Heads or Hearts

by Paul Johnston

  He glanced at me as we headed west down Ferry Road. ‘You’re not going to go after the new recreation guardian at this time of night?’

  ‘No. I want to see what’s on this first.’

  ‘So why not the castle?’

  ‘Because Sophia’s got a high-powered computer in her place.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh aye? Needing a kiss and a cuddle, are we?’

  ‘Might be,’ I replied. ‘Keep your eyes on the road, please.’

  A Guard vehicle went past on the other side, missing us by inches.

  ‘I had it under control,’ said Davie touchily.

  ‘Of course you did.’

  ‘There is one thing, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We reek like undertakers. How do you think the medical guardian will like that?’

  ‘What do you think she smells like all day in the infirmary?’

  Davie grunted. ‘She’s got a kid. Do you think she goes home stinking like a charnel house?’

  He had a point. I directed him to my flat. He could listen to music while I showered and changed clothes.

  But I’d forgotten what was waiting for me there.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The books were in a couple of piles on my coffee table. I’d had them delivered after Muckle Tony Robertson’s murder-disguised-as-suicide in his cell at the castle. It had struck me as odd at the time that a gang leader would be into reading, though that was fatuous considering the Council’s life-long education programme. Then again, hard men tended to take science courses so they could learn how to make weapons and bombs. Edinburgh writing was the only compulsory literature subject.

  Davie had put on Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew, which gave me a bit of a headache. When I asked for something softer, he responded with some awful seventies pop. The Bay City Rockers, was it? How the hell were they in my collection? We ended up in silence.

  ‘What was the boss of the Leith Lancers doing with the City Regulations?’ I said, picking up the tattered black book. ‘Trying to work as many ways to get round them as possible, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s a copy in every cell,’ Davie said. ‘As if they’ll see the enlight.’

  I laughed. ‘That wasn’t bad for you.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  I flicked through pages, looking for notes or messages. ‘Do they get writing equipment?’

  ‘No chance. You know how dangerous pens and pencils can be in skilled hands.’

  That explained the unmarked pages. I checked all the books carefully. Nothing of interest, not even pages with the corners turned. Then I came to Free City: The History of Edinburgh. Brian Cowan, the education guardian, had written most of it and introduced it into the city’s senior schools a couple of years back. There was widespread hysteria amongst citizens who’d lived through the drugs wars and subsequent years, and many parents made sure their kids heard the real story as opposed to the rose-red narrative the guardian had imagined.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘What’s this?’

  Davie looked at the small holes in the paper under certain letters, starting on page three, continuing on page six and on every third page until page 126. ‘How did he make the holes?’ he asked.

  ‘Assuming he did. The book’s in good nick, so he probably was the first reader.’

  ‘Only everything sharp is taken from them.’

  I thought about that. ‘Could he have grown his nails and bitten off the tops of the larger ones?’

  ‘As far as I recall, prisoners have their finger- and toenails cut short every week – they can be dangerous weapons too.’

  ‘Whatever. Let’s assume Muckle Tony made the marks. There are about thirty on every page, times forty-two pages equals 1260 letters.’

  ‘Yes, but do they make sense?’

  Davie had me there. They didn’t, certainly not as sequences that could be broken down into words.

  ‘It’s a code,’ I said.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Davie said, leaning back gingerly in my couch. ‘You work it out while I pass out.’

  I wrote out all the marked letters and tried to assemble them into something coherent. At some point I remember falling back against my armchair, my head swimming with no known stroke.

  ‘Wakey, wakey!’ came Davie’s unnecessarily loud voice. ‘Coffee, croissants and … wait for it … a banana. Plus, it isn’t raining.’

  I looked down at the papers on the table and brushed them aside.

  ‘There are cryptologists in the command centre,’ Davie said, handing me my coffee.

  ‘All right, we’ll give it to them on the way to the funeral.’

  ‘Aw, shit, the recreation guardian. I’d forgotten. Do I have to come?’

