Body Politic

by Paul Johnston

  Yellowlees looked like he was thinking along the same lines. He glanced at Hamilton doubtfully, then turned back to the body. His assistant had finished shaving the head and groin.

  “Let’s get on,” said the medical guardian. He picked up a dissecting knife and made a large Y-shaped incision from neck to pubis, leaving the larynx intact for further examination. The sternum was then split and the dead woman’s chest prised apart. That was when the public order guardian left.

  “There’s more to this than meets the eye,” Yellowlees said. Even guardians sometimes speak in clichés.

  “I’d go along with that,” I said, suddenly noticing that the statuesque nurse was following the surgeon’s every movement like she had been hypnotised. Not even auxiliaries are that brainwashed usually.

  I left them to it. I’d attended too many post-mortems in the past. Perhaps a five-year lay-off had turned me into a sensitive soul; perhaps there’s just a limit to how much of the human body’s interior you can take. Unless you’re a medic. Or a serial killer. I had a nasty feeling that was what I was up against, even though there was only one body in the morgue. At least I knew it wasn’t the ENT Man. I’d have gone through the whole of his autopsy, but I couldn’t allow there to be one. What happened was between me and him alone. I owed Caro that much.

  Hamilton ambushed me in the foyer. Even though it was late in the evening, there were still patients waiting to be seen. Some of them were speaking a language I didn’t recognise.

  “Here. I’ve got these for you.” The public order guardian looked like he desperately needed a cigarette, but the Council banned them years ago. He handed me a mobile phone and an embossed card bearing the Council seal. It authorised me to demand full co-operation from any guardian, auxiliary or citizen. “Anything else you need?” he asked mordantly. “Apart from a shave and a change of clothes.” I could see he hadn’t forgotten my jibe about the cleaner. It was hard to resist another one.

  “I saw the hanging today. Do you ever use it to get rid of undesirables?”

  Hamilton’s eyes sprang open like a pair of Venus flytraps that hadn’t seen a bluebottle for weeks. He stepped towards me as I jumped into the Land-Rover.

  “Looks like you did it again,” Davie said as he accelerated away. “What is it between you and the guardian?”

  “You’re better off not knowing. Take me back to my place, will you?”

  “Right. I spoke to the guard commander who was on duty last night. Every call to Stevenson Hall got the correct response except the one at 0600. Napier 498, the guardswoman who was relieving the victim, made an emergency call at 0609. By that time a vehicle was already on its way to check out the place.”

  “Thanks, Davie.” I made the decision. “What do you say to a temporary transfer? I need someone to work with me on this case.”

  “Bloody brilliant.” He gave a great laugh that echoed round the Land-Rover’s rattling shell like a crazed rodent trying to get out of a bass drum. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  Either he was one of Hamilton’s best undercover men selling me a double dummy or he really was excited. I was too tired to work out which. The streetlights flashed three times in quick succession, making me blink.

  “Curfew coming up. You better get a move on or you’ll have to arrest me for being out after my bedtime.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for you,” he said with a grin. “Even if the chief won’t.”

  The fog closed in around us as the lights were extinguished outside the tourist area to conserve electricity. In the early days, when the Council still called itself the Enlightenment and the nuclear power station at Torness was operational, citizens had to be off the streets by midnight. More recently, curfew time has been brought forward to ten o’clock. Whatever that points to doesn’t come under the definition of enlightenment in any dictionary that I know.

  Chapter Four

  I was playing rhythm guitar in the band, cutting some riffs Muddy Waters could have related to, when the ENT Man appeared. Then I was on him, my blood on his filthy jacket. His head turned towards me as I garotted him. In the light above the path I saw his teeth. They were as blue as a cheese that had been forgotten for decades in the deepest recesses of an underground storeroom in Copenhagen. The bastard was grinning, taunting me because he knew he could break my grip. When he got bored, that’s what he did. Threw me sprawling to the ground, then came for me. I didn’t think I had a chance of tripping him, but he went down like a hamstrung bull. On to his own knife. The beat drove on. Eventually I realised someone was hammering on my door. I staggered towards it.

