The Bone Yard (17 page)

“William McEwan. You have him here?”

Now the virgin had whipped her cross out. “The former guardian?” he said haltingly. “Yes, he's here. Why do you ask?”

“I want to have a look at his papers.”

The old bureaucrat's expression brightened. “Only his papers?”

“Before I take a look at the body.”

He was back to being the panic-stricken vampire, this time with the first rays of dawn appearing over the eastern Transylvanian uplands. “You  . . . you can't do that. It's against regulations. I'll have to call  . . .”

“You'll have to calm down, citizen,” I said, leading him briskly into his office. Then I gave him the eye again. “You'll also have to comply with everything I request.” I glanced around his impeccably neat room with its cabinets full of perfectly organised files. “Otherwise an unexpected wave of chaos might suddenly burst over your records.”

As I thought, the threat of messing with his files did the trick – anally retentive bureaucrats are easy to intimidate. He unlocked the drawer of his desk and took out a maroon file. Deceased ordinary citizens and auxiliaries get grey, but guardians are honoured with maroon. So much for death the great equaliser.

I flicked through the pages. I was after the post-mortem report, but all I got was a big zero from the Medical Directorate.

“How come there was no post-mortem, Haigh? It wasn't exactly death by natural causes, was it?”

The crematorium supervisor looked away shiftily. “Yes, I did notice that. I rang the Medical Directorate and was told that a post-mortem was not required. They didn't give me a reason.”

“And you were happy with that?”

Haigh gave the smirk of the bureaucrat who has covered his arse with fifteen-inch armour plating. “If that's what the Medical Directorate decides, it's good enough for me. I logged the call, of course.”

“Of course you did.” I handed the file back. “Got your screwdriver ready?”

His face slackened again. “Isn't this enough for you? What more do you need to know?”

I went over to the nearest cabinet and grabbed a handful of folders.

“No, put those back. I  . . . oh, very well.” Haigh put the file away, took out his screwdriver and locked the drawer again. He was nothing if not careful. I wondered how many other people he expected to be interested in the recently deceased former guardian.

The hall and corridors of the crematorium were bloody freezing. I followed the supervisor down to the room where coffins were stored for the brief period allowed by health regulations before their contents go up in smoke (the coffins themselves are reused, of course). The place had hardly any lights and I suddenly had the nasty feeling I was being led into a fairy-tale fiend's lair. As if to reinforce that, Haigh looked over his hunched shoulder and gave me a grin Beelzebub would have been proud of. For all his protestations, I was sure this was the part of his work he liked best – messing about with the bodies.

“Here we are, citizen,” he said, turning into a windowless room and putting on the light. There were three coffins on stands, all of them showing signs of wear and tear. The one Haigh headed for was in the best condition of the three.

“Screwdriver,” I said, holding out my hand.

He handed it over reluctantly.

“Now, off you go back to your files,” I said. I was pleased to see he could barely contain his disappointment. He wasn't giving up though.

“Regulations clearly state that a member of crematorium staff must always be present when coffins are opened, citizen Dalrymple.”

“Are you attached to this screwdriver?” I asked.

He didn't get my drift.

“Would you like to be even more attached to it?” I brandished it at him like they taught us in the auxiliary training programme. The door closed behind him rapidly and I set to work.

Actually, I could have done with his help to lift the lid off when I'd undone all the screws, but I didn't want him to see what I was looking for. That was the problem. I didn't know what I was looking for myself. I took a deep breath and manhandled the lid off. And looked upon the face of William McEwan.

But it wasn't much like Schliemann looking upon Agamemnon's features. No gold mask, not even much attempt to arrange the face in a condition of repose. The poor old guy's eyes were wide open, his lips and teeth parted, giving him the expression of someone who's just woken up from a disturbing dream. But there would be no more lie-ins followed by leisurely breakfasts for this sleeper – only the ultimate substantial slumber.

I loosened the maroon and black striped Council tie and the white shirt under the tweed jacket that they'd dressed him in. His neck had that clammy chill feeling we all acquire eventually. I felt for the fracture, lifting him up. The head lolled loosely to the side. His neck was broken all right, and there was no obvious bruising to suggest that hands had been laid on him. And there was a large contusion on his forehead consistent with a fall. So far everything was in order. What had I thought I would find? A label saying “Assassination carried out by Council order”?

I shook my head and stepped back from the open coffin. I had a decision to make. It didn't take long. There was no point in getting this far if I wasn't going to go through with it.

I stepped forward again and started to undo the buttons of his shirt. I didn't want to, but I was going to have to examine the whole body for marks showing if William had been manhandled to the top of the stairs. This was what should have been done in the post-mortem that someone had decided wouldn't take place.

I was unzipping the former guardian's trousers when Haigh tried to come in. I shouted at him so loud that I was lucky William McEwan didn't come round and ask me what I thought I was doing. I asked myself the same question after I'd struggled to get his trousers off and found nothing; the fact that the laces on his scuffed old brogues were double knotted didn't help. Then my eyes fell on the shoes. They were lying on their sides on the floor where I'd dropped them. Why the hell would anyone tie double knots on a dead man's shoes?

I went to the bottom of the coffin. Even before I pulled his socks off, I could see William McEwan's feet were badly swollen. The black bruising all over the top of both feet showed that he didn't just have bad circulation. Some piece of shit had trampled all over the old man's feet, which probably had nothing more than bedsocks on them at that time of the morning. No doubt it was the bastard who'd left the marks of his boots on the bedroom floor. There was no way William had fallen down the stairs accidentally. Christ, with these bruises he'd hardly even have been able to walk two paces.