  ‘No, I don’t see why – unless someone else has a go with a grenade.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of Guard personnel down there. I’ll need to make sure we’re not leaving the rest of the city undefended.’

  ‘That may be too late,’ I muttered. ‘That bastard Lecky with his handsaw might have stayed in the city and joined up with the Dead Men. Think of it – outsider criminals hand in hand with our own.’

  Davie crumpled up the paper his croissants had been in. ‘Get your glad rags on.’

  I had one suit, over twenty years old, but at least it was black. I found a clean white shirt but dispensed with a tie. They don’t make one for demoted auxiliaries – though Billy Geddes has got a fine collection of silk ones from outside the city.

  Davie dropped me at the esplanade and I got a Guard driver to take me down to the crematorium. As we went, I was thinking about Billy. Was it really possible he didn’t know about the football gambling? If he wasn’t behind it, who was?

  The sides of the road to the crematorium were hung with black and white flags, the longstanding colours of the city that the Enlightenment had maintained. Guard personnel flanked the 4×4 for the last hundred yards. There was a queue of more luxurious vehicles disgorging people a lot more important than me, so I got out and walked to the entrance. The guardians were all in dark suits, male and female versions. Sophia looked very fetching, ice-blonde hair drawn back. I was glad to see that Maisie wasn’t with her. Douglas Haigh was doing his ‘welcome to my crypt’ act at the open doors, oblivious to the disgust he inspired in people.

  Then I saw Fergus Calder and Jack MacLean. That was bad enough, but the people talking to them made me swear under my breath.

  ‘What was that, failure?’

  I looked round to find my father, leaning on a stick and wrapped up in an ancient raincoat.

  ‘That one of Juvenal’s togas, old man?’

  ‘Ha! The old satirist would have a field day here.’

  He was right about that.

  ‘Look at that woman,’ he continued, his voice high. ‘She should have her hair up at a funeral.’

  I took in the tall woman with blonde hair down to the upper curve of her backside, which was enclosed in guardian-issue trousers. She must have been the dead man’s replacement, Alice Scobie. She turned in our direction, her eyes resting on me for less than an instant. She had the build of a high-jumper, lithe and small-breasted. Then I saw Sophia giving me a chilly glare.

  My father had hooked up with another liver-spotted specimen, so I went over to the senior guardian’s little party. ‘Well, what the hell?’ I said.

  Hel Hyslop, heavier than she’d been the last time I saw her, shook her head. ‘I might have known you’d turn up, Quint.’ She glanced at Calder. ‘You don’t still employ this buffoon, do you?’

  ‘We find him useful,’ MacLean said smoothly. ‘As have you in the past.’

  That wasn’t the full story – Hel and Glasgow’s leader had put their fingers in several sewage and corpse pies and I’d both saved their skins and nailed their repulsive activities. I was amazed that the finance guardian was supporting me, though he was playing his own game by showing that he knew exactly how dirty they had been – and perhaps still were.

  Andrew Dua
rt extended his hand. He’d put on weight too. Maybe he and Hel were not on a diet together. I wondered if they were still lovers.

  ‘Good to see you, Quint.’ He drew me closer. ‘How are you getting on with the hearts at football grounds thing?’

  ‘Thing?’ I said, only just controlling my anger. ‘People are being killed and mutilated. This is much more than a “thing”.’

  Duart took that in his stride. ‘You know what I mean. Never mind. I’m sure we’ll talk later.’

  Not if I can help it, I said to myself, stepping back as the Lord of the Isles appeared in full Highland regalia, some of which I was sure he’d invented himself – such as the crown-like headgear.

  I held back as the guests filled the chamber that contained Peter Stewart’s coffin. Haigh gave me a smile as I joined him at the rear. I shivered and moved to the side. The Council lament was played by a piper and then Fergus Calder gave a eulogy that was surprisingly sensitive – there was no way he’d written it himself. He referred to the dead man’s prowess on the athletics track and then his loyal service in the Recreation Directorate. I didn’t know that Stewart had set up athletics clubs across the city personally, producing several athletes who, in other circumstances, might have represented their country. Trust the senior guardian to get a reference to Scotland in. The new recreation guardian stood by Calder, her head lowered. Blonde hair. Could she have put the heart on the centre circle at Tynecastle? No, we’d already put that down to the woman Davie had shot, despite her small chest.