  “Morning.” Davie examined me. “I won’t ask if you slept well. You look like . . .”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Barracks bread.” He thrust it into my hands. “A sight better than anything you’ll get in your local bakery.”

  “The coffee’s over there.” I went to dress.

  “Coffee?” he called after me. “Where did you get that, citizen?”

  I was groggier than a sailor’s oesophagus, but it almost sounded like he was doing an imitation of your average hyper-inquisitive auxiliary. That wasn’t enough to get him out of jail. As far as I’m concerned, people who thrive on getting up early belong to an alien race which has managed to infiltrate us without anyone noticing. Not a bad description of the Enlightenment.

  Daylight was no more than a faint grey line under my tattered curtains. “What the hell’s the time?” I shouted.

  “You tell me. You’ve got my watch.”

  I found it in the carpet of dust under my bedside table. Ten past six. “Jesus, Davie, when I asked you to call me, I didn’t mean at the start of your shift.” The guard start two hours earlier than everyone else to police the rush hour.

  He came in with a mug for me. “What shift? I thought murder investigations went on twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Up yours, guardsman.”

  He smiled and went back into the living room. While I was tying the laces of my boots, I heard him strum my guitar and have a go at “Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation”. It was an Enlightenment favourite before independence but he couldn’t do it much justice because of the state of my strings.

  When I came out he greeted the clean black sweatshirt and trousers I’d found at the back of the wardrobe with a whistle.

  “Citizen Dalrymple, you look almost respectable.”

  “Call me Quint if you want to stay on the case.”

  “You’ll do anything to be different, won’t you? A spell down the mines is what you need.”

  “They tried that once.” I gulped coffee. “They didn’t invite me back. Apparently I was a disruptive element.”

  Davie nodded slowly. “I can see that.” He put my guitar back in its case. “You any good with this?”

  “I haven’t played for a long time.”

  “I noticed. What happened to your E-string?”

  I had a flash of the ENT Man falling into the pit with my guitar string still round his neck. Then I thought of the dead guardswoman. Maybe she’d been strangled with a guitar string too. The idea disturbed me – too close for comfort.

  I frowned at him when I realised he was still waiting for an answer. “I lost it, years ago. You know how difficult it is to get things like that replaced in Edinburgh.”

  He looked at me dubiously then followed me to the door.

  The victim had been stationed at Knox Barracks on the west side of Charlotte Square. The building was formerly one of the city’s record offices. After independence its façade had been ruined by the addition of rows of dormitory windows. The Council chose it as a guard depot because it’s close to the tourist hotels and shops at the West End of Princes Street, and because it’s within sprinting distance of the guardians’ quarters in Moray Place. The dark, mist-sodden stonework looked like the hull of a long-lost battleship sunk beyond the range of the most sophisticated depthfinder.

  Davie stopped the Land-Rover outsid
e. I was remembering when there were parking meters on both sides of the road. I gazed into the fog that was still a thick carpet over the city. In the grass-covered centre of the square there used to be bookstalls and tents where writers made speeches at the time when the Festival only lasted three weeks every summer. Now there are booths containing slot machines and roulette wheels – for tourists only. Guard personnel stood at the gates even at this early hour.

  “Try not to draw attention to me, Davie,” I said before I got out.

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” he said with a laugh. “Unless you grow a beard in the next two minutes, every auxiliary in the barracks is going to notice you.”

  “Well, anyway, let me go ahead, then see if you can find anyone in the recreation area. Tell them you were a friend of Knox 96 and see what kind of reaction you get.” I shoved the rusty door open. “You can draw a replacement watch from the stores as well.”

  “You think of everything, bossman.”

  Which unfortunately was not the case. At that moment I had no idea how I was going to get anything but the most grudging of answers from the occupants of Knox.

