The Blood Tree (13 page)

“Hume 253 left a message for you, citizen. He's on the third floor. Room 39b.”

Typical Davie, I thought. Guard commander efficiency oozing from every pore. I sometimes wondered why he took time away from his normal duties to work with me. It was because, deep down inside, there was an insubordinate free-thinker struggling to get out. I've always done my best to encourage that alter ego.

Except the bugger wasn't where he was supposed to be. I pushed open the door to room 39b, an archive of work rosters all over the walls, and found a pair of very young trainee auxiliaries trying to swallow each other's tongues.

“Take your time,” I said when they eventually noticed me. “Have you seen Hume 253?”

“No,” the male said gruffly, his eyes running over my citizen-issue clothes.

I flashed my authorisation. That shook them into line.

“Yes,” the female said, contradicting her pal. “He took some records and went that way.” She pointed to the left.

“I won't interrupt your work any longer,” I said, turning on my heel. In the corridor I pulled out my mobile and called Davie. “Where the hell are you, big man? I could spend years looking for you in this rabbit warren.”

“Staff supervisor's office,” he said. “First floor. Hurry.”

“Stay there till I show up,” I said, registering the tension in his voice.

Grey-suited auxiliaries stared at me as I ran down the long corridor and took the stairs in bounds. They might have been in charge of the city's workforce, but none of them looked like they were busting a gut – the dead hand of bureaucracy strikes again.

The male clerk in the supervisor's outer office was polishing the leaves of a large rubber plant. Despite the near tropical temperatures during the Big Heat there weren't many of those around. The first Council regarded indoor plants as a distraction and tried to ban them, but people persisted in bringing them into their homes and workplaces so more recently the ban's been relaxed. Every little helps.

“Go ahead, citizen,” the clerk said. “You're expected.”

I opened the door and found Davie bending over a desk and an unusually attractive female auxiliary. I smiled at him and he straightened up, looking sheepish. Evidently there was something in the air.

“Bell 18, this is Citizen Dalrymple,” Davie said.

“Bell 18.” I nodded at the statuesque woman at the desk. She was wearing a tight white blouse that emphasised the heavy curves of her breasts and her black hair was pulled tightly back in a chignon – unusually stylish for a senior auxiliary.

“Citizen.” She held her gaze on me for what seemed like a long time and I felt my hands quiver. She was one of those women who do catastrophic things to your self-assurance. “I understand Knox 43 has met with a grisly end.”

“That's one way of putting it,” I said. “The death is classified information, not to be shared with anyone in the directorate or in your barracks.”

She greeted my attempt at laying down the law with an amused twitch of her lips. There was more lipstick on them than you'd expect with someone in her position. The Council lets its servants get away with a lot these days.

“What do you want from me, citizen?” Bell 18 asked, managing to make the question operate on more than one semantic level. She turned and looked up at Davie. “I know what Hume 253 wants.”

Davie glanced at her uncomfortably then consulted his notebook. “Lists of Knox 43's work colleagues and current projects; his personal file; directorate facilities he was entitled to enter.”

The female auxiliary nodded. “My people are in the process of gathering all that together.” She looked across at me expectantly. “What's your pleasure, citizen?”

I wasn't aware that the Council had been recruiting Sirens – I suppose they cost less to feed than your average auxiliary. “I'll settle for your own thoughts on the dead man,” I said. “I presume you knew him personally.”

Bell 18 got to her feet and went over to the window. Through the mist the Calton Hill and its monuments were just visible, but I didn't waste time trying to make them out. The supervisor's rump and legs, sheathed in tightly cut grey trousers, were almost as spectacular as her upper body.

“Oh yes,” she said, “I knew him all right. It's my job to know all the senior staff personally.” She glanced over her shoulder at me, her expression suddenly more serious. “But Knox 43 was a difficult man to get to know well.”

“In what way?” I asked.

Bell 18 came back to her desk and took out a thick file from the drawer. “These are my private notes on my department heads,” she said. “I wouldn't normally show them to anyone.” She flashed me a smile. “But in your case I'll make an exception.” She shook her head. “Or rather, in Knox 43's case I'll make an exception. Because he was definitely beginning to lose his grip.”

