Body Politic (26 page)

Katharine put her compact back in her bag and reached for one of the photographs. “No. How much do you think he earns? That jacket he was wearing's a bit special.”

“Maybe he wins a lot on the gambling tables.”

“And maybe I'm the virgin Mary.” She slipped on a pair of high-heeled shoes and went to the rear door of the van. “See you later, citizen.”

I watched her go, not too happy about what I'd given her to do. Or about her acceptance of the job without complaint. Then there was the danger of the situation she was going into. I wanted to go after her; Christ, I wanted to protect her. It was a long time since I'd felt that way about anyone.

I called Davie. He told me that Billy had returned to his flat and was still there. Then I called the guardswoman who'd been assigned to watch Simpson 134. She said that the nursing auxiliary was on duty in the infirmary. There was nothing to do except wait for Katharine.

I sat watching the tourists on their way to the pubs and clubs in Rose Street, then lost myself in a maze of unanswered questions. Where had the guardswoman whose body we found first been going on Saturday nights with the official authorisation I'd never managed to trace? Could there really be a connection between her, the driver Rory Baillie and the Greek who'd lost an eye? What was the significance of the different mutilations? And what about Billy? What kind of scam was he running with the Greeks?

A noise at the rear door roused me. It opened and Katharine climbed in, a broad smile across her face.

“God, that was quick.”

She waved two sheets of paper at me. “Look what I've got.”

I scrambled over from the front seat and grabbed them. “You took them? Now he knows someone's on to him.”

“Take a closer look, Quint.”

“Photocopies. You have done well. But how did you get them?”

She had pulled off her shoes and was sitting with her knees apart, completely unconcerned by the direction of my gaze. “Simple. When I didn't find him in the bar or restaurant, I went up to his room. I was going to pretend that Heriot 07 had sent me, but he didn't answer my knock. I could hear a terrible racket coming from the bathroom – he could do with some singing lessons – so I tried the door. The stupid bugger had left it open. I found the envelope in the drawer of the bedside table, ran down the corridor to the photocopier they have for businessmen on that floor, copied the pages and put them back. All before he'd finished treating his dandruff.” She shot a glance at me. “No exchange of body fluids required.”

I was relieved about that, though I tried not to show it. I examined the photocopies. They looked like balance sheets – there were a lot of numbers, most of them strings of zeroes. But there were also combinations of letters and numbers which I recognised. I pulled out my notebook and found the references I'd copied from the headless photographs in Roussos's room: LR462, AT231, PH167 and so on. All thirty of them were on the pages. Some of them had numbers without many zeroes against them, others had plenty. A column on the right wasn't too hard to decipher. It showed dates. Some were in February, some in March and the last six were in the middle of April.

“Some sort of code,” Katharine said.

“Brilliant.”

“What does it all mean?” she asked, watching me carefully. “Do you think the letters could be initials?”

I told her about the photographs. Katharine grabbed my leg hard. “You bastard. You should have shown them to me. I could identify Adam. These are the missing people, aren't they?”

“Calm down,” I said, prising her fingers from my thigh. “The photographs don't show anything except torsos and limbs. There are no scars or marks on any of them.” I squeezed her hand gently. “You're right, these letters probably refer to people. But I already checked the initials of the ones who've gone missing against the references on the photos. They don't match.”

“So it's a code, like I said.” She was looking at me like I was shit on her stilettos.

I felt my face go scarlet. “Look, I'm sorry I didn't show you the photos. They're a bit gross and . . .”

“Fuck you, Quint,” she shouted. “You're happy enough to send me off to lick the guy in the hotel's balls but you get all coy when it comes to giving me a chance to find Adam.”

“All right, I'll let you see . . .”

My mobile buzzed.

It was the guardswoman in the infirmary. She was scarcely able to identify herself. “Citizen . . . it's Simpson 134 . . . I went . . . to the toilet . . . she . . .”

“Take a deep breath,” I said, trying not to scream as I climbed into the front of the Transit. “Tell me what happened.”

