Body Politic (19 page)

“Come off it, Billy,” I said wearily. “Nobody's that important. The structure of guardians and auxiliaries is supposed to ensure that individuals can't become indispensable.”

He choked on his whisky and almost spilled the contents of his glass over his immaculate grey suit. “Fucking hell, Quint,” he gasped. “You of all people should know what a pile of crap that is. Why did you become an outsider? Because you rate your precious ego higher than anything else.”

I glared at him. “We're talking about you, not me. What makes you so important?”

Billy opened his hands like a magician producing doves from a handkerchief. “I make the deals that keep this city solvent. Like I said, it's all a question of contacts. Personal contacts. I've got them in the countries we trade with, in the companies we buy from, in the embassies we work with, in the foreign police forces we send auxiliaries to train, even in the neighbouring states we technically don't recognise.” He grinned. “The finance guardian signs the contracts, but I negotiate them. I make the decisions.”

I believed him. So far. Although Billy had always been a smooth operator, he never bothered boasting about it. I only had to look at the opulent room to be convinced. That's why he'd brought me here.

“What exactly was the nature of your relations with Andreas Roussos, Billy?” I asked quietly.

He looked up from his glass and smiled. “Sharp, Quint, very sharp. Not much gets past you.”

Flattery from Billy was the last thing I'd set my heart on. “Just about everything this psycho's done has got past me so far. Answer the question.”

“I'm going to. That's why I had the infirmary advise me as soon as you left.” He pulled open a drawer. “Want a cigar? I've got some Havanas here . . .”

“Answer the fucking question.”

He stopped fumbling with the illegal box. “All right. You would have found witnesses in the hotel who saw me with the Greek, so I thought I'd get in first. There's nothing much to it. He represents an insurance company which looks after its clients' welfare while they're on holiday in the city.” He ran the tips of his fingers across his forehead. “Your murderer – I assume it's the same guy?”

“Looks like it.”

“Your murderer picked a good one to attack. We'll probably lose a lot of customers.”

I stood up and walked over to him. “Is that it?”

Billy shrugged. “What more do you want?”

It was time for the third degree. “I'll tell you what more I want,” I yelled, holding up the fingers of my left hand and counting them off. “One, why did Roussos have a stash of what I'm sure will turn out to be undeclared foreign currency hidden in his room?” I didn't mention the photos. I had a feeling Billy knew something about them, but I didn't want to show my hand. “Two, why did my murderer, as you call him, try to kill this particular foreigner? Three, why have you been chasing after me ever since the first killing? That'll do for a start.”

“You mean there's more?” he asked with a wan smile.

“Bloody right there is.” I moved right up to him. “What kind of an investment have you got in the Bearskin?”

It didn't work. He wasn't scared of me. Even if I'd thrown him around the room a bit, he'd still have kept quiet. After all, he reckoned he was the Council's favourite son. At least I'd let him know I was on his trail. Wherever that might lead.

“What kind of a friend are you?” Billy said as I headed for the door. “I offer you help and all you do is shout at me.”

I followed his example and declined to answer, giving the front door a good slam on the way out. The worst thing about growing older is seeing how your friends turn out. All is flux, an ancient philosopher said. I don't suppose I bear much resemblance to my former self either.

As I approached Darnaway Street a thought struck me. Who informed Billy Geddes that I'd left the infirmary? I couldn't think of any reason why he should have a contact in the city's main medical facility.

A wave of exhaustion swamped me as I was passing the charred walls of the Independence. It was easy to flash my authorisation and get a guardswoman to drive me home. Billy would have found that minor abuse of power highly amusing.

Saturday morning was warm and sunny. That was about all that could be said in its favour. I went round to the infirmary to question Roussos and found Hamilton deep in conversation outside the Greek's room with a distinguished-looking guy in a herringbone tweed coat. He had a moustache thick enough for a barn owl to roost in.

“Ah, Dalrymple,” the public order guardian said in a nervous voice that made me immediately suspicious. “This is Mr Palamas from the Greek consulate.”

