‘A Supply Directorate truck made a delivery there yesterday afternoon.’
He shrugged. ‘So? Have you any idea how many deliveries are made in the city every day? You can’t expect me—’
‘There were five pounds of cocaine in this one.’
His face fell as rapidly as the House of Windsor.
‘Commander, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t recreational drugs for tourist use have to be registered with the Guard and kept in a high-security lock-up?’
‘You aren’t wrong, citizen,’ Davie said loudly, making Adam 159 jump.
‘You shouldn’t … you shouldn’t be speaking to me. I told you, Knox 31’s in charge of drugs in the warehouse.’
I smiled. ‘Knox 31 and his team found the cocaine. I’m on my way to tell the senior guardian about it now.’
‘No …’ The auxiliary gasped as Davie’s service knife appeared at his throat.
‘I think you mean, “Yes, I’ll tell you all about it, citizen”.’
Uncle Joe’s face was a bath of sweat.
‘Um … yes … I … the …’ He broke off, unable to speak from what looked very like terror.
I moved my head and Davie’s knife disappeared.
‘Nothing to be frightened about now,’ I said.
‘If … if only you knew.’ Adam 159 was still as nervy as a drugs-gang member in front of a Guard firing squad in the old days.
‘Tell me, Joe,’ I said, taking his arm. ‘It’ll be a relief.’
He looked around and then leaned close. ‘I’m only following orders.’
The excuse of every spineless bureaucrat in history. I managed to restrain myself from kneeing him in the balls, but only just. He realized that.
‘It’s true. Every week a list of consignments not to be checked by the drugs unit is sent to the directorate.’
‘We know.’
‘You … how?’
I tapped the side of my nose. ‘The question is who sends the list?’
‘I … I don’t know.’
Davie stepped closer again, his knife scraping across the back of the auxiliary’s hand.
‘The Public Order Directorate. Or at least they arrive in a POD envelope.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time that gangs had used stolen stationery,’ I said. That had just occurred to me.
‘Does your boss know?’
‘I … I’m not sure.’ Adam 159 suddenly looked like he was going to throw up.
I took a step to the side. ‘You haven’t shown him any of the lists?’
‘He … doesn’t like to be bothered by detail.’
‘Detail? Five pounds of coke isn’t a fucking detail.’
The auxiliary hung his head. ‘They … threatened my mother.’
‘What? Who did?’
‘The … the Lancers.’ He gave me a crazed look. ‘They’ll track her down, whichever home I have her transferred to.’
‘How are these threats delivered?’
‘By phone.’
I scoffed. ‘Someone phones up saying they’re from the Leith Lancers and you believe them?’
‘They sent me … a photo in the post.’ Now he really did look like he was going to empty his stomach. I led him swiftly to the toilets and let him get on with it.
‘What did the photo show?’ I said when he’d finished swallowing water from the tap.
‘The … the severed head of an old woman.’ He retched again.
‘And, of course, they told you not to show it to anyone,’ I said, cutting him some slack.
‘They told me to destroy it, which I did.’
That was a great help. I left him at the sink and went out to the hall.
‘Do you believe that fat shite?’ Davie said.
‘Yes.’ I told him about the photo.
‘What is it about heads?’
‘Seems to be the Lancers’ new modus operandi.’
‘You think they cut the heads off the guardsman and the citizen beyond the line?’
‘They or someone they’re working with. Or for.’
‘What about the hearts?’
‘They may be another story altogether.’
He looked confused. I didn’t blame him.
‘Right, come on,’ I said.
‘Billy Geddes?’ Davie said.
‘Yes. I saw him in the private dining area with the senior guardian and the guests.’
‘Is this a good idea?’ It was one of the few occasions when Davie showed reluctance.
‘Probably not. You stay here if you like.’
He thought about it. ‘No, where would you be without your knight in muddy combat gear. Lead on, Dick.’
I led.