“She was attacked. I don't know if she's alive or . . .”

“Call the public order guardian. And make sure there's a guard on every exit. I'm on my way.”

“What's going on?” Katharine joined me in the front.

“Either the killer's changed his timetable or we've got another one on the loose.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“No, you're not. I need you to stay here and watch Papazoglou, Katharine.”

Again, she didn't demur. “Keep in touch.”

“I will, pretty lady.”

She raised an eyebrow and got out of the van.

Hamilton was getting out of his Land-Rover when I arrived at the infirmary.

“It doesn't stop,” he said despondently.

“It might if your directorate did its job.”

He looked ahead. “Don't worry. I'll have the guardswoman's head.”

“That'll be a great help.” I pushed through the knot of auxiliaries at the main entrance and found a tear-stained girl whom the others were ignoring.

“How long were you away from her?” I asked, giving her an encouraging smile. She couldn't have been long in the guard.

“No more than five minutes, citizen. She was working in her office and I thought I could . . .”

I raised my hand. “Where is Simpson 134 now?”

The guardswoman pointed. “In intensive care. The medical guardian got her there straight away.”

I wondered how Yellowlees was taking it. “Show me the scene of the crime.”

She walked away quickly, avoiding the public order guardian's glare. I motioned to him to keep his distance and caught her up.

“Simpson 134 went down to one of the storerooms. That's where she was attacked.” The guardswoman glanced at me, her face white. “One of the porters heard something but the attacker got out of the window before he saw him.”

She led me into a gloomy corridor. At the far end I could make out a guardsman and a short figure in grey overalls.

“I'll be all right from here,” I said.

The guardswoman stopped, clearly reluctant to face the guardian. There was nothing I could do for her.

“What's your name, citizen?” I said to the balding, middleaged hospital porter.

“Gregson,” he said, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Your first name.”

Now he looked up, puzzled by my last question. When he saw I wasn't in uniform, he replied, “Andrew.”

“Mine's Quint.”

“Citizen Dalrymple,” supplied Hamilton from behind me. “He's in charge of this investigation.”

The porter nodded, then began to speak rapidly as if he wanted to get his story out as soon as possible. “It was like this. I'd just wheeled an old fellow into geriatrics and I was on my way back to reception. Then I met my supervisor and she says to me, ‘Go down to the stores and get me a socket set so I can fix the wheel on that trolley.' When I was halfway down the corridor, I heard this noise. I couldn't place it at first. It was a bit like one of they big clocks that tick really slowly. A kind of croaking, then a long-drawn-out gasping that fair made me shiver.”

“What did you do?”

Andrew Gregson wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “I started to run.” He looked down ruefully at his heavy boots. “That's what let the bastard know somebody was coming. By the time I got to the door the choking noise had stopped. Then I heard the pounding on the window. I tried the door but he'd taken the key and locked it from the inside.” He shrugged. “It took me a good few shoves with my shoulder to break it down. By then he was out of the window and away.”

“You nearly got him, Andrew.”

“Judging by the state of her, I'm bloody glad I didn't.” He took me by the arm and led me through the broken door.

The room was lit by fluorescent strips. It was full of floor-polishers and vacuum cleaners, buckets, half-dismantled trolleys and general maintenance stores. In the centre was a space between two piles of mattresses.

“She was leaning against them,” the porter said hoarsely. “Her head was at a funny angle and she was still making a noise, but it was very faint.” He gulped. “Her skirt was up . . . over her thighs and her . . . her stockings were ripped.” He stopped and stared down at the place where Simpson 134 had been. “She was almost gone but she must have realised I was there.”

“How do you know?”

Andrew Gregson's eyes met mine. “Because she spoke to me.”

I felt my heart jump. “She said something to you?”

“Well, she tried. Poor woman. I couldn't stand her but no one deserves to be throttled like that.”

“Andrew,” I said insistently, “what did she say?”

He bit his lip then shook his head. “I couldn't really understand it. It sounded like she was saying ‘sick'. Three or four times she said it, then she slumped over. And the medical guardian came rushing in and pushed me out of the way.”

