I followed Sophia over. The body was naked and the neck was a mass of tattered skin and roughly severed muscle, arteries and veins. At least there was no blood.
‘As you can see, the head was removed with a jagged instrument.’
‘I suggest a wood saw,’ put in the short pathologist, getting an irritated look from his colleague.
That conjured up a horrific image. Chopping someone’s head off with an axe was bad enough, but sawing would have taken time and caused terrible pain. ‘Very different from the blade used to extract the heart,’ I said.
Tall and Short nodded, as did Sophia.
‘What about the rest of the body?’
‘As you can see, the hands have recent abrasions,’ said Short. ‘Other than that, there is no external damage.’
I looked at the corpse. ‘What do you think, around six feet tall?’
‘I’d say so,’ said Tall, this time beating his colleague to it.
‘And I calculate his weight, head attached, at around thirteen stone,’ said Short.
‘He looks well fed enough,’ I observed.
‘Yes, there’s impressive muscle development on the upper arms and thighs.’
I looked at the hands again. ‘I wonder how recent some of these abrasions are. The nails are cracked too. A manual labourer, I’d say.’
‘Yes,’ concurred Tall and Short.
I went over to the nearest table and examined the clothing. The shirt, underpants and trousers were standard citizen-issue, as were the boots, which were scratched and worn. The dead man took a size ten. His pockets were empty, as the guardsman at the scene had said. I felt round the collar of the donkey jacket, my latex-covered fingers running over the rough material. Nothing. Then I tried the sleeves – nothing. All that was left were the bottom seams. Citizens sometimes sewed valuables in there. Not this one.
I nodded at Sophia, stripped off my gloves and gown and went out of the morgue.
Davie was waiting in the corridor, having sent the dead man’s fingerprints to the castle.
‘We have his identity,’ he said, opening his notebook. ‘Grant Brown, 12 Grange Terrace. He worked for the Housing Directorate as a builder. His record’s clean.’
‘Family?’
‘Parents are dead. No record of a long-term relationship. He’s hetero.’
‘We’d better get over to his home.’
My mobile rang as we reached the infirmary’s entrance hall.
‘Citizen Dalrymple, this is the senior guardian. Come to my office immediately.’
I groaned. ‘Can’t it wait till the Council meeting? It’s only a couple of hours from now.’
‘No.’ The connection was cut.
I was tempted to ignore the call, but decided to play along with the guardians – maybe they’d let something drop without realizing. Davie went off to the headless man’s place with an attractive guardswoman, so he was happy.
I got a guardsman to drive me down the Royal Mile. The senior guardian’s office was in the former Scottish parliament, behind the Council chamber.
‘Ah, there you are, Quint,’ Fergus Calder said, suddenly my best friend.
Jack MacLean was lounging in an armchair and didn’t bother to get up. He gave me a languid wave and a smile he thought was welcoming. Then Billy Geddes rolled forward, his eyes cold and his mouth twisted.
‘The three musketeers,’ I said, looking around. ‘Though you seem to have mislaid your peashooters.’
‘And one of our citizens has mislaid his head,’ said the finance guardian. ‘Report, please.’
I glanced at Calder, trying to work out who was really the head honcho. He seemed unperturbed. I told them the little we’d so far discovered about Grant Brown.
‘And as far as you know,’ said the senior guardian, ‘there’s no connection between the heart and head cases.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘That isn’t the sort of inference I draw. Obviously there are differences in the modus operandi, but we’re still looking at missing body parts.’
‘Is there some kind of mind–body question being raised?’ Calder asked. ‘Are the soul, the mind, the seat of the emotions in the head or the heart?’
There could well have been some such subtext, but I wasn’t going to indulge that kind of thinking. For a start, there wasn’t any evidence.
‘No idea, Fergus,’ I said, upping the ante. ‘According to your friend Billy here, all that matters is global trade.’
Jack MacLean frowned. ‘You have a problem with that?’
