The Bone Yard

by Paul Johnston

  I flashed my authorisation at the guardswoman by the heavy gate. She was young and hard, her fair hair drawn back tight in the regulation ponytail.

  “Which guardian are you visiting, citizen?” she demanded, her hand on the telephone in the sentry box.

  I didn’t want to give the senior guardian any advance warning. “Your boss, the public order guardian,” I said with a winning smile.

  She was very far from returning that. “The guardian is at the castle, citizen.”

  “I don’t think so. He told me to be here at seven thirty on the dot.” I was pretty sure the guardswoman wouldn’t risk annoying Hamilton by checking on his whereabouts.

  His temper was to my advantage again. She took her hand away from the phone and raised the barrier. “It’s number seven,” she said.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been here,” I said as I walked past her. “Unfortunately.”

  Around the corner she couldn’t see that I carried on past the residence that Hamilton rarely used and headed for the senior guardian’s. In the gloom before sunrise the streetlights, which are kept on overnight here for security reasons, cast sparkling circles of pale orange on the icy paving stones. I was thinking about the infrequent visits I made to my mother here. The last was after the end of the murder case in 2020. I was usually torn to shreds by her and I had a nasty feeling her successor was about to keep up the tradition.

  I knocked on the black door. It opened before I could blink. The male auxiliary on the other side must have been as close to it as the Three Graces’ chiffon wraps are to their buttocks.

  He ran an eye down me and made to close the door again.

  “I’m Dalrymple,” I said, sticking my authorisation in his face. “The senior guardian’s expecting me.” Well, that was a bit of a liberty, but there was some truth in it.

  “I have no record of any appointment,” the auxiliary said, stuttering slightly. He must have been in his late twenties but he suddenly looked like he needed a nappy. You often get that with members of his rank when the bureaucracy fouls up.

  “Look,” I said, pushing past him. “It’s bloody freezing outside. I told you, the senior guardian will—”

  “The senior guardian will do what, citizen Dalrymple?”

  I looked up to see the man himself standing halfway down the ornate staircase, a file under his arm. Apparently I was too late to interrupt his breakfast. Then again, deities don’t need to bother with food and drink.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said. At my side I felt the auxiliary flinch as I deliberately omitted his superior’s title.

  There was a pause as the chief boyscout considered my fate.

  “Very well. I was just going into the library. Will you join me?”

  I wasn’t sure whether the excessive politeness was for the benefit of the auxiliary or whether he always behaved like this out of Council meetings. It knocked me off the course I’d decided on. But only for a few moments.

  “You often came here when my predecessor was in office, I imagine,” he said, sitting down in a leather armchair beside the open fire. The walls were lined with books as high as the ceiling. They seemed mainly to be scientific tomes. Over by the barred window was a row of gunmetal cabinets. I wondered if they contained the files that had been removed from the Science and Energy Directorate archive.

  “Citizen?” the guardian said less politely.

  “What? Oh, no, not often. I only ever came here on official business.”

  The guardian nodded, his ascetic face beneath the wispy beard expressing approval. “My predecessor took the regulations very seriously.”

  “Much more seriously than she took her family,” I said, looking into the fire’s dull flames. I could feel his eyes on me still.

  “I’m sure she knew what she was doing.” The guardian drummed his fingers lightly on the grey file on his knees. “What is it that you want, citizen?”

  This was it. Crisis point. I’d tried unsuccessfully to work out a way to do this diplomatically. I had to go for broke. I linked eyes with him.

  “What exactly is the Bone Yard, guardian?”

  I was hoping I could provoke a reaction from him like William McEwan had done at the Hogmanay party. But there was nothing – no giveaway intake of breath, no sweat on the forehead, no trembling fingers. He looked at me with his saint’s eyes, strong but strangely compassionate, then shook his head slowly.

  “No.”

  I didn’t understand and it must have been obvious because he said it again.

  “No, citizen.” Now his eyes were less compassionate, but they were still strong, as determined as the craziest guardsmen’s, the ones who volunteer for permanent border duty.

  That seemed to be it. He said nothing more.

  “What do you mean ‘no’?” I asked eventually.

  “I mean no, you are not to pursue any line of enquiry about this subject.” His thin body was taut now, coiled in the chair like a snake about to dart forward. “I mean no, the Bone Yard has nothing to do with the murders you are investigating. I mean no, you are not to discuss the subject with anyone else. Including any of my colleagues on the Council.”

  “But there are indications that the Electric Blues and this Bone Yard place are connected.” I returned his stare but I couldn’t do much to deflect it. Time for the killer blow. “And there are indications that your directorate is or has been involved.”

  Again, nothing. He was about as impervious to attack as a pre-Enlightenment prime minister with a massive majority.

  “Indications are not evidence, citizen,” he said imperiously. “And even the Council’s justice system needs evidence.”

  For a split second I thought he was being ironical about the regime he ran, but the set of his mouth told me that was a vain hope.