“Sick”? It meant as little to me as it did to him. But in terms of the body politic, it was certainly appropriate.

The fingerprint squad dusted all over the storeroom, but I wasn't surprised when they found nothing on the window and door except smudges. Obviously the nurse's assailant had worn gloves. Outside, all I found were scuff marks on the grass, suggesting socks had been worn until he got to the tarmac road. Those indications, along with the fact that a ligature had been put round Simpson 134's throat, made me quite sure it was the killer – even though it was Tuesday, rather than the Thursday evening he'd preferred until now.

Yellowlees appeared in the shattered doorway as I was getting ready to leave. He looked around with wild eyes for a few seconds, then stared at me dully.

“She died five minutes ago,” he said.

I felt as hopeless as the medical guardian sounded.

Chapter Sixteen

YELLOWLEES LED HAMILTON
and me back up the corridor, the limbs hanging from his tall frame like an unstrung marionette's. “You'll want to see her, I suppose,” he said in a faint voice.

Simpson 134 lay on her own in a small room. The medical guardian pulled the sheet down carefully, holding his eyes on the body. Her face was bloodless, white as chalk, in contrast to the livid line around her neck. The ligature had been twisted with enough force to break the skin. It was surprising she'd lasted long enough to say anything.

“Any idea what she was trying to say?” I asked.

Yellowlees shook his head then replaced the sheet. He stood there like a statue. If I hadn't taken his arm and led him out, I think he'd have been there for hours.

In his office he sat down heavily at his desk and watched Hamilton close the door with staring eyes.

“There are some things I have to know, guardian.”

“Is this really necessary, Dalrymple?” The public order guardian seemed strangely protective of his colleague.

“It is.” I gave Hamilton a glare that would have warmed Katharine's heart and turned to Yellowlees. “What exactly were Simpson 134's duties?”

“Margaret . . .” The medical guardian shivered as if saying her name was an act of betrayal. “She was one of the infirmary's most senior nurses. She assisted me in the labs, in theatre, with administration . . .” His head sank down.

“You realise it's the same killer?” I said.

Yellowlees nodded slowly. “At least he didn't have time to—” He stopped abruptly and took a few deep breaths.

“Why do you think he came after her?”

He raised his hands from the desk and watched the fingers twitch before rubbing them together. “I don't know.” He didn't look at me. “Maybe she saw him and asked him what he was doing. She was fearless.”

I remembered Simpson 134's angry question about the investigation when I'd been looking for Katharine; she seemed to have a personal interest in the killer's capture. Had she known something that Yellowlees didn't? Did he know that she'd met Billy Geddes that night I'd seen them in Jamaica Street Lane? I was pretty sure that she and the guardian had no secrets from each other.

“Do you know if she had any connection with the murdered guardswoman Sarah Spence? Or the driver Rory Baillie?”

He was shaking his head, eyes still lowered.

“How about the Greek Roussos who lost his eye?”

He glanced up. “Don't be ridiculous. What could she possibly have had to do with him?” His lips twisted in an odd smile.

Guardians, like all auxiliaries, are supposed to respect the truth. In my experience that doesn't stop most of them becoming accomplished liars. Normally Yellowlees was very smooth. Not now though. He'd tried to brazen things out and I wasn't buying it. I played what I thought was my ace.

“Tell me, what do the organs that have been taken from the victims have in common?” I saw Hamilton's eyes open wide.

Yellowlees suddenly seemed more in control. “That's obvious, citizen. Liver, kidney, eye. They can all be used, in part if not in whole, for transplantation.”

“Which, of course, isn't practised in Enlightenment Edinburgh.”

The medical guardian nodded. “It goes against the constitution's directive about the inviolability of the body.” He gave a bitter smile. “Besides, the abolition of private car ownership has reduced traffic accidents to a minimal level and the supply of organ donors has dried up.” He walked towards the door. “Excuse me. I have to see to Margaret.”