‘I like a banana first thing in the morning as much as the next citizen, but not if it leads to murder and mutilation.’
‘Supply Directorate bananas are sourced from cooperatives in Guatemala.’
‘Great. How about the coffee?’
‘We’re getting off the point here, Quint,’ Calder said with a nervous smile. ‘I understand a guardsman has gone missing.’
I nodded, but didn’t speak. It’s always interesting to see how guardians cope with auxiliary misbehaviour.
‘Probably had enough and took his parents over to Fife,’ said the finance guardian.
Since the warring gangs over the Forth had been brought under control by an organization of landowners and fiery young farmers, citizens – and auxiliaries – had been tempted over. None has ever been heard from again.
‘Of course, a senior auxiliary has disappeared too.’ It looked like I had the jump on them. ‘Alec Ferries, the Hearts manager.’
‘Why haven’t we heard about that?’ the senior guardian said, his fists balling.
‘I’m sure the recreation and/or public order guardian are on the point of letting you know.’
He pressed buttons on his mobile and shouted at the person on the other end, demanding to know why he hadn’t been informed. I got the impression the recipient of his words was the recreation guardian rather than Guardian Doris.
‘Feel better now?’ I said when he’d finished. Handbrake turns in the conversation often catch guardians off their guard. ‘What do you know about flunitrazepam?’
There was a silence that was eventually broken by Billy.
‘Date-rape drug, yes? Can’t remember what it used to be called.’
‘Rohypnol.’
‘That’s it.’ I grinned at him. ‘I don’t suppose you ever used it.’
‘Fuck off, Quint.’
‘What’s its relevance?’ said Calder.
‘It was found in the system of Muckle Tony Robertson, the leader of the Leith Lancers, who supposedly hanged himself last night but didn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ MacLean demanded, suddenly more alert.
‘My thinking is that he was drugged into unconsciousness, then strung up and downward pressure exerted so he suffocated. Whoever did it wanted to make very sure he died.’
‘The guardsman?’
‘It may have been Hume 481,’ I said, smiling loosely. ‘Or perhaps he was got at and forced to admit the killer or killers. Either way, he’d have good reason to run.’
The senior guardian held up his right hand. ‘I’m confused. What has a dead drugs-gang leader got to do with the heart and the head?’
I raised my shoulders. ‘Search me. But Hume 481 also crossed the city line some weeks ago. He may have been in touch with outsiders.’ I looked at Billy. ‘And, as I was told last night, certain outsiders have got problems with hearts on centre-circles as well.’
‘My SPADE was told to brief you,’ said MacLean. ‘I hope you haven’t told anyone else.’
I shook my head. ‘I was considering breaking the news to the guardians at this evening’s meeting.’
Jack MacLean laughed. ‘We thought you might, which is why you’re here and won’t be attending the meeting.’
Interesting, but I didn’t react.
‘What do you think about the hearts appearing in Glasgow and Inverness?’ Calder asked.
‘As I’m not allowed to talk to anyone in those cities, what can I think? It lets
you off the hook, of course – you can say the heart was left by an outsider.’
‘We’re not going public about it,’ MacLean said firmly. ‘That’s been agreed with our counterparts in the other cities.’
‘Anyway, you’re on less steady ground with the decapitation. Or have heads rolled elsewhere too?’
‘No,’ Billy said. ‘That looks like an Edinburgh special.’
‘So far,’ said the senior guardian.
‘Any more calls to Guardian Doris recommending discretion?’ I asked. I wasn’t sure that she’d have told me.
‘No.’ This time MacLean was first with the negative.
‘Has the head been found?’ Fergus Calder asked.
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
‘Shit!’ said Jack MacLean. ‘This is just what we need with the referendum on the horizon.’
Out of the mouths of babes and guardians. The thought had been floating around my brain all afternoon, but now I had it. When I was a kid, my old man used to listen to the news every morning and evening. I didn’t pay much attention, but I remember a Scottish politician back in pre-devolution days – there was something fishy about his name – saying that, like William Wallace, Scots could talk about freedom with ‘head and heart’.
