‘Stay where you are!’ Davie yelled. He’d never needed a loudspeaker indoors. ‘This is Citizen Dalrymple, the Council’s special investigator. You do what he says or you answer to me.’
That did the trick. We were in the ex-guardian’s office under a minute later, followed by his personal assistant, an elderly female auxiliary whose eyes were red and watery. Apparently the deputy guardian had been called to a meeting with Fergus Calder.
I looked at the desk.
‘Where’s his computer?’
‘He had two desktops. The towers were gone when we came into work this morning, citizen.’
‘No sign of his laptop?’
‘No.’
‘Who took them?’
‘There’s no record in the security log.’
‘Get the night Guard unit,’ I said to Davie, going over to the desk. It was mahogany and looked new. I opened the drawers. They were all empty, as were the file cabinets on the walls.
‘I presume you kept records, Wilkie 88.’
‘Yes, citizen,’ she said, looking down. ‘But the directorate mainframe was down when we came in this morning. The technicians are still trying to restart it.’
‘Whatever happened to good old paper archives?’
The auxiliary looked at me as if I’d grown an extra nose. ‘We gave them up a year ago.’
‘Unlike some other directorates.’
‘The Finance Directorate’s fully digital now. And the Supply Directorate’s heading that way.’
Oddly, Fergus Calder, Jack MacLean and Billy Geddes hadn’t bothered to mention that. Why were their directorates and the late Peter Stewart’s at the frontline of the city’s technological revolution? I mean finance, yes; supply, obviously; but recreation? And what about the Council’s bulwark against chaos, the Public Order Directorate? Why hadn’t it been given priority?
‘Sit down,’ I said, beckoning her to an armchair and taking the one opposite. I checked her name panel. ‘Listen, Christine, I can see you’re upset about the guardian’s death.’
She stifled a sob. ‘We … we were friends before the last election.’
And more after it, I was sure.
‘I’m very sorry. Can you cast any light on what happened? Why would Peter kill himself?’
She shook her head repeatedly. ‘He wouldn’t … he wouldn’t.’
‘Was there something in the directorate that was troubling him?’
Wilkie 88 was an experienced auxiliary. She wasn’t going to break easily.
‘Something about football, maybe?’ I continued, assuming she was party to high-security matters. ‘The heart at Tynecastle must have been quite a blow to him.’ I thought back to the Council meetings. The recreation guardian hadn’t seemed overly concerned. Then again, it was strange that he hadn’t asked me about the investigation. After all, he was honorary president of all the EPL clubs and the managers reported to him.
‘Football,’ she repeated faintly, her gaze still directed at the carpet.
‘Look at me, Christine,’ I said softly. Eventually she complied. ‘Peter didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.’
‘What?’ She dropped her phone and electronic notepad. ‘He … what?’
I wasn’t going to spare her. ‘A rope was put round his neck and attached to the light fitting. Then somebody pulled on his legs until he choked to death. His tongue came out of his mouth and his eyes almost popped out of their—’
‘Stop it,’ the grey-haired auxiliary moaned. ‘Please … stop it …’
I gave her a few moments, not proud of myself.
‘The EPL,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘He … he didn’t like what was happening.’
I caught her eye. ‘What was happening?’
She looked around. The glass door was closed and her fellow auxiliaries were at their desks, pretending to be hard at work.
‘Last season there was illicit betting,’ she said, her voice so low I could hardly hear it. ‘Organized gambling. But it wasn’t Peter’s idea. He hated it. He tried … he tried to stop it.’
Which was probably why he was killed.
‘Whose idea was the gambling?’ I said.
Wilkie 88 shook her head violently. ‘I don’t … I don’t know …’
‘Yes, you do. You realize the people who had him killed were most likely pro-gambling?’
She thought about that. ‘All right … but you didn’t hear it from me.’
‘Of course. I’ll protect you.’
She didn’t look sure of that, but she spoke again: two words making a proper name that didn’t surprise me at all.
