The Blood Tree Page 5

  “Great.” She slumped back on the pillow and pulled the blanket up to her neck.

  “You want to complain? I didn’t close my eyes once last night.”

  “So close them now,” she sighed, turning over.

  I finished undressing. The cold started nipping at the extremities of my body before I got under the covers.

  “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been or not?” Katharine murmured. “Not that I’m particularly bothered.” She put her foot on my shin and rubbed it a couple of times. She obviously hadn’t forgotten the fight we’d had, but at least she was making some effort to move on from it.

  I felt awkward about hitting her with my bad news. I forced myself. “Hector’s had a heart attack.”

  “What?” Katharine turned to face me in an instant, her eyes wide. “Is he . . . ?”

  “It’s all right. He survived it, at least so far. He’s under intensive care in the infirmary.”

  “Oh Quint, I’m so sorry.” Katharine took my hand then leaned forward and pressed her face into my shoulder. “What happened?”

  I told her about events in the retirement home and the aftermath in the infirmary. “Sophia made sure he got the best treatment,” I concluded.

  Katharine’s green eyes flashed for a second then she nodded. She and the medical guardian had a relationship based on mutual loathing, but there was no getting away from Sophia’s icy competence.

  “God, Quint, how awful,” she said with unusual tenderness. “You must have been at the hospital all night.”

  I nestled against her, too exhausted to say anything about the archive break-in.

  “Don’t worry,” Katharine said a few moments later. “I’m here.”

  As I fell into what was more like paralysis than sleep, I found that very comforting.

  Unfortunately the paralysis didn’t extend to my mind. I drifted in and out of consciousness like a junkie or a post-prandial pre-Enlightenment politician. Images of the old man with his legs rigid and his lips blue faded and were cut with the skeletal figures of workmen in reflective jackets. Then the dark blue cover of a Scottish Parliament folder was suspended before me like a medieval vision of the Holy Writ leading an army into battle. I opened my eyes and took in the sparse furniture and dingy walls of my bedroom in the autumnal morning light. I could hear sounds from the corner of the living-room where the Housing Directorate locates what passes for a kitchen.

  My body was still numb so I lay there like a corpse and thought about the Council’s short, sharp treatment of genetic engineering. During the four-year existence of the Scottish Parliament, experiments involving genes and embryos got seriously out of hand. They were encouraged, both above and below board, by the Parliament because of the potentially vast financial benefits. By the year 2000 the research institute responsible for the famous cloned sheep Dolly had been joined by several other such facilities, not all of them interested solely in scientific profits. Rumours soon began to circulate in what was left of the free press that experiments in human cloning were under way – and that large sums of money were flowing in, especially from countries such as the United States where such work was illegal. There was a lot of secrecy surrounding the experiments, mainly because the foreign investors insisted on it, but it was common knowledge amongst people in the know – which included many of the founders of the Enlightenment Party – that cloned human offspring had been produced by 2002. Then the riots got serious, the drugs gangs took control and the United Kingdom and its component parts were torn to shreds. By the time the Council came to power in Edinburgh and declared an independent state, the research centres had been destroyed and people were more interested in where their next meal was coming from than in genetic engineering. Members of the Enlightenment had always disapproved of cloning on ethical grounds, despite their mentor Plato’s interest in eugenics, so it was easy for the guardians to ban all such experiments. End of story – until someone took great pains to break into the sealed archive and nick a Genetic Engineering Committee file attachment.

  “Coffee?” Katharine was standing at the door with a mug of something that I had a feeling smelled a lot better than it tasted. I occasionally manage to lay my hands on coffee from the tourist hotels, but I have to cut it with citizen-issue ersatz to make it last.

  I managed to make an affirmative noise. She handed me the mug and sat down beside me. She was wearing standard-issue white blouse and black trousers but, as usual, she looked much better than the average female citizen, her long legs striking even beneath the poor-quality material. She’d added a pink and black scarf to stick out from the crowd.