  “Let me put my cards on the table,” I said, resorting to dishonesty – I had no intention of telling him about William McEwan’s minute and what I’d found out about the nuclear physicist. “The song ‘Fire and Water’ that we found on, or rather in Raeburn 03 made me think of the old nuclear power station at Torness.” I kept my eyes on him, but he was as solid as the Bass Rock. “I was wondering if it might be the Bone Yard I heard the former guardian talking to you about.”

  There was only the slightest relaxation in the chief boyscout’s body, but it was enough to tell me that he thought he was off the hook.

  “Really, citizen. William McEwan’s mind had obviously begun to wander. I can assure you that the Bone Yard is in no way connected with Torness. You have my word on that.” His eyes hardened again. “On the other hand, the murders do seem to have some connection with the drug.” He stood up rapidly. “If you wish to remain in charge of the investigation, I suggest you make some progress with it quickly. And forget the Bone Yard.”

  “But what is it? What is the Bone Yard?” I asked desperately.

  “Believe me, it is no concern of yours, citizen,” he said firmly then pressed the bell for his secretary.

  That was it. I was out of the house like a guardsman on a charge being marched to the latrines with a mop and bucket. But though I didn’t show it to the auxiliaries and guard personnel who were assembling for the morning shift in Moray Place, I felt pretty pleased with myself. For one thing, I’d got out of the lion’s den alive. For another, I was certain that the senior guardian’s word was as worthless as a time-expired clothing voucher. It’s never a good idea to tell an investigator that something isn’t his concern.

  Now I needed Davie’s contacts in the Fisheries Guard more than ever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I got back to my place to find Davie and Katharine facing up to each other over the kitchen table. An “ask no questions” was lying between them on the surface. It looked like she’d given him a few choice suggestions as to where he could put it.

  “Christ, am I glad to see you, Quint,” Davie said, glowering at Katharine like a wee boy who’s had his football nicked by a nimbler and much faster
girl. “You can forget any chance of me working with this deserter.”

  “No, I can’t.” I looked at them as appealingly as I could. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “That’s why I came back, Quint,” Katharine said.

  “Oh, aye?” Davie sneered. “You haven’t done much so far.”

  I gave up and went over to my cassette player. After half a minute of Albert Collins playing “How Blue Can You Get” at full volume, they let go of each other’s throats. I risked another few bars then shut the noise down.

  “Got that out of your systems, children? Because I’m in deep shit in this investigation. And if my clothing’s impregnated with the brown stuff, then so’s yours.” They seemed to be getting the message. Davie even looked mildly ashamed. Not Katharine – that would have been a major surprise. But at least she wasn’t disagreeing.

  “Would you mind telling me what’s going on, Quint?” she asked, slipping the “ask no questions” into her pocket.

  That seemed like a good idea. So I filled them in about where William McEwan’s memo and the latest song were leading me. And about my meeting with the chief boyscout.

  “I don’t see what all this has got to do with the murders,” Davie said, his face contorting as he tried to keep up.

  “Neither do I. Call it a hunch, call it my genius for detective work . . .”

  Katharine laughed. “Maybe we should go for the former so your head doesn’t contract elephantiasis.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled sourly at her.

  Davie was still fighting it. “You just said the senior guardian told you to forget the Bone Yard and everything to do with his directorate. You’re surely not planning on going up against him?”

  I gestured to Katharine to keep quiet. I knew she’d have no problem working against the senior guardian. She probably kept herself awake at night longing for a chance like that. But Davie was different. He was a serving auxiliary, sworn to uphold the orders of the Council and its leader. And I needed his connections in the guard if I was to pull off what I had in mind.

  “Look, Davie, I’m not saying the senior guardian’s involved. But I don’t believe his directorate has always been in the clear.”

  He rubbed his beard and looked at me dubiously. “What are you going to do then?”

  “It doesn’t work that way, guardsman. Either you’re in or you’re not. We haven’t got time for committee meetings every half-hour.”

  He stared at me, glanced at Katharine then nodded slowly. “I suppose you’ll need someone reliable to watch your back.”

  “That’s a ‘yes’, is it?” I asked.

  “Aye.” He grinned and I grinned back. That’s what I like about Davie. Once he’s made a decision, he forgets all about the mental wrangling that led up to it.

  “You’re welcome to his back,” said Katharine, unimpressed by this display of male bonding. “As far as I can remember, his front is much more interesting.”

  I didn’t know whether to be encouraged by that or depressed by her uncertainty. It seemed best to move on.

  “You asked what we’re going to do.” I looked at them both before I hit them with the big one. “We’re going to take a trip to the old nuclear power station at Torness.”

  If the Supply Directorate hadn’t rationed pins, you’d have heard several drop.

  When we’d worked out as many angles as we could, Davie went off to talk to his friends in the Fisheries Guard. Katharine headed for the Central Library to pull a plan of the power station; I didn’t want to risk going back to the Science and Energy Directorate archive. And I spent the rest of the day with Hamilton following up the few leads Machiavelli had left. Those didn’t amount to much. There were several unauthorised absences from compulsory barracks philosophy debates, but he wasn’t the first senior auxiliary to keep away from those. And we didn’t find any traces of Electric Blues in the quarters of the few auxiliaries he was close to.