There was a pair of tunic-bursting guardsmen at the partition that marked off the private dining room. They couldn’t say no to my authorization, but that didn’t mean they were happy. One of them went to consult the senior guardian. I skipped in after him while Davie restrained his colleague, I wasn’t sure how. Testicles, probably.
The diners were sitting around an oval table, halfway through their main course. A huge rib roast of beef sat on a smaller table to the rear and I almost started drooling. Apart from Fergus Calder, Jack MacLean and Billy Geddes there were the two island governors, who looked out of their depth in ill-fitting suits and garish ties. Then there was the Lord of the Isles. He was resplendent in full highland evening dress. His silver-studded black jacket set off his puffy red face and his primarily red kilt. I could see the latter because he’d stood up.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he demanded, in a high voice that was a strange mixture of the Queen’s English that was still hanging on during my youth and an American twang. ‘Who is this scarecrow?’
At least he didn’t call me a tattie-bogle.
‘Citizen,’ the senior guardian said, a smile on his lips but not in his eyes, ‘this is hardly the time or the place. Guards.’
The gorilla to my rear was still in Davie’s grip, but the other one came at me.
‘Heads or hearts?’ I said rapidly.
‘What?’ The Lord of the Isles was less interested in my clothes now. ‘What is this, Fergus?’
I’d been grabbed by the scruff of my neck and lifted from the ground.
‘Tell your guests,’ I said. ‘Tell them about the heads that have joined the hearts in popping up.’
I’d been hauled beyond the partition when the senior guardian called his man back. I was deposited at his end of the table. From the middle, Billy was staring at me and shaking his head.
‘What is he saying?’ the Lord of the Isles asked, still on his feet. ‘Fergus? Jack?’
The two guardians exchanged looks and then nodded at each other.
‘Very well,’ Calder said. ‘Please sit down, Angus. And you, citizen.’
I was pushed into a chair by the guardsman, who stood within skull-crushing range behind me.
The senior guardian gave me a long-suffering look. ‘What’s this about, Dalrymple?’
‘Dalrymple?’ said the Lord of the Isles, emptying his wine glass. ‘Is this the famous Quintilian of that ilk?’ His hair was pure white, cut en brosse. He was a cross between a tourist attraction and a retired Marine Corps general. Not that there’d been a Marine Corps since the USA disunited.
‘The same.’
‘My lord,’ said the finance guardian.
I ignored that. So did the lord.
‘Clan Dalrymple,’ the man in the kilt said. ‘Ayrshire origins, I believe. Do you know what the clan crest is?’
‘Em, no.’ The original Council had banned clan societies and removed books about the ancient families of Scotland from the city’s libraries in its drive to root out all remnants of the class system and potentially nationalist material. Neither of my parents was interested in genealogy before the crisis, while I was keener on the roots of blues music.
‘A rock proper.’ The aristocrat gave me a pitying smile. ‘Which means in its natural colouring. How about th
e clan motto?’
‘Never unprepared?’ I suggested.
‘No, no, that belongs to Clan Johnston – “Nunquam non paratus”. Clan Dalrymple’s motto is “Firm”.’
There was a faint laugh from Davie and a guffaw from Billy.
‘I’ve no doubt you’re aware of your own clan’s characteristics, Mr Geddes,’ the Lord of the Isles said caustically.
‘Actually, no.’
‘Sadly the Clan Ged is without a chief and has no legal standing. Its crest is the head of a pike and its motto is “Durat ditat placet”.’
Billy had to ask for a translation.
‘“It sustains, it enriches, it pleases”.’
This time I was the one who laughed.
The Lord of the Isles turned to the guardians, who turned out to be never unprepared.
‘Calder – a hart’s head caboched sable, attired gules,’ said the senior guardian. ‘Motto, “Be mindful”.’
‘Again, how appropriate,’ I muttered.
Jack MacLean stood up. ‘A tower embattled argent. “Virtue mine honour”.’
I almost swallowed my tongue.
‘And you, my lord?’ Calder asked.
