afraid you may find the city’s resources in the fields of forensics and criminology rather meagre. There has been little call for such expertise recently.”

  The public order guardian sat down noisily.

  “We are dealing,” continued the speaker, “with the killing of a city auxiliary. This raises several concerns. The most significant of these would appear to be public awareness and the potential effect on the tourist industry. Your thoughts, please.”

  The information guardian got up, her flaming hair standing out above the sombre grey of her tweed jacket. She proposed keeping all news of the murder out of the Edinburgh Guardian and of Radio Free City. She was worried that such a major crime could lead to a loss of confidence in the Council. The public order guardian nodded vigorously in agreement. I might have been more convinced by the argument if the information guardian hadn’t once been an award-winning investigative journalist on the Scotsman. People who change that much always make me suspicious. Anyway, I’d heard all this in the past. One of the most disturbing things about the Council is its obsession with secrecy. If the aim is to educate citizens to think for themselves, it seems to me that they should be trusted not to revolt as soon as things go wrong. Then again, who am I to talk? I’ve kept my mouth shut about what happened to the ENT Man and that makes me as egocentric as a pre-Enlightenment politician. Christ, how low have I sunk?

  Whenever I give myself a bad time, it isn’t long before I start looking for an alternative target. There was a whole shooting gallery of them in front of me.

  “Excuse me,” I said politely. Hamilton was the only one who smelled a rat; his glare was steelier than the toecaps of a guardsman’s boots. “I suppose it’s theoretically possible that my fellow citizens won’t find out about the murder, but in my experience word always gets out, especially when measures are taken to keep things secret.” I gave the public order guardian a cheerful smile, which deflected his hard man’s stare for a second. “I mean, I heard about this supposedly confidential crime not long after I got your message.”

  That provoked more gasps than I’d expected, but Hamilton’s reaction was about what I guessed it would be.

  “I want the name of the citizen who informed you immediately,” he demanded, his fists clenched.

  I shook my head slowly. “No chance.” I might have known my former chief would assume it was an ordinary citizen who had told me rather than one of his own auxiliaries.

  “That will do,” said the speaker sternly. “There is no need for names. Citizen Dalrymple’s point is taken.”

  I sat back as the discussion turned to the danger of tourist volumes being affected if the murder was publicised. I couldn’t see the Chinese being too bothered. Beijing became a Dantean pit of underworld activity in the years following the country’s economic expansion. The Greeks weren’t likely to object either. Since the discovery of oil in the Aegean twenty years ago, they’ve acquired a crime rate worse than those of Chicago and New York put together.

  I found myself remembering the metaphor of the body
politic, which had been a favourite propaganda device in the early years of the Council. It was probably one of my father’s ideas. The ordinary citizens were the body of the city-state, while the guardians were its heart and brain and the auxiliaries its eyes and ears. But what if the heart was growing weary and the mind was no longer reliable? What if the eyes no longer provided 20-20 vision and the ears heard only what they wanted to hear?

  The debate finally drew to a close and the deputy senior guardian looked at me. “So, citizen, we will expect a report from you every evening in person.”

  I didn’t want them to think I was too much of a pushover. “And if I choose to remain with the Parks Department? No doubt the public order guardian would prefer that.”

  The speaker’s expression froze. “I would remind you that this is a matter of the utmost importance, not just for the Council but for the whole city. You are not being given a choice, citizen. Failure to obey this instruction would have a very detrimental effect on the private investigation activities you pursue in your free time.” The threatening tone was at odds with the guardian’s white hair and wrinkled face, but I knew it was real enough. They let me trace missing people because auxiliaries have plenty of other work to do. I’ve even done the guard a good turn occasionally by letting them know about minor illegalities I turned up. But if I got on the wrong side of the Council, that would count for about as much as kids in one of the city’s schools saying they hadn’t done their homework because they reckoned Plato was irrelevant to the modern world.

  So I shrugged and accepted the job without showing how interested I was. Rule one: never show your clients that you’re fascinated by their case.

  “Very well. The public order guardian will take you to the scene of the crime.”

  “One small point,” I said. “I’ve got an offence notification for tomorrow morning.” I heard Hamilton snort derisively and wished I’d picked up a few more public order violations. He might have ruptured himself.

  “That is waived,” the speaker said, without hesitation. “Citizen, I notice your watch has stopped. Never mind that you’re breaking regulations, how do you expect to conduct a murder enquiry without a serviceable time-piece?”

  I liked her turn of phrase. If I’d closed my eyes, I could almost have believed I was in a Sherlock Holmes story. “I’ll get one, guardian,” I said and turned to leave. “Without a moment’s delay.”

  The public order guardian overtook me on the stairs and went over to a pair of auxiliaries in civilian clothes. He looked almost as imposing as he imagined he did in the tweed jacket and corduroy trousers worn exclusively by members of his rank, the brogues on his feet shining like a schoolboy’s prize chestnuts.

  “Hurry up, Dalrymple,” he said over his shoulder. “This isn’t a Sunday outing.”

  “Where’s the body?” I asked in an even voice.

  “The body?” he repeated, his eyes fixed on a point several inches to the right of my face. “We aren’t going to see the body. Weren’t you listening to the speaker? I’m taking you to the scene of the crime.” He glanced at his watch. “There isn’t much time.”

  I turned to the keen-looking young men who were standing behind their chief like a pair of little girls holding a bride’s train. “Run away and play. This is grown-ups’ business.”

  The guardian hesitated, then waved them back. “You can’t talk to auxiliaries like that, Dalrymple,” he hissed.