  So the day passed, to be concluded by an uneventful Council meeting. I was keeping my head down in advance of the approaching night’s programme of recreation and the senior guardian was so impressed by my reticence that he expressed only minor criticisms of my report. Not that I’d told him anything significant. The real fun was just about to begin.

  We stopped at the retirement home on the way to Leith. I left the other two in the Land-Rover and ran up the stairs. The nurse made a half-hearted attempt to get in the way, but gave up when she saw it was me.

  “Hello, old man,” I said, gasping for breath as I went into the room on the top floor. The only light was a pool of yellow on the desk.

  My father looked up from his books. “Hello, failure. It’s a bit late for social calls, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, well, it’s not exactly a normal visit.”

  “I thought as much from the way you’re twitching around,” he said with a surprisingly lewd laugh. “Like a boy about to get his hands up a lassie’s skirt for the first time.” As he’s got older, Hector has become increasingly scabrous. That’s what you get from reading Juvenal all day.

  “It’s a bit more serious than that.”

  Hector stood up slowly from his chair and raised himself painfully to his full height. For all the aches and pains the old man suffers, he still has a commanding presence. “What exactly have you got yourself involved in, Quintilian?”

  “Em, it’s a bit sensitive.”

  My father’s eyes flashed. “Are you going to tell me or not?” he demanded.

  I smiled. “No, I’m not.” I handed him a brown envelope.

  “What’s this? Pocket money like those arsehole MPs used to take in the old days?”

  “What would you do with pocket money? You’ve got all the dirty books in Latin you need.” I heard a single blast from the Land-Rover’s horn. It was time to stop messing around. “Look, Hector, we’re doing something a bit risky. It’s all written down in there. Don’t open it unless . . . well, unless I don’t show up again.”

  His expression was grave now. “That bad?”

  I nodded. “And make sure you keep it somewhere secure. If it comes to the worst, your guess is as good as mine as to what you do with it.”

  “I’ll think of something.” He looked at me with a mixture of tenderness and annoyance. “You’ll never learn, will you?”

  I laughed. “On the contrary. I made sure I learned everything you taught me.”

  He shook his head. “I never taught you to be so headstrong, laddie.”

  I turned to go. “Oh, yes, you did.”

  “Quintilian?”

  I glanced back at the tall figure. The lower part was out of the circle of light and he looked like a ghost whose nether parts had been removed. In his case, probably by my mother.

  “This has to do with what Willie McEwan was saying, hasn’t it?” he said slowly.

  “Aye, it does.”

  “Good for you, lad.” His voice was suddenly faint.

  I left before the scene got too heavy.

  “They’ll be waiting for us in the docks,” Davie said as I got back into the Land-Rover.

  “Sorry.”

  Katharine looked at me in the dull light from the dashboard. “Are you all right, Quint?”

  “Of course. Nothing I like better than breaking every regulation in the book as well as several that have never even occurred to the Council.”

  “Boasting again,” muttered Davie.

  We were lucky with the weather. Well, as lucky as you can expect to be in the perfect city in January. At least the sky had clouded over and the night was murky enough to give us the illusion that our activities were going ahead in private. The reality is that there are informers all over the place, though the Fisheries Guard base in the docks is probably as secure as anywhere. The fact that it was cold enough to emasculate a king penguin was in our favour too, but you’d have had a job convincing me of that as I jumped out of the Land-Rover and kissed goodbye to the circulation in my feet.

  Leith began t
o get trendy around the time I was born in the 1980s, its old warehouses and merchants’ offices metamorphosing into duplex apartments and wine bars for bankers and the like. There are none of them left now, just good citizens working in the Labour Directorate’s facilities. I’ve always hated the place. Our family dentist lived and practised down here. He spent most of my childhood practising on me and never seemed to get any better. The dank streets outside the port area were quiet, the lights off as it was past curfew time. Leith is about as far as you can get from the tourist area and its inhabitants were all supposed to be tucked up in bed with a cup of what the Supply Directorate, with its vivid imagination, calls cocoa. A foghorn droned lazily as we waited for the gate to be opened, its melancholy sound sending a slow shiver up my spine.

  “What’s the matter?” Katharine asked. “Having second thoughts?”

  “Two hundred and second more like.”

  Then there was movement ahead of us. The gate swung back and a beaten-up guard vehicle which bore a vague resemblance to a Transit van backed towards us at speed.

  A burly guardsman, wearing – I’m not kidding – an eyepatch, stuck his head out. “Follow me!” he yelled, then set off like there was a time bomb in his cargo space. The fact that the head I glimpsed was completely bald and had a deep dent on the crown did nothing to settle my nerves.

  “Do you know him?” I asked Davie, who was struggling to keep the Transit’s single tail light in view.

  “Aye, that’s Harry – Jamieson 369. He’s a complete nutter.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “You know what happened to his head?” Davie looked away from the narrow road across a swingbridge and grinned.

  “Eyes front, guardsman,” I said, holding on to the bottom of my seat. Katharine couldn’t have looked less bothered if she’d tried.