‘On a castle triple towered, an arm in armour, embowed, holding a sword, proper. “My hope is constant in thee”.’ The aristocrat smiled tightly. ‘Thee referring to God, not you, Fergus. It’s such a shame you did away with religion in your city. Not to mention the traditional great families.’
‘Well, things are changing,’ the senior guardian said, giving me a sharp look.
‘What about Oliphant?’ I asked, determined that Davie shouldn’t escape torture by surname.
‘Ah, a fine old family, supporters of Mary, Queen of Scots and Bonnie Prince Charlie, the latter at the cost of banishment. Let me see … unicorn coupled argent, crined and armed, or. Motto, “Tout pourvoir”, or “Provide for all”.’ The Lord of the Isles looked at me curiously.
I pointed to Davie, who now had the gorilla in a headlock.
The Lord gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Wrong kind of provision, I think. At least he isn’t using a unicorn horn.’
The others round the table smiled at the witticism.
‘Let him go, commander,’ Calder ordered.
Davie looked at me and then complied. The guardsman gave him a blacker-than-the-devil look.
‘After that pleasant diversion, back to heads and hearts.’ Angus MacDonald’s small blue eyes fixed on me. ‘What were you referring to, Dalrymple?’
‘I don’t know if you’ve been informed,’ I said, ignoring the guardians and Billy, ‘but Edinburgh’s having a bit of a problem with those parts of the anatomy.’
‘I—’ The Lord of the Isles broke off, glancing at his distinctly non-aristocratic counterparts from the northern islands. ‘I am aware of the heart issue.’
‘Having had similar organs placed in the centre spots of your own football fields.’
That got to them in a big way. Variants of ‘How do you know?’ and ‘Who told him?’ flew at me, while the Orkney and Shetland representatives exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone,’ I said. ‘Oh, apart from the Oliphant.’
All eyes were on me. I love a keen audience.
‘I take it you have no idea who left the hearts?’ I said, looking at the Lord of the Isles. ‘Two, was it?’
‘Three. And no, I have no idea.’
‘Did anyone caution discretion?’
He glared at me and then nodded.
‘Who were the victims?’
Apparently no heartless bodies had been found.
‘Seditionists,’ Angus MacDonald said. ‘I’m sure of it. They’ll be found and hanged.’
‘Why would seditionists – I take it you mean members of your citizen body – cut out human hearts?’
My question went unanswered.
‘Betting on the football,’ I said, tossing in the phrase like a hand-grenade whose pin had been removed.
There was another volley of ‘What?’, ‘Pardon?’ and the like.
‘Is there betting on the football in your states?’ I clarified.
‘Certainly not,’ said the Lord of the Isles. ‘Gambling is not the behaviour of good Christians.’
The men from Orkney and Shetland also confirmed the absence of gambling in their islands, though without the religious element. It was too windy for football in the winter, I also learned. Their season ran from April to October.
‘What are you getting at, citizen?’ the senior guardian said in a low voice.
‘Let him continue, Fergus,’ commanded Angus MacDonald.
‘Whereas here, there is gambling,’ I said. ‘Illegal, of course – apart from the tourists – but organized by the clubs in the Edinburgh Premier League.’ I stared at the guardians. ‘The strange thing is no one in the city hierarchy seems to be aware of it.’ I turned to Billy. ‘Unless it’s being run under his nose by the finance guardian’s special adviser, executive – it, or rather he, who sustains, enriches and pleases.’
Billy’s mouth was open as if he was lost for words – an unusual state of affairs.
Jack MacLean glared at him. ‘What is this, Geddes?’
‘Take him to the castle, citizen,’ the senior guardian said.
‘One moment,’ said the Lord of the Isles. ‘Dalrymple, you mentioned heads as well as hearts. Explain.’ He raised a hand. ‘No, Fergus, let the man speak. After all, he is your Sherlock Holmes.’
My Doctor Watson grinned.