  Haigh had disappeared. I next saw him by the coffin, folding the Council flag that covered the coffin and handing it to Alice Scobie. Then he waited for the nod from Fergus Calder. Enlightenment Edinburgh had given up on words of committal, considering its atheist beliefs. I could have done with a bit more humanism, but I don’t think like the people who run the city.

  There was a surge to get out of the chamber after the coffin had disappeared. It was stuffy and there was a faint smell of decomposition, probably emanating from Haigh. I was among the first out and waited for my father. He was helped out by Guardian Doris, which was a surprise. I’m not sure if he knew who she was. I nodded thanks to her and took his arm.

  ‘Are you being picked up?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a do for former guardians – though there are only two of us – and senior auxiliaries at some place on George Street.’

  ‘Mind you don’t get seduced by the charms of the tourist zone, old man.’

  ‘Mind you don’t get this stick up your arse, failure.’

  I squeezed his bony arm and let him go to his former colleague. There were nursing staff in formal uniform in the vicinity.

  Some loudmouth – male – was holding forth at the other side of the forecourt.

  ‘… while Edinburgh has seen remarkable levels of economic growth.’ It was Brian Cowan, the education guardian. ‘This city has also improved the lot of its citizens in every possible way, as our departed colleague showed. What possible reason do we have for joining with less successful cities and districts to re-form Scotland? It’s absurd.’

  ‘It’s certainly absurd the way he puts it,’ Hel Hyslop said. ‘I’m betting he’s never left the perfect city.’

  I shrugged. ‘Of course, everything’s going great in Glasgow. Apart from the heart thing.’

  I used Duart’s phrase and wasn’t surprised to see it evince no surprise from Hyslop. She was a good cop, but she was hard – more like an Edinburgh guardswoman than the native of a free city. Then again, Glasgow citizens were permitted to carry small arms and the murder rate was a lot higher than ours. Too much drink, Council members said, forgetting that they’d been using rot-bladder whisky to keep the people of Edinburgh quiet for decades.

  I watched as Jack MacLean went over to Cowan and speak in his ear. The education guardian’s face reddened and he moved quickly away. Then the new recreation guardian went up to Guardian Doris. They laughed like a pair of schoolgirls before remembering where they were. I was on the point of going to eavesdrop when I remembered the diskette that we’d found in Peter Stewart’s coffin. It was in my pocket and needed to be run through a high-powered computer.

  I went over to Sophia and asked her for a lift. ‘I’ve a reception to attend, Quint,’ she said.

  ‘So attend. I just need your computer.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘That makes a change. And by the way, eyes off the recreation guardian. She only likes other women.’

  As did Guardian Doris, I thought, as we got into Sophia’s 4×4.

  I’m no computer expert and I fully expected to be stumped within seconds of inserting the diskette. To my amazement, I wasn’t asked for a password. A page of text in the form of an index came up. Why would there be no encryption? Then it came to me. This was Peter Stewart’s personal record. He didn’t want it to be kept secret. He wanted people to know. There were lists of staff in each club who were in on the betting scheme, names of citizens who acted as bookies and the amounts earned from each match. The odds were set by a panel of no doubt wholly unbiased former players, all over fifty, and three of the five auxiliaries. But there was no reference to the person who sanctioned the betting. Presumably it was Peter Stewart himself, whence his suicide. But the evidence was that he was against gambling, so why would he have allowed it?

  I wondered if Stewart’s devoted assistant, Watt 529, had opened the files on the diskette before putting it in the guardian’s coffin. It was only a few minutes’ walk to the recreation guardian’s residence. The front door was open and furniture was being moved out. I asked the auxiliary who was overseeing if Watt 529 was inside.

  He smiled sourly. ‘You won’t see him round here any more. The new guardian’s had him reassigned. I don’t know where.’