  At the entrance my way was barred by a grey-bearded guardsman. Most auxiliaries these days look like they’re just out of primary school, but a few have survived from the early days. My ID and authorisation were scrutinised and the details entered in a logbook.

  “I thought it was you, sir.” The guardsman’s eyes were suddenly more welcoming, though he didn’t risk a smile.

  Not that I had a clue who he was. His use of a proscribed form of address and the low number on his chest – Knox 31 – showed the length of his service. The twenty city barracks were originally set up in 2005 with fifty members each. Now they all have five hundred serving auxiliaries.

  The guardsman waited while a group of his colleagues in running kit passed on their way to the all-weather track in Queen Street Gardens. I tried to place him but failed.

  “Taggart, sir. I was with you in the Tactical Operations Squad.”

  Now I remembered. Even when I was in the directorate, I used names rather than barrack numbers – Hamilton used to love me for that. “God, Jimmy Taggart.” I sneaked a quick handshake. “I didn’t recognise you. All that grey hair.”

  This time he smiled. “Pressure of being an auxiliary, you know.” The smile faded. “I’m not joking. You’re well out of it.” He looked away from my face. “I was in the back-up group the night we took out the Howlin’ Wolf gang up on Soutra. If only those fuckin’ phones hadn’t gone down . . .”

  It was impossible to shut out the flashing lights from the flares, the brittle sound of gunfire, then the screams of a woman I only identified when it was too late. I clenched my fists hard and managed to bring myself back to the present.

  “Sorry, sir, shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Taggart stepped back as more auxiliaries came by. They glanced at me curiously. “Well, you’d better get up to the commander’s office. You’re here about the killing, aren’t you?” He came closer again. “I knew Sarah Spence.”

  I looked around the hallway. “Can we talk later?”

  He nodded. “I’ve got a break in a couple of hours. The refectory’s usually quiet then.” He acknowledged another colleague. “Don’t believe everything they tell you.”

  “I’m not expecting them to tell me anything at all.” I walked down the corridor and breathed in the familiar barracks smell: bleach mixed with sweat and the reek of overcooked vegetables. The only light came from the high, dirty windows.

  The commander was waiting for me outside her office. She was younger than me, her dark hair in the regulation ponytail and her mouth set in a straight horizontal line beneath pale cheeks and cautious eyes. There’s nothing like a senior auxiliary’s welcome to make you feel optimistic about the future of the human race.

  “Citizen Dalrymple,” she said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Meaning that the public order guardian told you to expect me.”

  Straight-mouth nodded and led me into her office. It was furnished in the usual austere fashion; it wouldn’t do for ordinary citizens to think that auxiliaries lived comfortable lives. Not that any ordinary citizens would have got as far as her office recently. The large windows looking out over the square were all the room had in its favour. The carpets and curtains were worn and the antique desk could have done with the services of a restorer. Over the fireplace was the city’s maroon heart flanked by the words of the slogan. “The City Provides”. It was faced on the opposite wall by the motto of the rank of auxiliaries: “To Serve the City”. This is one of the Council’s better jokes – well, one of its only jokes, and unintentional at that. The fact is, the Council deliberately inspires competition between the barracks, which means that they serve themselves first. “Loyalty to your barracks” is the auxiliaries’ real watchword. This leads to a pathological reluctance to disclose anything to outsiders, and you don’t get much more of an outsider than me.

  I decided to go in feet first. “So, what can you tell me about Sarah Spence?” I smiled as Knox 01’s eyebrows shot up. “I mean, Knox 96.”

  “Knox 96,” she repeated emphatically, opening a file. “Born 7.10.1986, height five feet two inches, weight nine stone two pounds, hair brown, eyes brown, distinguishing marks heavily freckled face and arms, completed studies at City College of Physical Education July 2007, started auxiliary training programme 1.9.2007, entered Knox Barracks on completion, 31.8.2009, served as physical education instructor—”

  “I’m a big boy, commander,” I interrupted. “I can read files for myself. Tell me things that aren’t in there. Like did she have a lot of friends in the barracks? Did she have any contacts outside Knox? Did she prefer men or women at sex sessions?”