‘Two days ago, a severed head was found among the fake ones on the New Tolbooth. In addition—’
There was a loud crash as the window behind the table was smashed by a large rock, pieces of glass landing on the men around it. I ducked and got a shard in my scalp for my pains. Fortunately it didn’t go in deep. I had just finished pulling it out when something else came through the hole in the window and landed on the table, knocking over a silver candle-holder.
There were shouts of horror, the Lord of the Isle’s being particularly shrill.
Propped upright against a bowl of roast potatoes and looking at him with eyes wide open was the limp-haired head of a middle-aged man.
In the chaos that followed, I managed to keep hold of Billy’s wheelchair, much to his irritation. The guardians took their guests away, surrounded by Guard personnel, while Davie organized the search in Rose Street, behind the Walter Scott Rooms. There was no shortage of guardsmen and women in what was one of the tourist zone’s most frequented streets, lined by bars, restaurants, clubs and casinos. It quickly became clear that two men in Maintenance Department overalls and helmets had been seen entering and leaving the area behind the Rooms. Behind a screen, put there to provide security and privacy for diners, was a low scaffold beneath the window. From there the men were invisible to passers-by and carousers and in the noise from the bands playing in the pubs, no one had noticed either the crash from the rock or the subsequent throwing of the head.
I wheeled Billy round.
‘I don’t suppose you know anything about this?’ I said.
‘Of course not, you wanker.’
I laughed. ‘Like you don’t know anything about gambling in the EPL.’
‘No comment.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I watched as an auxiliary in a ludicrously short skirt and a blouse that left nothing to the imagination led a group of African men in brightly coloured robes into a club called Toss Your Caber. Traditional Scottish objects were blithely used by the Tourism Directorate, no matter what the Council laid down for ordinary citizens.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Davie said when he came back from ordering his subordinates about. ‘No one saw a thing.’
‘What about the men in overalls?’ I asked.
‘Gone.’
‘Vanished into the crowds like mist on the morning hills,’ Billy said with a cackle.
‘Listen, my friend,’ I said, ‘we’re going to the castle and you’re going to talk.’
>
Billy gave Davie a dismissive look. ‘What, the big lump’s going to torture me?’
‘That can be arranged.’
Davie grinned malevolently, but Billy was a tough little bastard.
‘We could always use the medical guardian’s truth drug,’ I said, watching his twisted face.
That made his eyes shoot open. ‘What truth drug?’ he demanded.
‘Haven’t you heard of it?’ I said, more interested in the fact that he didn’t know the compound had been stolen. ‘The leader of the Porty Pish spilled his guts in under five minutes.’
Davie laughed. ‘Course, it didn’t end too well for him.’
‘What happened?’ Billy said, his face white.
‘He croaked,’ I said.
The drive to the castle was uninterrupted by conversation.
TWENTY
‘Stick him in an interrogation room,’ I said to Davie. ‘I’ve got to see Guardian Doris.’
I found her in the command centre.
‘I can’t understand how those men in overalls could just disappear on Rose Street,’ she said after greeting me. ‘We’ve got an alert out, but they’ll be long gone.’
‘Any news on the head?’
‘It’s been taken to the infirmary. We’ll get a photograph and circulate it to all barracks.’
‘You could always try to match him to the list of those who’ve gone missing.’
She gave a hollow laugh. Updated daily, that list is long. ‘We’re working on it. The senior guardian wants answers.’
I nodded. ‘What did you get from the Mist?’
‘Raeburn 124 still has senior auxiliary rank,’ she said, not very convincingly.
‘Until?’
‘The disciplinary board tomorrow.’
‘After which she’ll be mopping vomit in a tourist dive?’
‘I don’t think so, Quint. She’s a former holder of my office.’
‘Not for long she wasn’t. If Hamish Buchanan hadn’t looked after her, she’d have been demoted years ago.’
She gave me the look that guardians use when lower ranks get uppity.
I paid no attention. ‘Did she tell you anything useful?’
‘Nothing you hadn’t already reported.’
‘You don’t think she was in with the outsiders, like Hume 481 was.’
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