“Damn,” Hamilton said, shaking his head. “The senior guardian’s not going to like this.”
His deputy turned and gave him a mocking smile. “No, he’s not, is he?”
I glanced at her and raised my eyebrows. “What are you complaining about?” I said, finding myself in the unusual situation of standing up for Lewis. “We’ve found the source of the arm. What more does he want?” I realised too late that I’d given her an open goal.
The Mist directed her heavy features at me. “What more, citizen? A perpetrator? A motive? A weapon?”
I was spared further humiliation by the door to our rear bursting open.
“Quint? What happened in Socrates Lane?”
“Katharine?” I said, taken aback by her dishevelled state. “What is it?”
Hamilton stared as she approached us, her black coat hanging loosely over her arm. “What is she doing in a barracks, Dalrymple?” Ordinary citizens are only allowed entry to auxiliary locations when they’re under arrest. Lewis had forgotten that Katharine had an “ask no questions”, an undercover operative’s authorisation that I got for her years back.
“This youth gang member who was attacked,” Katharine said, ignoring the guardian and his number two. Her words were coming out in a rush. “I think I know who he is.”
That got everybody’s attention.
“So tell me exactly how you got on to this,” I said, turning to look at Katharine. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the front of the Land-Rover that Davie was driving at full speed towards the infirmary.
She shrugged. “I’ve been in the drop-in centre in Ferry Road since yesterday evening. The usual stream of desperate kids, most of them more frightened than aggressive. I tried to give them what advice I could.” She shook her head. “There was even one poor lad, Gus was his name, who’d had his wrist broken. He wouldn’t tell me how.”
I managed to stop my jaw from dropping.
“He was worried about going to the infirmary but I eventually managed to pack him off there this afternoon. Anyway, some boys I’ve known for a couple of months came in to play table tennis. It was one of them who’d heard a rumour about one of the L.L.s being attacked in Socrates Lane.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“Oh no,” Katharine said firmly. “I’m not landing him in it. He wasn’t involved, I’m sure of it.”
I nudged her gently. “Not your source. You said you could identify the victim.”
“Wait till I see him; if it’s who I think it is, I’ve met him a couple of times.” She gave me a tight smile. “Then, if you and the medical guardian ask nicely, maybe I’ll tell you his name.”
I looked ahead as the monuments on the Calton Hill came into sight at the top of Leith Walk. And wondered if Katharine would ever let me forget the torrid relationship that Sophia and I had during the Big Heat of 2025.
We stood outside the intensive care unit and watched the nurses hovering over the guy with one arm. Tubes and wires hooked his motionless frame to several machines. Katharine was in with him, swathed in surgical robes.
This time I glanced round before Sophia reached me. “Anything new?” I asked.
She regarded Katharine with glacial eyes then nodded. “I’ll tell you after Citizen Kirkwood does what she has to do.”
The seal on the door hissed as it opened to let Katharine pass.
“It’s him all right,” she said, pulling her mask down. “George Faulds. They call him Dead Dod.”
Davie shook his head as he wrote down the name, then went off to run a check.
“What else do you know about him?” Sophia demanded.
Katharine shot me a glance. “Ask me politely, guardian,” she said in an arch voice.
Sophia hit me with her eyes too – I was everybody’s punch bag. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Citizen Kirkwood,” she said mechanically, “please tell us what else you know about this George Faulds.”
“That’s better.” Katharine handed the robes she’d been removing to the guardian. “Not much, as it happens. I’ve only seen him a few times in the centre. He has a reputation for being a loner. And he has quite a temper. He once broke a snooker cue over his knee when he missed a shot.” She shrugged. “At least it wasn’t somebody else’s knee.”
“He’s definitely a Leith Lancer?” I asked. There have been cases of kids, desperate to join the gangs, doing their own tattoos. They usually end up with broken heads, but not severed arms.
Katharine nodded. “Oh aye. A Lancer and proud of it.” She looked at me. “What happened to him, Quint? It looks like he’s lost an arm.”
Sophia passed the robes to a nursing auxiliary and turned away. “That information is classified,” she said.
I put a hand on her shoulder. “Katharine’s helped us, Sophia. She works with these kids. She’s entitled to know.”
The guardian wasn’t convinced, but finally she gave in and took us to her office. “There are some strange aspects to this case,” she said, sitting down at her desk and opening a grey folder. “First of all, the patient doesn’t appear to have lost much blood.”
“What?” I said. “He had an arm severed.”
“Oh, you noticed?” Sophia said ironically. “There’s no arguing with the test results, Quint. Second, the preliminary analysis shows an as yet unidentified chemical compound in his veins.”
“What kind of substance?” Katharine asked. “Sometimes those kids pick up new designer drugs from smugglers.”
“It may be something of that sort,” Sophia agreed. She gave me a stern look. “Unfortunately the city’s chief toxicologist has been missing for a fortnight so we’re not well equipped to identify the compound. His department’s doing the best it can.”
I sat down heavily, suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn’t slept last night. “Could it have something to do with the state he’s been in?”
Sophia nodded. “Quite possibly. The assailant may have put him under before severing the arm. The reduction in heart rate and oxygen intake may have caused permanent brain damage – it’s too early to say.”