  It was about time I got my relationship with my former boss sorted out. “Hamilton, you’re still as much of a jackass as you used to be.” I wasn’t sure whether my use of his name had shocked him more than the animal imagery. “We both heard exactly what was said in there. I’m reporting to the Council, not to you. You’re supposed to give me whatever I want.” So far the show was going well. He looked like he’d swallowed a six-inch fishing hook. Time to reel it in. “So where’s the fucking body?”

  Hamilton went on the retreat. “It was a collective decision of the Council.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “Don’t tell me. You’ve moved the body, haven’t you? I bet that’s not all. I bet you’ve cleaned up after it too.”

  “Calm down, man,” said Hamilton, signs of guilt I’d normally have enjoyed disturbing his features. “We couldn’t wait any longer.”

  Outside I could see Davie standing by the Land-Rover. “Where’s the scene of the crime?” I asked as I moved off.

  “Stevenson Hall, the men’s toilets on the ground floor.” The guardian tried to keep up. “Aren’t you coming in my vehicle?”

  I didn’t bother answering.

  Davie looked impressed as he started the Land-Rover. “You’ve got guts, having a go at the chief.”

  “Maybe.” I looked across at him. “But there’s something I haven’t got and you can supply it.”

  He turned on to Castlehill and headed for the corner at what used to be the Tolbooth church. It’s the most soot-blackened building in central Edinburgh. Maybe that’s why they’ve turned it into a strip joint. A group of enthusiastic Thai tourists had gathered outside.

  “What do you need?” asked Davie.

  “Your watch,” I replied, putting out my hand like the beggars used to on Princes Street before the Council turned them into more productive citizens.

  Through the fog the bagpipes were still wailing. I could just make them out above the roar from the Land-Rover’s defective silencer.

  “It’s all yours.” Davie handed a watch over that was a lot better quality than mine. “Anything else I can do? I’d give a lot to be in on this.” His willingness to help was like a small child’s and about as suspicious. What was he after?

  I thought about it. I’d be needing an assistant, I was sure of that. On the other hand, he was a sworn servant of the Council.

  Beware guardsmen bearing gifts.

  Chapter Three

  A large crowd was milling around outside Stevenson Hall; it used to be the Usher Hall, but the Council preferred the name of one of the city’s most illustrious writers to that of the brewer who paid for the building. Its great dome was lost in the mist.

  I had half an hour before the musical version of Kidnapped was due to begin. Shoving through the mass of people, I could see what had inspired the guardians’ decision to remove the body. Cancelling the event would have caused a riot.

  “Citizen, where do you think you’re going?” A pale guardswoman stepped forward from one of the entrances, a hand on the grip of her truncheon. Ordinary citizens aren’t allowed near Festival performances without special permission.

  “It’s all right, guardswoman,” the public order guardian called from behind. “He’s with me.” It sounded like the admission caused him more angst than your average existentialist could handle.

  “Sorry, guardian. He didn’t look . . .”

  “Never mind how I look,” I said, suddenly feeling sensitive about my appearance. “Open the door, will you?”

  Hamilton nodded and the guardswoman obliged. I found the men’s toilet and was confronted by a sentry who looked like he wrestled elephants in his spare time and wasn’t in the habit of losing.

  “Let him pass,” the guardian shouted from down the hall.

  Before I went in, I rested my hands on the door for a few seconds and breathed in deeply. First impressions are important, especially when, thanks to the Council, there wouldn’t be much to go on. Then I pushed the swing door open and ran my eyes around glistening marble and porcelain, seeing myself reflected in the row of mirrors. The smell of disinfectant was overpowering.

  I almost hit the ceiling when one of the cubicle doors banged open. An arse in yellow overalls backed out.

  “Right then, that’s them all done.” The old man straightened up slowly and gave me a leer. “Come to see the mess? Well, you’re too late, son.”

  “Out, auxiliary,” Hamilton ordered. “Now!”

  The cleaner grabbed the bucket he’d put down at my feet and scuttled out past the guardian with his eyes
lowered.

  “Too late all right,” I said, dropping to the floor. “Where was the body?”

  “She was lying on her left side, head in that corner and back facing outwards.” Hamilton pointed to the far right. “The bin for paper towels, which was empty, had been moved down this end.”

  I crawled forward with my magnifying glass. The tiles were almost dry. Pretty soon I gave up the search.

  “Not a trace. You’ll have to give that cleaner a commendation.”

  “Calm down, Dalrymple. I issued a permit and plenty of photographs were taken.” Even in a major crime enquiry, the use of cameras has to be authorised. “They’re being developed now.”

  “Wonderful. And what about all the other scene of crime activities? Sketches, collection of physical evidence, pathologist’s report?”

  “We followed procedure by the letter,” Hamilton replied testily. “You’re not the only investigator in the city. We also dusted for fingerprints all over the room and in the hallways – my people are checking records now. And don’t forget, we’ve still got the post-mortem to come. We’re sure to find traces of the killer on the body.”

  “Are we?” I found it hard to share his optimism. “Who’s the pathologist?”

  “The medical guardian.”

  I didn’t make it obvious to Hamilton, but I found that interesting. You’d think Yellowlees would have more pressing duties. Still, he did carry out the post-mortems on the ENT Man’s victims, so it made some sense.

  “Who found the body and when?”

  “A guardswoman: the one who tried to stop you outside. She came to relieve the victim at 0600.”

  “Jesus. She came on duty fourteen hours ago, found a colleague murdered and is now on crowd control? You’re still treating your people like shit, Hamilton.”