The diplomat eyed my unofficial clothing and decided against shaking hands.

“Mr Palamas has been visiting his compatriot to check on his progress.”

“Fortunately for you, guardian, he is making a good recovery.” The Greek shook his head theatrically. “That such a thing should happen in your city . . .”

“When can I interview Mr Roussos?” I asked.

Hamilton started shaking his head before I finished my question.

Palamas looked down his long, fleshy nose at me. “As I have just explained to your superior, Mr Roussos is not to be interviewed by any city official.”

I looked at Hamilton. He opened his hands helplessly.

“Mr Roussos has told me he saw nothing of his assailant. There is therefore no point in interviewing him. The guardian has agreed to this. Good morning.” Palamas walked away with his nose in the air.

“Are you out of your fucking . . .”

“Quiet, man. This is nothing to do with you. The senior guardian is aware of my decision.” He paused to let that sink in.

“Since when do attempted murder victims get let off making statements? How the fuck am I supposed to catch this maniac?”

“It's out of my hands, citizen.” Hamilton twitched his head like a fly was annoying him. A fly named guilt. He knew he should never have agreed to exempting a witness from questioning. If what Katharine had told me was right and the attacker was dressed up as a transvestite, Roussos must have hired him and obviously must have seen him close up.

“It's because of commercial considerations,” Hamilton said in a low voice. “The Greeks are worth a fortune to us. If they don't want one of their people to be bothered, what can we do?”

I knew exactly what he could do and I told him. He didn't look too impressed.

So then I went to see the city's chief prostitute. I got a surprise on the way into the Tourism Directorate building on George IVth Bridge. Simpson 134, the buxom nurse who spent her time making eyes at Yellowlees, came out, a well-stuffed briefcase in her hand. She pretended she didn't see me but I was sure she did. What the hell was she doing there? A bit of moonlighting in her off-duty hours?

The Prostitution Services Department is on the second-top floor of the building. That shows how important it is to the Tourism Directorate. Men come all the way from the Far East to have a good time with Edinburgh's finest. No doubt they find the experience very enlightening.

The sun was streaming in the large windows. I sat in the office of the controller and waited for her to come out of a budget meeting. Her desk was clear and all her filing cabinets locked. I began to get bored.

“Hello there, Quint,” Patsy Cameron said, bustling in eventually and taking off the jacket of her pinstriped suit. She looked a lot more pleased to see me than she had in the Bearskin the other night. “Sorry I'm late. Financial planning seems to be how I spend all my time these days.”

“Beats lying on your back with your legs open though.”

She looked across at me, eyes cold, then laughed. “Really, citizen, what kind of way is that to speak to a senior auxiliary?”

“Sorry, Patsy.” I looked across to the barracks number on her ample bosom. “I mean Wilkie 164.”

“Never mind that nonsense. I was Patsy Cameron when you took me in during the anti-whoring campaign fifteen years ago and I'm the same person now.” Although she was over fifty, the controller's hair was blonde and her face surprisingly free of wrinkles. Only the remains of a heavy accent hinted at a less than typical background for a person in her position.

I used to like Patsy, but I hadn't seen her since I dropped out. She was one of the Enlightenment's success stories, an ex-prostitute who'd gone through the adult education system and done well for herself. I often worked with her during the Public Order Directorate's campaigns to keep women off the street. I hadn't realised then that most of them would end up doing the same job in the service of the city. Now that the Council was in open competition with Amsterdam and anywhere else you can think of, Patsy must have got a job for life.

“I'm told you're back doing what you're best at, Quint,” she said, opening one of the files she'd brought in.

“I'm not doing it too well now. That's why I need your help.” I also needed to con her and I wasn't too sure if I was up to that.

The controller put on a pair of standard-issue glasses, the plain plastic frames clashing with her luxuriant coiffure. “Fire away,” she said with more enthusiasm than I'd expected. Maybe she wanted something from me in exchange.