  Her mouth looked even straighter than it had been. “Most of that is in the file, citizen,” she said coolly. “For your information, she took male and female sexual partners.”

  “You’re not answering my question. Which did she prefer?”

  “What bearing can that possibly have on her murder?” The commander actually looked irritated. That was a good sign. Maybe I would find something out. “Oh, very well. Judging from personal experience I would say she preferred women.”

  She seemed to be expecting me to comment, so I didn’t.

  “As regards friends, yes, she was popular. She was the kind of person who organises, who’s at the centre of things. She had no enemies I ever heard of.” The commander was avoiding my eyes. “I don’t think she had many contacts outside either. She was very much a Knox person.” She stood up and handed me a list of barracks numbers. “These are the people she’s . . . she was closest to.” Suddenly her mouth wasn’t straight any more. “Find him, citizen,” she said, her voice taut. “Find the animal who did that to her.” Then she twitched her head and became the senior auxiliary again.

  “I’m working on it, commander,” I said and left her to her files.

  On my way to the refectory I passed the barracks gym. There were several pairs practising unarmed combat. I watched the auxiliaries in maroon judo suits going after each other with carefully controlled violence. The fact that the city was served by ten thousand trained killers didn’t make me feel that great.

  I saw Davie in the far corner of the eating room and ignored him. Taggart got up and led me to the self-service counter. I took a pint of milk and a plate of haggis and mixed vegetables. They serve that kind of food on a twenty-four-hour basis in barracks because of the shifts auxiliaries work. The food’s better than what ordinary citizens can find in the subsidised supermarkets too. Since I’d missed dinner the previous evening, I decided against making a complaint at the next Council meeting.

  “How did you get on, sir?”

  “Stop calling me that, Taggart. I’m just an ordinary citizen now. Call me Quint.”

  “Sorry.” He scratched his beard. “I was a constable before the Enlightenment. Things like that stick in the mind.” He sat watching me ea
t and I knew he was wondering whether he could get away with bringing up the past again. I didn’t give him any encouragement. “Did you find out anything useful?” he asked eventually.

  “Not much. You know what it’s like in barracks. They’d rather have their fingernails pulled out than talk about a colleague.”

  Taggart nodded. “I’m usually like that myself, but this is different. A murder, for fuck’s sake. After all this time.”

  I studied the burly face opposite me. He had a two-inch scar above his right eye that had been sewn up by someone a lot less proficient than Yellowlees. “What do you think about it then?” I had a feeling he wanted to tell me something.

  He leaned closer. “I’m a bit bothered by a couple of things. I’m sure you’ll have heard that Sarah was all sweetness and light, a cheery soul and all that. It’s true enough – as far as it goes. She wasn’t always like that. There was a hard side to her as well. She was really sharp with people who went against her. I heard stories about her taking it out on girls who . . . you know . . . said no to her.”

  A pair of eager-looking guardswomen approached, making Taggart sit back rapidly.

  I waited till they had gone. Even if he was right, I’d have a job getting any of his female colleagues to admit it. “What was the other thing?”

  He leaned forward again. “I often do the night shift on Saturdays. I saw Sarah go out after midnight more than once. She always had an authorisation.”

  I lost interest in my food faster than a croupier in one of the city’s casinos sizes up a tourist’s wallet. “When was the last time?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “But I checked the duty rosters.” I looked through my notes. “Two weeks ago she had morning fitness classes and the afternoon shift at Stevenson Hall.”

  Taggart bit his lower lip and nodded slowly. “Like I say, it’s a bit strange, isn’t it?”

  “Auxiliaries’ movements in the central area aren’t logged, of course.”