‘Billy Geddes.’
Shortly afterwards, Davie called and asked me to meet him in the directorate conference room on the seventh floor. As I walked down, I thought about what I’d heard. That Billy was involved in the betting made sense. He was the buffer between his boss, Jack MacLean, and the dirty work. I was sure that Fergus Calder knew about it too, but they could easily disown Billy as a renegade operator – he certainly had form. But what was I to do? Confronting the senior and finance guardians would probably lead to me being taken off the case – if not strung up from a light fitting. On the other hand, the senior guardian had agreed that I head the initial investigation and, despite the face-off in his quarters last night, I was still in place. The death of Peter Stewart made Calder’s life more difficult – only one serving guardian had been killed in office. Kicking me into the long grass would hardly strengthen his position. No, I was sure the senior and finance guardians were worried about the heart business, which meant they weren’t directly involved. So who was?
Davie was waiting outside a glass-enclosed room which contained four shell-shocked guardsmen.
‘I’ve put the boot in,’ he said. ‘Last night they were playing cards in a room behind the reception desk. They claimed they were keeping an eye open but that’s a load of shite. They were drinking too. One of them still reeks of it.’
‘Do you think they were told to turn a blind eye?’
‘If so, they’ve got some balls keeping that to themselves.’ Davie grinned. ‘Certain threats were made.’
‘Demotion, five years down the mines …’
‘That kind of thing.’
‘Any point in me playing soft cop?’
‘Too late for that. Besides, the head of computing is looking for you.’
I looked over my shoulder. A male auxiliary who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five was leaning against a desk, looking sicker than a dog.
‘Well, then, Watt 475,’ I said, looking at his ID panels. ‘Or rather, Douglas.’
‘Doogie.’ There were spots on his nose and his eyes were twitchy behind thick-rimmed spectacles.
‘Call me Quint. So, what’s the damage?’
‘We’ve got the mainframe up and running,’ he said. ‘As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, no files have been corrupted.’
‘What’s the catch?’
Doogie the Pluke looked like he was about to throw up. I took a step back.
‘Peter – the guardian’s – personal archive …’
‘I thought you said nothing had been corrupted.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Well, technically it hasn’t. It’s … been wiped.’
‘So why were his computers taken?’
‘To make sure he hadn’t hidden an encrypted file, I’d say.’
I went up to him and caught his gaze. ‘You called the guardian Peter. That means you were close.’
The auxiliary swallowed a sob. ‘He was like a … like a father to me.’
‘I’m sorry. The best thing you can do is work with Christine to find any of those encrypted files. Maybe he hid a – what are they called?’
‘Diskette?’
‘Yeah, those.’ I had very little idea about computers, not least because the Public Order Directorate made sure I never got my hands on even a superannuated one. ‘Maybe he secreted one somewhere in his office.’
‘I�
��ll get on to it right away.’
‘Just a minute.’ I grabbed his forearm. ‘Have you heard anything about betting in the EPL?’
His eyes shot open. ‘What? No, never.’
I half-believed him. ‘OK, keep that to yourself.’
He nodded nervously.
I watched him walk off. His suit looked like it had been slept in for several nights.
‘Any luck?’ Davie said, arriving at my side.
‘Not a lot.’ I could see activity at the conference centre. The Council’s only luxury vehicle – a pre-crisis Rolls Royce Phantom that had somehow survived the years of disorder – had drawn up. An honour guard saluted and I saw two men in suits walk into the building. Orkney and Shetland. Did they use to wear kilts in the old days? I thought not. It was very windy up there.
‘What’s next?’ Davie asked.
‘Not much more we can do here. Did Guardian Doris tell you anything about her chats with the other football managers?’
‘Only that three of them referred her to the recreation guardian. They haven’t been told he’s dead yet.’
I started walking to the stairs. Given the power cuts that bedevil the city, I avoided elevators, at least on the way down.