“First, I need to check out the transvestites who work the Indie.” I told her a witness had spotted one, without mentioning Katharine.

“I'll give you everything I've got on the boys who were on the roster on Thursday night.” She pursed her lips. “Won't necessarily prove a lot – most of them freelance in their spare time.”

“Freelance?”

Patsy laughed. “So to speak. I'll give you the full register of t-vs.” She looked across at me. “What else?”

Now came the tricky bit. I needed a way into the department's main archive to see if I could find any other photos like the ones I'd found behind Roussos's mirror. I could only think of one name to use.

“Katharine Kirkwood. I need to go through her file.”

Patsy eyed me cautiously. “Let's have a look at that authorisation of yours.”

I handed it over and watched her scrutinise it.

“Aye, well, it looks like I can't refuse you anything.” She gave me a practised tart's leer, her lips parting to show gleaming and even teeth – dental work obviously done before private practices were abolished. “You know she has a security file?”

“I've seen it.”

“Have you now? Well, the files we keep aren't always the same as the ones those idiots in the Public Order Directorate have.” She shook her head and quickly regained her senior auxiliary's air. “Sorry. The old prejudices die hard. What's your interest in our fair Katharine?”

I had the sudden feeling I'd bitten off more than I could comfortably get through in a single dinner sitting. When I'd used Katharine's name I hadn't expected Patsy to know her. I mumbled some garbage about how I was checking everyone who'd been injured in the fire.

Patsy caught my eye. “You know, we play hard in this department. You might not like everything you read in our files.”

“I can take it.”

She raised her eyebrows sceptically then pressed the button for her secretary. “You'll be locked in the archive. And Quint, nothing leaves the building, all right?”

“I'll mention your co-operation in my report, Patsy.”

The controller was already engrossed in her papers. It seemed she didn't want anything from me in return. “Screw you, citizen,” she said, without much sign of humour.

I suppose I was just another man to be satisfied and shown the door.

Things got worse as the day went by. The transvestite lead didn't get us very far. I went through the roster and had Davie check the boys out. There had been three on duty in the hotel when the fire started. The logsheets showed that two of them had been in rooms a long way from the scene of the crime when the alarm went off, and the other had been in the staff messroom with several female prostitutes. The clients, a Norwegian and a Chinese, weren't too keen on providing alibis, but Hamilton twisted their arms. There were seventeen other t-vs on the department's register and they were being traced, but I had a feeling the trail was cold.

The photos were a waste of time too. I didn't find any similar ones in the random sample of files I pulled in the archive and none of the serial numbers matched. Either these particular naked bodies had nothing to do with Patsy's department or efforts had been made to keep them secret. Of course, I could have asked her about them but where would that have got me? If she was involved, she'd make sure I didn't get a sniff – she knew everything there is to know about tricks.

Katharine's file was the perfect end to a shitty spring day. I decided she
was
worth talking to Patsy about. On several counts.

“Do all your operatives fuck as much as she does?” I asked, holding the maroon file up as I walked into the controller's office in the late afternoon.

Patsy shrugged. “I suppose she does have a bit of a talent for it.”

“I like the auxiliary-style understatement, Patsy. This woman makes Catherine the Great look like an under-achiever. What do you do with all this information she gathers about her clients?”

The controller went coy on me. It didn't suit her. “Oh, you know, it pays to know about clients' needs – in case they come back.”

“It would never occur to the Tourism Directorate to blackmail the ones who get out of hand, would it?”

“Is that an accusation, citizen?” she asked. An Arctic fox's eyes would have been warmer.

“Just an observation. I get the impression you know her pretty well. Fill me in.”

“I hope this is relevant to your investigation.”

“Trust me.”

“Ha.” Patsy loosened up a bit. “Actually, I do know her quite well.” She shook her blonde mane a couple of times. “If you can really know someone as cold-blooded as her. She's one of our stars. A year ago I even asked her to give up the hotel and come to work with me here.” She laughed. “She told me right where I could go. Our Katharine doesn't think much of the Council and its works.”