Body Politic (7 page)

“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 eat 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.”

“No, but since she had an authorisation, there should be a reference in the rosters.”

“I don't suppose you can remember which directorate stamped her authorisation?” I knew before I'd finished the question that a positive answer was about as likely as the Supply Directorate doubling the sugar ration.

“I'm back on watch in a few minutes,” Taggart said, collecting the crockery like a good auxiliary.

I needed to squeeze him a bit more. Whatever the Council thought about the ENT Man, I knew for a fact he wasn't at work again. But there were similarities in the modus operandi, Hamilton was right about that. I was going to have to carry out my own private investigation into the bastard's background. That meant doing what Taggart wanted and talking about the old days. I felt sick.

“What were you saying before about the Howlin' Wolf gang?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could. “Did you ever hear what happened to the survivors?”

Taggart didn't show any surprise at the question. I saw he was the kind of veteran auxiliary who spent most of his free time boring the arses off his younger colleagues with tales of his heroic past. “I saw one of them the other day,” he said, screwing his eyes up as if the coincidence stung him like an onion. I knew the feeling. “A pal of mine was in charge of a squad of prisoners clearing rubble at Fettes. I recognised him from the tattoo on his arm. They all had them, remember? This one's said ‘Leadbelly'. Christ knows why.”

Christ and me. They were all blues freaks. The Ear, Nose and Throat Man had “Little Walter” on his arm. I suppose they thought that was really funny.

Taggart would have gone on for hours, but he had his shift and I had my lead.

It was obvious from Davie's face when I got back to the Land-Rover that he hadn't got much out of his fellow auxiliaries. At least he was wearing a new watch.

The sheer walls of the Assembly Hall loomed out of the mist like a smoke-blackened Aztec sacrifice pyramid. I jumped out as soon as Davie stopped and sprinted into the building. Arriving late for a Council meeting was a good way to commit suicide. I'd been working in the archives and had lost track of time.

The medical guardian was on his feet when I got into the chamber.

“Never mind explaining, citizen,” said the deputy senior guardian, raising her hand. “Our colleague has been giving us the results of the tests he ran on the victim. Unfortunately, they don't seem to be much help.”

That didn't come as much of a surprise. I was too busy being relieved that the senior guardian was absent again.

Yellowlees looked at me without blinking, then acknowledged the speaker's remarks. “I'm afraid that's the substance of it. From the tests I can at least say that Knox 96 was in good physical condition and was not under the influence of drugs or alcohol of any kind. Nor did I find any trace whatsoever of the murderer – no hairs, blood, skin, semen. And no traces from the ligature. I can place the time of death between five and six a.m. from the potassium level in the vitreous humour.” He looked around at Hamilton. “I can also confirm that there were traces of spermicide from a standard-issue condom in the guardswoman's rectum.”

Hamilton was gazing unperturbed into the middle distance. Behind him was a board with photographs of the ENT Man's victims. That didn't exactly raise my spirits.

The speaker was trying to attract my attention. “Have you made any progress, citizen Dalrymple?”

“Not much. The medical guardian was lucky. At least he had a body to work on.” I looked round the horseshoe table. The guardians suddenly found their papers more interesting than me. Which wound me up even more. “All I got was the best-cleaned shithouse in the city.”

That got their attention. They probably hadn't heard one of those words for a long time. “I'll tell you this. I reckon there are going to be more killings. The bodies must be left where they're found. I haven't got a chance otherwise.”

Some of them looked like they weren't too surprised to hear that.

“All right, citizen, you've made your point,” said the deputy senior guardian drily. “Your report, please.”

“I've been working on the victim's background.” I saw Hamilton move his eyes upward dismissively. That was all the confirmation I needed to keep some of what I'd discovered to myself. “There's nothing irregular. I also spent some time with the auxiliaries from the public order directorate who handled the case before I was brought in. Again, there's nothing significant to report. Fingerprints found in the lavatory and corridor are either those of cleaners, who all have sound alibis, or are not registered in the archives, indicating they belong to tourists. There's no shortage of those in Stevenson Hall every night. The hotels have been checked and they all report that their residents were in by the tourist curfew of 0300.”

“What's the point of all this?” Hamilton demanded, jerking his thumb at the board behind him. “We know who the killer is.”

“Hardly,” said Yellowlees. “Even if the ENT Man has started killing again, we don't have any idea of his identity.”

The speaker raised her hand. “One moment. Are we to understand there is some doubt that the Ear, Nose and Throat Man is involved?”