I didn’t know what to make of that, apart from keep it to myself.
SEVEN
I rang Davie when I was outside the Council building.
‘Get over here,’ he said. ‘Grant Brown’s girlfriend’s just turned up.’
I waved at a passing Guard 4×4 and showed the driver my authorization.
‘Grange Terrace. Pretty wild out there, citizen,’ the grizzled guardsman said.
‘Call me Quint. Pretty wild all over the city these days.’
‘True enough. It was better when citizens knew their place.’
I had a live one. Although younger auxiliaries have, on the whole, accepted the Council’s relaxation policy, some of the older ones are fans of Genghis Khan.
‘I’ve never known my place,’ I said as we headed up the Pleasance.
The driver laughed. ‘I know you, Bell 03 as was. I served under you when we drove those head-bangers out of Fettes. Shame they blew the place sky high.’
‘Not a shame that we didn’t go up with it.’
‘True enough. Here, what’s this about a headless man in the canal? You’re in on that, aren’t you?’
‘Remember the no-gossip clause in auxiliary regulations?’
That shut him up. He dropped me off in Grange Terrace and accelerated away as soon as I shut the door. A group of badly dressed kids was standing around Davie’s vehicle.
‘Hey, mister, d’ye fancy helpin’ us nick this?’ asked a red-headed lad with pimples.
‘Did you see the size of the guardsman that got out of it?’
Davie appeared at the front door of a Georgian townhouse that had been divided into flats like all such buildings outside the centre. The would-be car thieves were away before he could open his mouth.
‘Might be an idea to get your colleague to stand guard.’
‘She’s doing a good job calming down Cecilia.’
‘Cecilia. You don’t hear that name often in Edinburgh. Patron saint of music, you know.’
‘What’s a saint?’
‘You’re looking at one.’
He burst out laughing, then put a hand over his mouth. ‘The poor girl’s in a hell of a state.’
I followed him in. Grant Brown’s flat was on the top floor, what would originally have been the servants’ quarters. It had two rooms, both with sloping ceilings and a decent view to the hills in the south. There were the standard sparse pieces of furniture. Cecilia was sitting on the single bed, the guardswoman’s arm around her.
I kneeled down in front of her and mumbled words of commiseration, not that they offer much consolation at such times. After a while I nodded at the guardswoman, Nasmyth 436, and she slipped away, probably to be consoled by Davie.
‘I can’t … I can’t understand … why …’ Cecilia gasped. ‘Grant was … a good lad … everybody … liked him.’
I got up and sat next to her. ‘Tell me about him,’ I said softly.
‘Och, he was funny and … and sweet … and good at his work … and … and he loved me … we were going to get … married.’ She sobbed pitifully. ‘Not that we’d applied for a licence.’ That explained why the dead man’s file showed no long-term partner, though in the old days even an unofficial relationship would have been noted.
I gave her a few moments before going on. ‘Where was he working, Cecilia?’
‘In Slateford – they’re building new flats.’
Not far from where the body was found.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘This morning. I was … I was here.’
Citizens were now allowed to spend the night together, as long as no other residents of city accommodation minded.
‘And how was he?’
‘Happy … he kissed me and we … we arranged to meet here this afternoon. I’m still with my parents in Corstorphine.’
‘That’s a few bus journeys away. Where do you work?’
‘In the tourist zone – a souvenir shop.’ That explained the neat white blouse and black skirt beneath her coat.
‘Has he been acting normally recently?’
‘Oh aye. Nothing ever got … got Grant down.’ She wiped her eyes.
‘Any problems at work? Enemies?’
‘I told you, everyone liked him …’
I let her weep again. We’d do the relevant checks, but it was possible the dead man had been randomly chosen.
‘Course, he did love his football,’ Cecilia said in a small voice.
Or maybe not so random. ‘Who did he support?’
‘No, he was a player.’
My heart missed a beat.