  I glanced at my watch and saw it was nearly nine. “No work?” I asked after I’d cleared my mouth and throat with a couple of gulps of surprisingly good coffee – Katharine was less stingy with the real thing than I was.

  She shook her head. “I’ve got today off. I thought I’d spend it with you.”

  “Ah. I have to go and see the old man.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ll come too.” Katharine and Hector were fond of each other, probably because they recognised their shared ability to be self-sufficient and awkward in diamonds as well as spades.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to kick-start my legs.

  It was only as I raised myself out of bed like a revivified mummy that it struck me: Katharine and I were bound to run into Sophia at the infirmary. Light blue touch-paper and retire.

  The sun actually made an effort to break through the leaden clouds as we walked up Lauriston Place, then thought better of it and signed off for the day. Katharine surprised me by slipping her arm under mine and smiling at me encouragingly. Serious illness in my family was doing wonders for flagging relationships.

  “He’s a tough old soul,” she said. “He’s got years in him yet.”

  “Wait till we see what state he’s in today.” I moved inwards on the pavement as a tourist coach passed. It was only half full. In the past, even in autumn, it would have been crammed with foreigners attracted by the low prices. A boy with his hair in beads raised his fingers to his nose and mouthed abuse at us. I resisted the temptation to flash my mutilated finger at him, but it was a close thing.

  We were dodging ambulances in the infirmary courtyard when my mobile rang.

  “Yes, Lewis,” I said before the caller spoke.

  “Ah, Dalrymple.” The public order guardian went quiet. “How did you know—”

  “Investigator’s intuition,” I said.

  He grunted. “Where are you? I was expecting you at the castle before now.”

  “Unlike guardians, ordinary citizens need a minimum of three hours’ sleep a night. I’m going to visit Hector. I’ll be with you afterwards. Out.”

  That made me feel better. There’s no better start to the day than hanging up on a guardian.

  “What did the old headbanger want?” Katharine asked as she pushed the main door open. She turned towards me. “Surely you weren’t working on a case last night?”

  I raised my shoulders. “You know how it is. Criminals never sleep.”

  “And self-centred investigators never give up,” she said sharply. “Even when their fathers are at death’s door.” She bit her lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  I led her down the corridor to the ICU, hoping that Sophia was elsewhere in the building. It seemed I was in luck.

  “Your father’s doing fine, citizen.” A young female nursing auxiliary with a splash of freckles across her pale cheeks had joined us at the glass screen. “If you get robed up, you can go in and talk to him.”

  “He’s awake?” I asked.

  “Oh aye,” the nurse said with a wry smile. “He’s very much awake.”

  Katharine nodded at me. “You see? Hector will have been telling the nurse how much he likes the female sex.”

  “That wouldn’t have taken him long,” I muttered, accepting a green tunic from the cheerful auxiliary. The old man was a misogynist with knobs on, but she’d have seen i
t all before.

  “Just don’t tire him out,” the nurse said as she opened the door for us.

  Some of the wires and lines had been taken off Hector and he looked less like Frankenstein’s creature on the table now. But the skin on his face was still waxy and pale, and his breath was catching in his throat. I touched his forearm lightly and watched as the hooded eyes opened slowly.

  “Is that you, Quintilian?” he said faintly, after struggling to recognise me under the surgical mask. “What happened?”

  “Nothing serious,” I said, glancing at Katharine across the bed. “They’ve got you in for your annual service.”

  He mumbled something that I didn’t catch.

  “What’s that?” I asked, leaning closer.

  “I’m glad you brought her,” he whispered, jerking his arm in Katharine’s direction. “She’s one of the few good ones in the monstrous regiment.” He had to pause frequently for breath.

  “Katharine?” I said, looking up as she came closer. “Yes, she is.”

  Hector frowned at me. “Ka . . . ?” He broke off and gulped air. “Ka . . . ?”

  “Katharine,” I completed, nodding at her.