“So we may not get a description of his attacker from him,” I said. “Great.”
Sophia put the file down slowly. “And I’m still no clearer about what was used to sever the arm. The surfaces are smooth but not as clean as a heavy blade such as a cleaver would produce. And the sealing, cauterisation, whatever – I can’t make sense of it.” She looked at me desperately. “I don’t suppose the scene-of-crime squad has found anything suggestive?”
I gave a hollow laugh. “That would be too easy, Sophia. The finger is still missing as well, by the way.”
“In that case the lunatic who took this arm off is still out there,” she said, her face pale. “With the means to do it again.”
The conversation ended.
Katharine and I headed to the exit in silence. Not for long. As we were crossing the reception area, a voice rang out.
“Here, Katharine!”
I looked to my left and saw a figure with his forearm in plaster approaching. I recognised him immediately. Oh shit.
“Hello, Gus,” Katharine said. “How’s your—?” She broke off as the youth with the red flash on his cheek gave me a fearful stare.
“This is the bastard who broke my fuckin’ wrist,” Gus yelled, his voice breaking. “Dinnae let him near me.”
The look I got from Katharine would have made William Wallace wet himself.
Chapter Five
“So now you’re beating up kids, Quint.”
Katharine had managed to contain herself until we reached the middle of the infirmary courtyard. Then she planted herself in front of me and set to.
“He’s a gangbanger,” I said, knowing already that this was an argument I wasn’t going to win. “He and his pal were stealing citizens’ vouchers.”
“And that gave you the right to break his wrist?” she shouted, her eyes wide. “Christ, you’re no better than one of the guard’s beaters.�
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I tried to step round her but she moved to cut me off. “The beaters go looking for trouble,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I came across the robbery by chance.”
Katharine jabbed her finger into my chest. “My hero,” she said sarcastically. “Edinburgh’s knight in a shining donkey jacket. Has it ever occurred to you that the city’s young people need sympathy and help?” She shook her head. “What good is more violence?”
I stared at a pair of guard drivers who were leaning against their vehicles’ doors and watching us avidly. “Your wee pal Gus went for me with a sharpened stick, Katharine,” I hissed. “What should I have done? Invite him round for tea and scones?”
That only enraged her more. “For God’s sake, Quint, I thought you were different from the rest of the lunatics in the Public Order Directorate.” She was leaning towards me, her lips wet and her chin flecked with spittle. “But you aren’t, are you?” She turned on her heel. “Away and inaugurate the prison with your fascist friends.”
I watched her storm through the gateway and disappear in the twilight.
The guardsmen by the Land-Rovers nodded at me, their bearded faces creased in mocking smiles.
“Had you on the run there, didn’t she, citizen?” one of them said.
I was on the point of laying into him when I remembered Katharine’s reproof – and restricted myself to giving him and his mate the benefit of my middle finger.
Three hours in the castle did nothing to improve my mood. Davie and I found a small unused room across the yard from the command centre and co-ordinated the investigation from there. Hamilton and the Mist kept appearing and disturbing us, but at least the confined space prevented them setting up permanent residence.
“Do you want that roll?” Davie asked, eyeing the sole survivor of what had originally been a heaped plate supplied by the castle mess.
“One slice of reconstituted mutton per lifetime is enough for me, thanks.”
He leaned forward and snaffled the wholemeal bap. Shortly afterwards he spoke some words I couldn’t decipher.
“Didn’t they teach you not to eat with your mouth full on the auxiliary training programme?”
He glowered at me and swallowed. “What do you want to do now?” he said, enunciating like the jackasses who read the news on Radio Free City – the Information Directorate thinks listeners enjoy being talked down to.
“Oh, right.” I gave him a derisory smile. “What do I want to do now? I want to get to my bed, big man. There’s not exactly much going on here.”
Davie looked at the notes he’d made. “Dead Dod’s file didn’t tell us much we couldn’t guess.”
“Persistent truancy, a spell in a Youth Detention Centre for stealing clothing vouchers from his granddad, failure to attend a whole series of work placements,” I read from my notebook.
Davie nodded. “Plus numerous sightings with known members of the Leith Lancers.”
“And none of the few we’ve caught are telling us anything about Dod or about what happened to him.”
“Do you reckon they know who attacked him?” he asked, draining the last of his barracks tea from a chipped City Guard mug.
I shrugged. “Maybe not. Dead Dod seems to have been a bit of a loner. Which would have made him a perfect target for the assailant.”
“So,” Davie said, throwing down his pencil, “no witnesses from Socrates Lane, no statement from the victim – who’s still comatose from whatever hyper-strength drug was pumped into him – and nothing useful from the scene-of-crime squad. Hell of a day’s work, eh?”
There was a knock on the door and a statuesque guards-woman came in. “Report from the scene-of-crime squad, commander,” she said, handing Davie a maroon folder and giving him a smile that was warmer than the occasion required.
“Friend of yours?” I asked as the door closed behind her.
“Oh aye,” he said, grinning. “I’m a great believer in maintaining close relationships with my team.”
“Primarily the female members of your team.”