‘Curious that – considering he seems to have been implacably opposed to gambling.’
‘Almost like they knew he was going to be killed.’
I stopped and looked at him. ‘Premeditation. That’s a nasty and very credible thought, guardsman. What did the night Guard at Peter Stewart’s quarters say?’
‘That no one entered before you. That feeble auxiliary said the same. I sent them all to the castle. Shall we go and pull their chains?’
‘Stop licking your lips. All right, you can have another go at them. And at the night guard from the New Tolbooth – how did Grant Brown’s head get there without anyone noticing? Meanwhile, I’ve got other fish to fillet.’
‘Namely?’
‘There’s a drugs angle too, remember? According to Skinny Ewan, the Porty Pish got their dope from the Supply Directorate. Now, who knows everything that goes on in each directorate?’
‘The deputy guardian.’
‘Correct. I’m going to pay a call on that individual.’
Before I did so, I rang Doris and asked her to send a forensics team back to the recreation guardian’s house in Moray Place. In case he’d left any documentation or diskettes referring to gambling, they were to tear the place apart. Unfortunately, in my haste, I forgot to check out Peter Stewart’s deputy, who would now have taken his or her place unless the Council had something against him or her.
FOURTEEN
The Supply Directorate was located in what had been Waverley Station before rail links with the rest of the country were cut by the first Council after independence was declared. The city’s stores of everything from food to toilet paper (hard, thin and scratchy) and carpets to light bulbs (notoriously short-lived) were arranged in vast rows and tiers on the concrete base that had been laid over the rail tracks and platforms. The directorate’s headquarters were in a grimy grey block just to the south of the stores. It had been some joker of an architect’s take on brutalism, even though it was originally a hotel. Welcome to Ugly Town. The auxiliaries who worked in the Supply Directorate had a reputation for sticky fingers. A few of the most egregious thieves were demoted every year and sent to clean toilets in the worst of the tourist bars. The rest just got on with lining the pockets of their grey suits, depot overalls and Guard uniforms. The fact was citizens would have revolted in under a week if they weren’t able to obtain food and other essential supplies. The Council knew that and let the staff do what they wanted, within reason, as long as the directorate functioned. Plato, the Enlightenment’s presiding philosopher, had been a great one for reason, to the extent of kicking poets out of his ideal state. There aren’t many poets in contemporary Edinburgh.
I took out my authorization and went past the guards at the entrance. ‘Where’s the deputy guardian?’ I asked the pretty auxiliary on the front desk.
‘I …’
‘Actually, who’s the deputy guardian?’
‘Adam 159, citizen.’
‘And where is he?’
‘I’ll have to call his secretary.’
‘Don’t call anyone,’ I ordered. ‘Unless you want a year on the pig farms.’
She quivered more than her rank is supposed to. ‘Yes, citizen. I mean, no, citizen.’
‘Where’s his office?’
‘Sixth floor. The lift’s over there.’
‘Don’t tell him I’m coming,’ I threatened.
I went to the lift, speed being of the essence. I was unsure whether my imminent arrival would be communicated. It would have been a disgrace to intimidate the young woman for nothing.
Fortunately there was no power cut, accidental or otherwise; stopping the lift would have been a good way of buying the deputy guardian time. It would be the stairs for me next time, even going up.
The doors opened and I walked into a warren of small offices. There were few signs, directorates being deliberately organized to confuse visitors. I saw a tea lady, a middle-aged citizen in pale blue overalls, and went over to her.
‘Hullo, dearie,’ she said with a smile. My lack of uniform didn’t seem to bother her.
‘Hullo yourself.’
I leant closer. ‘It’s the deputy guardian’s birthday and I’ve got a surprise from the Council for him. Do you know where he is?’
The original Council banned birthday celebrations on the grounds that they were excessively self-indulgent. That’s been relaxed for ordinary citizens, but not for auxiliaries, at least officially.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ she said. ‘I gave him his tea a few minutes ago. He’s in with the head of personnel. Second corridor, fifth office on the left.’