  The old man twitched his head. “Ka . . .”

  I moved my head nearer.

  His eyes bulged with the effort to enunciate. “Caro,” he gasped. “Caro.”

  I froze as the name of my first love struck me like a blow from a claymore.

  “It seems like a long time since I’ve seen her,” Hector continued, his voice firmer now he thought he’d recognised his other visitor. He looked past me and smiled loosely at Katharine. “Caro,” he repeated. “How are you, my dear? Quintilian’s been waiting for you.”

  “Bloody hell,” I said under my breath. I turned my hands up helplessly at Katharine.

  “It’s all right, Quint,” she said through her mask. “He’s wandering.” She looked at the old man. I thought she was smiling because the skin at the corners of her green eyes creased. “Take your time, Hector,” she said in a louder voice. “You’re in the lap of luxury here.”

  The old man moved his head weakly. His eyelids flickered and he drifted off. I squeezed his arm again and moved to the door.

  “Sorry about that,” I said to Katharine on the other side of the partition. “It must be the drugs. He’s never confused you with Caro before.”

  “I don’t usually wear a mask,” she said, taking off her gown. “It doesn’t matter,” she added, turning away.

  Obviously it did, despite the fact that Caro had been gone for eleven years. That didn’t mean anything to Hector, though. Caro and I were together from my first term at the university; we joined the Enlightenment on the same day; we both ended up in senior positions in the Public Order Directorate. The old man had always contemplated our relationship with a benign air – even though he was a guardian and Caro and I, as auxiliaries, shouldn’t have had close ties.

  Katharine waited for me at the door of the ICU while I went over Hector’s file with the nurse. The cardiologist had examined him again and his report was due soon, but the signs were good. I thanked her and headed for the exit.

  Where I nearly collided with Sophia’s protuberant midriff. She managed to fend me off with a clipboard. I heard Katharine’s rapid intake of breath when she saw the medical guardian.

  “Hello, Quint,” Sophia said, giving me an unrestrained smile. That was before she saw who was with me. Suddenly everything got a lot chillier.

  “Morning, Sophia,” I said. “Hector seems to be on the mend.”

  She nodded, her eyes on her papers and nowhere in the vicinity of Katharine. “I’ve just received the cardiologist’s report. It’s still early but he’s very optimistic that your father’s condition can be controlled. He should be able to live a relatively normal life.”

  “In as much as anyone can do that in the so-called perfect city,” Katharine said, giving the guardian a belligerent smile.

  Sophia pretended she hadn’t heard and ran through the report quickly. “The prognosis I can give you at the moment is that Hector will remain in the ICU for at least another day. After that he’ll be moved to a geriatric ward until he’s stronger.”

  “And then he can go back to the retirement home?” I asked.

  The guardian nodded. “I think so.” She handed the clipboard to the nursing auxiliary. “I’ve got to get on. Goodbye, Quint.” She turned away without acknowledging Katharine.

  That wasn’t such a good idea.

  “Guardian?” Katharine called. Her face was set firm and her eyes wavered as little as those of a sentry on the city line with a smuggler in her sights. “You don’t seriously intend to bring a child into this crazy city, do you?”

  Sophia gave Katharine a glacial glare. “Not all women in Edinburgh have the same attitude towards procreation as ex-prostitutes like you, Citizen Kirkwood.” She moved away with her head held high.

  I’d had my hand over my eyes while they were talking, but I managed to grab Katharine’s arm before she launched herself at the guardian. Katharine had been forced to work in the Prostitution Services Department after she served time for dissident activities years ago.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  I led her outside. The clouds were even lower than they had been. They were holding the fumes from the brewery in Fountainbridge over the city like a chloroform pad.

  “Fresh air?” Katharine scoffed. “We’d have to leave this necropolis to find that.”

  “Necropolis,” I repeated. “Neat word. City of the dead. Let’s hope that’s not where Hector’s going.”