He’d raised a hand. “Hang on. It looks like I spoke too soon. The SOCS has lifted some footprints from the locus.”
“I’m not surprised. There was enough muck on the floors in there.”
His face darkened. “No good, though. They can’t match the prints with anything in their archive.”
I went round to his side of the table and checked the facsimile of the print. “What, this shoe or boot is unknown to them?”
He ran his finger down the report. “That’s what they say.”
I leaned back against the table, hearing the wood squeak on the bare flagstones. “Interesting. This might be more useful than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the footwear would appear to have been produced outside Edinburgh.” I rubbed my hand across my forehead, feeling a headache beginning to set in. That made me think of the man who said he had a migraine yesterday evening. “How about Glasgow?”
Davie looked up at me, one eye screwed up. “Andrew Duart and his bum chum? Nah, don’t be stupid, Quint. They were inside Ramsay Garden all night and I bet they’ve been in meetings all day. Shall I check?”
I nodded. “Aye. But I wasn’t thinking of those particular individuals. If the Council’s decided the west coast isn’t the nest of vipers it used to be, perhaps there are other specimens on the loose.”
Davie was looking even more doubtful. “And how do you think you’ll be able to track them down? There haven’t been any passes issued to non-tourist aliens in the last few days. I looked at the register when I was setting up the security for the reception.”
He was right. If it was a foreigner who’d cut off Dead Dod’s arm, he or she was likely to have entered the city illegally.
“Course, there’s no shortage of tourists,” Davie added. “You want me to institute a census of our honoured guests’ shoes?”
I shook my head. “Forget it. You know the Tourism Directorate would never allow that.” I walked round to the other side of the table and made a note in my book. “Anyway, whoever attacked the kid in Socrates Lane and left the arm in the administrator’s bath had local knowledge.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Davie grinned. “Pity. I was going to point the finger – so to speak – at another group of visitors to Edinburgh.”
“Who?”
He looked over his shoulder and reassured himself that no one else had slipped in. “The Oxford delegation.”
“What?”
He raised his shoulders dispiritedly. “I know, I’m clutching at straws. There’s something about those people that puts my back up. Why are they here? We don’t need a prison, let alone one designed by a bunch of crazy professors.”
“What kind of investigation technique is that, guardsman?” I demanded, demoting him to the rank he’d had when I first met him; I still felt more comfortable with it than commander. “Something about them puts your back up?”
“Aye,” he said combatively, “take the piss if you like, but I know you feel the same way. And I know you’re not a fan of the New Bridewell.”
According to Katharine he was wrong on both counts.
At midnight, when there was nothing new to report, we signed off with Hamilton and his deputy. We were informed that the senior guardian was unimpressed by the lack of progress, but that the Oxford delegation was at least glad that the arm’s owner had been discovered. The Mist said that Administrator Raphael was particularly concerned and had been in touch with Sophia several times about the victim. The inauguration was to go ahead, though Raphael had asked for additional security; apparently she was worried that the perpetrator might try to disrupt it, though she’d given no explanation of that fear.
Davie drove me back to Gilmore Place and I climbed the stairs to my flat slowly, the effect of forty-plus hours without sleep numbing me as effectively as a pint of hemlock. Before I turned in I made a couple of calls, stabbing my finger on the buttons of my mobile
by the light of a guttering candle. Neither got me anywhere. Sophia advised that the one-armed man was still deep in his chemically assisted slumbers and that the Toxicology Department was still no nearer identifying the substance in his system. And Katharine’s mobile had been turned off, so I couldn’t tell where she was or whether she’d calmed down: experience told me it was way too early for that.
So I took a couple of large grey Supply Directorate aspirins and collapsed into bed, too exhausted to take off more than the outer layer of clothing. I berated myself momentarily for having forgotten all about Lister 25, the missing chief toxicologist, then sank into oblivion.
We were standing in groups in the exercise yard of the prison, waiting for the circus to begin. It was a bright, cool day, the only clouds a ripple of cirrus high above; they looked like the exhalations of a giant winged creature that had overflown Edinburgh and decided it could have a better time elsewhere. I glanced at my watch and saw through the permanent condensation that it was a quarter to eleven. Fifteen minutes to kick-off.
Tackety boots clattered on the paving-stones inside the heavy gate as members of the Public Order Directorate pipe band moved their lower limbs surreptitiously to keep the circulation going. The area enclosed by the walls with their new wire excrescences was about eighty yards square, on a mound rising from the north to fall on the south and covered in grey gravel. Apart from the obelisk and the round structure on the west side, the yard was empty of stone structures. All the tombstones, funerary monuments, statues and miniature temples to the souls of the departed had departed, no doubt bulldozed away. The Corrections Department’s requirement for a prisoners’ exercise area was more pressing than that of conserving one of the city’s prime historical sites. I wondered if they’d taken the bones out of the ground too, then decided it was unlikely: the symbolism of doomed prisoners tramping round on human remains would have been irresistible to the Mist and her friends.
I heard the gravel crunch to my right.
“Do you think the old philosopher would approve of what’s been done to his mausoleum?” Billy Geddes gave a hungry laugh. “Neat, isn’t it?”
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