‘Thanks, Evie,’ I said, having taken in her name panel.
‘That’s aw right. Here, haven’t I seen you before?’
I left before she remembered my face from stories in the Edinburgh Guardian about successful cases – the credit mainly being given to the Public Order Directorate. The corridor was stuffy, the smell a combination of over-boiled root vegetables, the flatulence they produce and sweat. Even barracks-issue soap is underpowered, the best ingredients being kept for the tourist variety.
I found the office. The sign said ‘Moray 402 – Head of Personnel’. Underneath it a wooden slide shouted ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ in red ink.
I disturbed.
The tableau could have come from one of the porn magazines that I’d frequently come across before independence and afterwards were smuggled in from Scandinavian states. The deputy guardian was kneeling on the floor with his back to me, his trousers and pants down. Moray 402, naked from the waist down, was lying on her desk, legs spread as her boss lapped away. Her moaning turned to a shriek, but Adam 159 stayed on the job, only pulling away when she closed her thighs on the sides of his head. She’d seen me.
‘Wha—?’ he gasped, rolling away and pulling at his trousers.
‘Wha indeed, deputy guardian,’ I said, closing the door.
The head of personnel had got off the desk and disappeared behind it, fumbling with her clothes.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the deputy guardian roared after he’d buttoned himself up. He frowned. ‘I know you.’
‘Citizen Dalrymple. Call me Quint.’
‘I fucking well won’t. What the hell are you doing here?’
I held up my authorization, though he should have known about it as all senior auxiliaries receive a daily update from the Council. He blustered incomprehensibly, eyes off his subordinate. I showed her the authorization too. She was a handsome woman, her bright red cheeks a minor and temporary flaw.
‘Right then,’ I said, picking up a condom wrapper and sitting in front of the desk. ‘I think Yolanda’– it was the first time I’d met an Edinburgh native with that name – ‘had better go and solve her personnel prob
lems elsewhere.’
The auxiliary left at speed, her shoes unlaced.
‘I suppose you think that was clever, Dalrymple,’ Adam 159 said. He was an unusually corpulent auxiliary in his fifties, his face pitted with either acne or shrapnel scars.
‘I could say the same to you, Joseph Sutherland. Don’t tell me – your nickname is Uncle Joe.’
He didn’t favour that with an answer, rather fishing out the condom from his pants. He tossed it in my direction. That got him both barrels.
‘Someone in this directorate is trafficking drugs, you fuck!’
The air went out of him like a pricked balloon. ‘What?’ he said faintly.
‘Drugs!’ I yelled. ‘Tell me what’s going on now or answer to the Council tonight.’
‘But I don’t know anything about drugs,’ he said, dropping into Moray 402’s chair. ‘What kind of drugs?’
‘Narcotic, not pharmaceutical.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘From a confidential but one hundred per cent credible source.’ Pity Skinny Ewan was dead. Maybe the truth drug was unreliable in other ways too – he might have told us whatever came into his mind. I kept that idea to myself.
‘You can’t walk into my directorate and make accusations like that.’
‘Yes, I can. But you can’t expect me to believe that you know nothing about drug supplies emanating from the depot across the road.’
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a grey tissue.
‘You’ve been keeping this from your guardian, haven’t you?’ I said.
‘I … the guardian has much on his mind, especially considering his role as the city’s leader.’
‘You do remember that anything related to illicit drugs is graded by the Public Order Directorate as a class-one crime.’
He nodded rapidly. ‘I tell you, I don’t know anything.’
I stood up. ‘All right, you’ve had your chance. We’re going to the castle.’
‘Wait,’ the auxiliary said, scrambling to his feet. ‘If I put you in touch with my drugs squad leader, would that be any help?’
I played hard to get. ‘You have a drugs squad?’
‘Of course. We can’t have Guard personnel from the castle stamping around the warehouse and causing chaos any time they get a tip off.’
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