That sounded interesting. I watched as the supervisor's carefully manicured fingers detached pages from her file. Then she handed them over and I settled down to read. While I did, a series of auxiliaries came in and laid files and reports on the desk. Davie started leafing through them, but he didn't seem to get as many surprises as I did.

“Jesus,” I said, putting Bell 18's pages down after five minutes, “shouldn't you have got help for the poor sod?”

The supervisor's face flushed. “I suppose I should have, yes. But he'd been in the directorate for years. No one wanted him to be reported.”

Davie looked up from his papers. “Why? What was he up to?”

“You want a list?” I asked. “Arriving late on shift, leaving early, taking extended meal-breaks, feigning illness—”

“That was only suspected,” Bell 18 put in.

“None of that's very serious,” Davie said. He was laying on the hypocrisy with a roadworker's shovel. If any of his staff behaved like that, he'd hang them upside down from the castle flag-pole.

“Wait till you hear the rest,” I said. “What do you think about purloining directorate material and supplying it to tourists?”

“You make that sound worse than it was,” the supervisor said. “It was mainly just pencils and screwdrivers with ‘Labour Directorate' stamped on them.”

I gave her a dubious look. “How about removing female auxiliaries' underwear from changing-room lockers?”

Davie liked that more than Bell 18 did.

“As I suggested, Knox 43 was going off the rails,” Bell 18 said, wringing her hands.

“But you didn't put any of this in his official report?”

The supervisor shook her head. “He was harmless, really he was.”

I glanced at Davie. “Did he have access to the directorate depot in Canonmills?”

Bell 18 nodded. “Of course. There's a store of surveying equipment kept there. Knox 43 would have gone down often.”

I was thinking about the pick-up and the gear taken by the archive burglars. Had the dead man got them into the depot? And if so, why would he have helped them?

I stood up. “Right, let's talk to his work colleagues now.” I looked at the supervisor. “They're not to know about his death, remember. The Council hasn't ruled on publicity yet.”

The auxiliary nodded feebly. She wasn't giving off too many Siren vibes now. When the guardians found out she'd been protecting one of her staff, even on humanitarian grounds, her career would hit the wall with a loud crash.

What a waste.

Davie and I left the Labour Directorate a couple of hours later. The light was beginning to fade and the streets had filled with tired citizens making their way home. We stopped on the steps outside the depressing block and watched the mass of humanity flow by.

“What do you think, Quint?” Davie asked. “Was Knox 43 bent or was he just losing his grip?”

“His workmates seemed to think he was pretty harmless, didn't they?” I pointed at the heap of files he had under his arm. “And there's nothing in there to suggest he was on the take – apart from a few souvenirs flogged to tourists.”

Davie shook his head. “Why would a tourist want a Labour Directorate screwdriver?”

“To jemmy open the minibar in his hotel room?”

“Maybe,” he replied doubtfully. “Do you think Knox 43 could have copied the depot keys and given them to the archive burglars?”

“It's possible. The people you've sent round the Supply Directorate locksmiths might find one who recognises Knox 43's photo,” I said. “We've also established that he could easily have slipped into the directorate stationery store and taken a job authorisation form.”

The rain started to come down again.

“I'm bloody starving,” Davie said. “Let's get over to Knox Barracks. At least they've got a half-decent canteen.”

My phone rang before I could pass comment on Davie's appetite.

“Is that you, Katharine? You're very faint.”

“Useless machines,” she shouted. “I've finished in the child care facility, Quint.”

“Took you long enough.”

“You know what kids are like. I had to read them stories and play with them before I could get them to talk.”

“And did any of them see a bogeyman last night?”

“No, not one. I'm pretty sure they were all fast asleep like they claimed. No sign of concealed fear.”

“There wouldn't be if it was concealed.”

“You know what I mean, smartarse. By the way, I found out from the staff here that the supervisor is teetotal. So if she imagined the guy under the copper beech, drink probably wasn't responsible. What next?”