  There usually was a change of staff when new guardians came in. As I walked up to Queen Street, my mobile rang.

  ‘We’ve got a match,’ said Sophia. ‘The head that went through the window at the Walter Scott Rooms came from the male body you found across the city line.’

  ‘That must have made Tall and Short very happy. But we still don’t know who he is.’

  ‘Hardly my department, Quint. I’ve let the public order guardian know. I must get back to charming the city’s guests.’ She sounded underwhelmed by the prospect.

  ‘Fergus Calder’s command, eh? Watch out for the Glaswegians. They’re poisonous.’

  ‘You should hear what they’re saying about you.’ The call was terminated.

  Like I gave a flying fruit bat what Duart and Hyslop spouted.

  I stopped a Guard vehicle and got the driver to take me to the esplanade. I found Davie in the command centre.

  ‘You hear they matched the head and body?’ he said.

  ‘I did. Any ID?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve got people going through citizens’ photos but you know how long that could take. Besides, the poor sod might have been an outsider.’

  I shook my head. ‘He wouldn’t have been decapitated like the guardsman.’

  ‘Unless they thought he was a rat.’

  I smiled. ‘Could be. You’re finally losing that touching trust in human nature that was such a feature of your character.’

  He gave me a sour look.

  ‘Can you find out where Watt 529’s been posted?’

  ‘The weed from the recreation directorate? He didn’t last long under Alice S.’ He called over a male auxiliary, who came back under a minute later.

  ‘He must have really pissed her off. He’s been seconded to the Agriculture Directorate, in command of a farm between the city line and the border.’

  ‘Get him on the phone, will you?’ I had no desire to go out to the badlands.

  After a delay, Watt 529 was reached. He sounded suicidal.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’ll do what I can for you, but I need to know if you looked at the contents of the diskette that you stashed in Peter Stewart’s coffin – and don’t bother claiming you didn’t.’

 
‘I … no, I didn’t open it. I was … frightened what might be on it.’

  ‘All right. I’ll get you brought back. Out.’

  I turned to Davie. ‘He won’t last a week out there. Find him a job in the city.’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags of tourist-zone garbage full, sir.’

  Five minutes later, Watt 529 had a job in the Public Order Directorate archive and an order went out to recall him. I felt sorry for the auxiliary. He hadn’t recovered from the guardian’s suicide and hadn’t been able to attend the funeral. Alice Scobie clearly wanted him as far away as possible. Maybe she thought he’d read the contents of the diskette. Or did she even know about it?

  An elderly stooped guardsman shuffled into the command centre and headed towards us. ‘Bell 03,’ he said, his wrinkled face cracking apart with a smile. ‘I’m a great admirer of your work.’

  ‘Call me Quint,’ I said, looking at his badge. ‘Raeburn 37.’ The low number showed he was amongst the longest serving of auxiliaries.

  ‘They call him Brains,’ Davie supplied.

  The old man laughed. ‘Better than Reginald.’

  I could only nod in agreement.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he said, holding out a sheaf of papers.

  I looked at the top one. It was covered in letters and numbers.

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ said Brains, ‘you’d better look at the last two pages. It wasn’t a particularly clever code. I applied my normal methods and quickly realized that he was using an increasing numerical base.’

  ‘The marked letter corresponding to one that was one, two, three letters or whatever further down the alphabet,’ said Davie. I was impressed, even though I’d understood the old guardsman myself.

  ‘Yes,’ Raeburn 37 said drily. ‘The “or whatever” being the difficult part.’

  ‘Because he could be using a base that would take a long time to work out, for instance his ID number increasing in some complex way,’ I said.

  ‘Or decreasing,’ said Brains impatiently. ‘I checked his personal number, of course, and other obvious sequences like the birthdays of his family and so on. Then it struck me that Muckle Tony was the boss of the Leith Lancers. So I assigned one to “l”, two to “e” and so on, the missing letters in alphabetical order. Halfway through he thought he got clever and reversed the order. That took me under ten seconds to spot.’