‘For Hibs,’ she added.
Another unwelcome coincidence. A heart at Heart of Midlothian and now a head missing from a player of their great rivals, Hibernian.
‘And you know … you know the worst thing?’ Cecilia clutched my hand. ‘His nickname was … was Ironheid.’
She fainted on to the bed.
‘What happened?’ Davie said from the door.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ I replied.
To his credit he did.
The Guard unit at Easter Road, home of Hibs, reported that there was no heart on site.
‘You don’t think he lost his head because of his nickname?’ Davie asked, as he drove us towards the ground.
‘Who knows? Ironheid sounds like a drugs-gang handle but his record was clean.’
‘He could have escaped notice or been a recent recruit.’
I nodded. ‘Whatever, I don’t think Cecilia knew about it, poor lass.’
‘So what do we do? Interrogate the players?’
‘You can get that started. I’ll do the management.’
We arrived at the green-girdered stadium soon afterwards, the rain now horizontal thanks to a west wind that had got up. If we were lucky, people would be around for evening training – they were all part-timers.
‘Who’s in charge?’ I asked the Guard commander on site.
‘I am, citizen,’ the keen young auxiliary said.
‘Of the football club.’
‘Oh. That’s Smail, Derick Smail. His office is on the first floor.’
I heard Davie ordering that the players be assembled. He’d have to delegate some of the interviews, but he would quickly spot anyone with a suspicious look to him.
I went in a half-open door that was painted green and white. A portly, middle-aged citizen in a badly fitting suit was bent over papers on a desk that was of much better quality than those provided by the Supply Directorate.
‘Derick Smail?’ I said.
He looked up as if I’d caught him with his hand down his pants.
‘That’s me. Who are you?’
I held out my authorizati
on.
‘Oh, Citizen Dalrymple. I’m very glad tae see you. Know all about your successes, of course.’
‘Uh-huh. But do you know about Ironheid?’
‘What?’
‘Your player, Grant Brown.’
‘Talented striker, aye. Scored over twenty goals last season. Didnae see him tonight, come tae think ae it.’
I wasn’t going to break the news to him gently. The city’s football managers are notoriously slippery, especially those in the ten-team Premier League. The Recreation Directorate is supposed to keep them in check, but the citizen managers were much cannier than auxiliaries when it comes to wheeling and dealing. Which reminded me – we hadn’t found the Hearts manager.
‘How many of Brown’s goals were headers?’
‘Quite a few. That’s where the name came frae.’
‘Well, he’s not going to be scoring any more of those.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because his head’s gone missing.’
Derick Smail’s shock seemed genuine. ‘You mean, he was …’ He wasn’t capable of getting an appropriate word out.
‘Beheaded? Decapitated? That’s it. Any idea why?’
The manager had collapsed in his chair. ‘I cannae … I cannae believe it.’
I moved closer. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because he was a good lad. Never turned up late for training, fought hard on the pitch but was sweet as sugar substitute off it, had a nice girlfriend …’
‘Can I see his file, please?’
Smail hesitated, but not for long. I took the green paper folder and opened it. Grant Brown was twenty-eight, had been with Hibs since football was reinstituted three years ago and had no disciplinary record – not even a yellow card, and the referees were auxiliaries with short fuses.
‘So you’ve no idea why he was the victim of such a horrific crime?’
‘None at all, citizen. It mustae bin somethin’ to dae wi’ his work. He was a builder. Ye ken how sneaky some of them are.’
Nothing compared with the average football manager, but I let that go.
‘How about friends here? Did he have any?’
‘He was very popular, ye ken?’
‘Any particular pals?’
‘Em, Allie Swanson and Lachie Vass.’
‘Their files, please.’
He handed them over and I took a quick look. Swanson, Alistair, was a midfielder and Vass, Lachlan, the goalkeeper. Then something caught my eye. They were both residents of Portobello, the north-eastern suburb where Yellow Jacko’s gang, the Pish, came from.
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