“We're going to Knox. Join us there if you want.”

“Good,” Katharine said. “I could do with a hot meal.”

“You're not the only one. Out.”

As we walked towards the Land-Rover, I suddenly remembered something. “When I called you in the Labour Directorate, you told me to hurry, Davie. Why?”

He grunted. “You saw the way the supervisor was putting herself about. I was in fear of my life.”

“You?” I said with a laugh. “You're a professional skirt-chaser.”

“Exactly,” he said ruefully. “I want to be the one who makes the running.”

“Jesus, Davie. It's 2026, not 1926.”

He looked around at the clapped-out buses and the poorly dressed citizens, some of them with ragamuffin kids in tow, and asked, “How can you be so sure, Quint?”

There was no reply to that.

Knox Barracks is in Charlotte Square at the west end of Princes Sreet. It's one of the more spectacular auxiliary barracks in the city, located in what was originally a church and subsequently a record office. Its great green dome had disappeared into the early evening murk and the recessed portico gave it the look of an ancient temple, although the insertion of numerous windows into the nineteenth-century façade was a good example of Council-inspired architectural vandalism. Knox Barracks is responsible for providing security for the guardians' residences in Moray Place, though these days its auxiliaries spend as much time overseeing the tourist gambling facilities like the one in the middle of Charlotte Square.

“Right then,” Davie said, getting out of the vehicle and moving quickly towards the main entrance. “Refuelling stop.”

“Give me a call when you've finished stuffing yourself,” I called after him. “I'm going to talk to the commander.”

He raised his arm and disappeared inside.

The sentry checked my authorisation and let me pass. I knew where his chief's lair was and headed straight for it, breathing in a mixture of acrid floor polish and damp uniforms.

Knox 01 was having a meeting with some of his subordinates. He dismissed them as soon as he read the note I sent in. “I was expecting you, citizen,” he said. “The public order guardian advised me of Knox 43's death and told me to keep it quiet.” He nodded at me punctiliously and a drop of sweat fell from his bald head on to a file on his desk. It wasn't hot in the office.

I took out my notebook, keeping my eyes on the commander. He was about fifty, thin and careworn like most senior auxiliaries. He was wearing a guard uniform. Not all barracks chiefs have done time in the City Guard, but Knox commanders are always guardsmen or women because they have to look after the guardians. That wasn't good news for me. Senior guard personnel are harder to put the squeeze on than ordinary auxiliaries.

“So,” Knox 01 said uncertainly when I kept quiet. “What do you need to know, citizen?”

“Is that the dead man's file?” I asked.

He glanced down at the maroon cardboard folder in front of him and more drops of sweat landed on it. “It is, citizen.” He didn't volunteer to hand it over.

“Anything in it that you're worried about, Knox 01?”

“Certainly not.”

“Uh-huh. Did the public order guardian tell you what was done to Knox 43?”

The commander shook his head. “He said that was restricted.”

I nodded. “I think I can trust a senior auxiliary like you.” I was patronising him because I wanted to see how he would react. I ran through the injuries sustained by his barracks member.

“Appalling,” Knox 01 said when I finished, though he didn't look exactly heartbroken. “That kind of attack can't be allowed to happen to auxiliaries.”

“Would it matter less if an ordinary citizen suffered such an attack?”

“Em . . . of course not.” The commander got to his feet and picked up the file. “Read this. I'll answer any questions you have on it.”

That was evenhanded enough, but I was still curious. There was only one way to find out if Knox 01 really was nervous. I ploughed into the file. He got on with his work, only looking up from his papers occasionally.

On the surface everything seemed in order. Knox 43 was in his early fifties. He'd been in the Labour Directorate since 2007 and it had taken him ten years to get beyond the lowest level of surveying staff. His barracks reports confirmed that he wasn't much of a star. His superiors weren't impressed by what was referred to as his “indecisive nature” and his lack of overt commitment to the Council; Knox 43 himself was pretty lukewarm about his achievements and aspirations in the Personal Evaluations that auxiliaries have to write each year.