I backed away again and squatted down on the concrete floor. This time the decision I had to make took a lot longer.

After I put the clothes back on William's wasted limbs and tried unsuccessfully to close his eyes, I was nearly consumed by rage. Haigh saw how I looked as I stormed down the corridor and veered out of my way. I tossed over his screwdriver without making any effort to miss him and told him to put the lid back on the coffin himself. At that moment I was dead set on driving straight to Moray Place and asking the senior guardian what the fuck was going on. Then I got outside and the Arctic air brought me to my senses. Suddenly suicide didn't seem like such an attractive option.

Back in my flat I gulped whisky and tried to work out a plan of action. Whoever killed the ex-guardian had friends in high places, as the lack of post-mortem showed. On the other hand, I had very few friends on the Council. Hamilton might class himself as one if he was feeling charitable, but his own position in the Council was isolated. No, the only sensible way was to keep what I knew to myself and nail whoever was responsible when I had the whole story.

So I put on my black suit and turned up uninvited to William's service. Hector beckoned to me to sit beside him but I preferred to stand at the side where I had a good view of all the guardians and senior auxiliaries on parade. I saw Haigh lurking in the background and wondered if he'd told anyone about my visit. If he had, no one seemed to be too bothered. Judging by the lack of eye contact I was receiving, I might as well have stayed at home. The medical guardian was the only one who even batted an eyelid in acknowledgement of my presence, but I wasn't getting my hopes up – she looked as beautiful and as glacial as ever. Machiavelli was standing next to Hamilton with his nose in the air and his head angled away from the guardian in another tell-tale piece of body language.

What I was hoping might be interesting was the senior guardian's address. I reckoned I'd be able to spot if he was harbouring any guilty feelings about the old man's death, but I'd forgotten what a skilful performer the chief boyscout had become during his time at the top. He ran through William's achievements at the Science and Energy Directorate, expressed the city and the Council's gratitude and held his head high as the coffin disappeared into the floor. A statue would have given more away.

Outside, no one was inclined to hang about. The temperature was doing its usual impression of Tromsø on a bad day and there was no wake afterwards; since the guardians don't permit themselves alcohol, there wouldn't have been much point. I had a few words with Hector then led him towards a guard vehicle.

“Aren't there better ways for you to spend your time, citizen?”

I turned to face the senior guardian. I'd been wondering if he'd have the nerve to approach me.

“It's important to mark the passing of the old guard,” I said with a thin smile. “Even if the passing is a bit premature.”

I was hoping to catch even a hint of regret but there was nothing.

“Citizen, it's someone who hasn't passed away yet who you should be after – the murderer. Kindly get back to work.” He strode off without a glance at my father.

“What did he mean?” Hector asked. “Are you working for the Council again?”

I nodded slowly.

Over the crematorium a cloud of smoke rose from the chimney. It was the last breath of William McEwan, floating away into the chill blue sky above the “perfect” city he'd served.

Chapter Eleven

I was running down an ice-rimmed street under a bright moon, my legs flailing, trying to catch up with a figure in a long, hooded coat. Then the figure stopped and turned to face me. I slowed to walking pace, my breath rasping in my throat and a stitch fastening my liver to my lowest rib tighter than an industrial sewing machine could. As the figure's face came into view I felt myself falling into an abyss. It was Roddie Aitken, lips bared and blood trailing down his chin. Then everything went black, darker than the universe before the big bang went off, darker than the soul of the killer I was trying to find. But I could hear voices. Not Roddie's, not any man's. They were women's voices, the voices of the women I'd lost. My mother, Caro, Katharine Kirkwood. They seemed to be getting closer, asking questions plaintively, accusing me of failing them. But I'd also lost the power of speech. Like Roddie, like William McEwan.

I woke up in a sweat-soaked bed reeking of nettles and seaweed. It took me a couple of minutes to work out that the smell came from the cup of barracks tea on my bedside table.

“Nice dream?” Davie asked as I staggered through into the main room of my flat. “You looked like you were well into an imaginary sex session.”

“Sod off, guardsman. It was a nightmare actually.”

Davie grinned. “That's the problem with random selection of partners.”

I shook my head. “No, it was a real nightmare. Christ, this bastard case. We're going nowhere with it. Just waiting for the butcher to kill again.”

“You read my mind,” Davie said. “When you'd woken up properly I was going to tell you that none of the tails we've got on the two victims' friends and contacts has come up with anything significant.” He tossed over a sheaf of papers. “Their reports up to yesterday evening.”

At least the City Guard's bureaucracy was still doing its job, though personally I'd have given the undercover people an extra hour's relaxation rather than make them write up the day's events before they sign off.

“No more pills found anywhere either,” Davie added, flipping the pages of his notebook then closing it. “So what are we doing today?”

I knew what I was going to do, but it was something that I didn't want to risk involving him in. “Can you keep an eye on all the leads we're following, Davie? I want you to keep Hamilton off my back as well. I'm switching my mobile off today.”

“Oh, aye?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you headed, Quint?”

“You don't want to know, guardsman. You do not want to know.”

I reckoned I had about an hour at the most. I still had an “ask no questions”, one of the cards issued by the Public Order Directorate to undercover operatives, from the murder investigation in 2020. It would get me into the Science and Energy Directorate archive all right, and my disguise would buy me some time from the senior guardian. If he was advised that someone answering my description was in his directorate files, he'd be down faster than the Archangel Gabriel when Lucifer got uppity.