  She gave me a look which combined embarrassment with irritation. “He’ll be all right, Quint.” Her face hardened again. “And no doubt that deep-frozen cow will produce an immaculate child as well.”

  I glanced at her and decided against calling for a guard vehicle to take me to the castle. Katharine needed a walk to work off her indignation. We turned right on to Lauriston Place and headed for George IV Bridge. Hamilton could wait a few more minutes.

  “What does she think she’s doing?” Katharine raged as she strode over the cracked paving-stones. “Guardians can’t bring children up.”

  “They don’t have to,” I said, struggling to keep up with her. “The Welfare Directorate’s children’s homes do that, remember?” The original guardians had tried to do away with the family, offering state care from birth – mainly because able-bodied adults were needed to work full-time. A surprisingly large proportion of parents went along with that, though the new-look, user-friendly Council has allowed more freedom of choice since 2025.

  “Why does she want to have a kid anyway?” Katharine demanded. “It made more sense when the guardians shut themselves off from procreation, as the stupid bitch called it. They say she doesn’t even know who the father is.” She jabbed her elbow into my ribs. “You haven’t been at her again, have you?”

  “Get a grip, Katharine,” I said with a glare. “You know I haven’t. Everything finished between Sophia and me when you came back to the city.” We passed a pair of stern-looking guardsmen. “Calm down,” I said, worried that she was about to come out with an even coarser description of the medical guardian. “I don’t know. She probably feels she has to make her contribution to the city’s birth-rate.” I shrugged. “She’s in her late thirties. Maybe her body’s putting pressure on her to reproduce.”

  Katharine flashed an angry look at me. “So women like me who choose not to reproduce – delicate turn of phrase, Quint – are failing in our duty to the city and the species, are we?”

  We had to separate as a scruffily dressed elderly citizen on a ramshackle bicycle clattered down the road which used to be overlooked by Greyfriars Bobby. The statue of the wee Victorian dog was blown to pieces by a grenade during the drugs wars – now the plinth bears one of the city’s many memorials to auxiliaries and citizens who didn’t make it through the Council’s early years.

  By the time we j
oined up again Katharine’s expression had changed.

  “Sorry,” she said quietly. “It’s not been a very good morning so far.”

  “No,” I agreed. I made a decision. “Do you want to give me a hand with the case I’m working on? Just for today.”

  Katharine looked at me suspiciously then nodded. “Why not? It won’t be the first time.”

  That was true. She’d been deeply involved in some of my biggest investigations. She was also about as far as you could get from being Lewis Hamilton’s cup of auxiliary-issue tea. I told her about the break-in as we walked towards the checkpoint below the Royal Mile. She asked so many penetrating questions that, by the time we got to the castle, I already had second thoughts about my invitation.

  The cloud around the castle was even thicker now, shutting out the sights and sounds from the tourist shops and bars on Princes Street.

  The guardswoman on duty in the gatehouse told us that the public order guardian was in the command centre. She gave Katharine a dubious stare but she couldn’t argue with my Council authorisation – it entitles me to full co-operation from all citizens, auxiliaries and guardians. The Council’s occasionally tried to have the wording changed, but I’ve managed to keep it intact. There’s no point in being the city’s chief special investigator if guardians can mess you around.

  We walked up to the square formed by what used to be the palace and museums. Apart from the Scottish National War Memorial, left unchanged in a rare display of respect for the past by the Council, the buildings are all used by the City Guard now. The command centre is in what was the Great Hall, a tacky late-nineteenth-century restoration of the banqueting hall. The hammerbeam roof has been left but the rest of the decor is grade one barracks drab, the brightly coloured tapestries that used to adorn the walls removed to provide space for city maps, barracks reports and guard rosters. The hall’s vast open space gives guard personnel the opportunity to impersonate ants in perpetual motion. They do that very well.

  Hamilton met us at the entrance. “What’s she doing here, Dalrymple?” he demanded, glaring at Katharine.