The Bone Yard (2 page)

Davie wasn't too impressed by that kind of talk in front of a citizen.

“So, Roddie,” I said, giving him what I thought was an encouraging smile. “Who's following you?”

The guy looked like I'd just accused him of being sympathetic to the aims of the democrats in Glasgow. He sat bolt upright and looked over towards the door, as if he were gauging whether he could beat us to it.

“Don't panic,” I said. “I saw you in the street.”

Roddie Aitken relaxed a bit and smiled weakly. “I must have looked like a right  . . .”

“Aye, you did,” Davie said with a grin.

The young man laughed. He didn't seem to be intimidated by Davie's presence; some of my clients would rather forgo their sex sessions than talk in front of an auxiliary. “I heard you help people out,” he said, turning to me. “Is that right, citizen Dalrymple?”

“Quint,” I said. “Remember?”

He nodded apologetically.

“And I do help people out, as you put it.”

“But you're not in the guard?”

“Not any more. I have contacts though.” I nodded at Davie. “Why? Have you got a problem with the guard?”

Roddie Aitken shrugged. “No, not at all. It's just that I told them about my problem and they  . . . well, they haven't followed it up.”

It wasn't the first time I'd heard that story. There aren't enough auxiliaries in the Public Order Directorate to deal with every citizen's request for help. One of the reasons I didn't rejoin the directorate when I was invited a couple of years back was that there's plenty to do cleaning up their omissions and lapses. The fact that I'm regarded as Mephistopheles without a disguise by the new wave of headbangers in the Council is neither here nor there.

“What exactly is your problem, citizen?” Davie demanded with typical guardsman's subtlety.

“Yes, you'd better give us a clue, Roddie,” I said, gesturing to Davie to lay off him. “Don't be shy. Hume 253 often works with me.”

Aitken thought about it for a few moments, then got stuck into his story. It often happens like that. Clients spend the first few minutes with their noses twitching like dogs carrying out extensive research on an unfamiliar leg, then they suddenly start rubbing themselves up against it like the trousers are on heat.

“I told the guard about the hooded man yesterday morning. They said they'd get back to me today, but they haven't. The thing is, I'm not sure what it's all about. Jimmie reckons that the guy was trying to have a real go at me, but I didn't see the knife  . . .”

Davie's eyes were rolling and mine probably weren't too stable either. “Hold on a second, you've lost us,” I said. “We've got a hooded man, a knife, a Jimmie, the guard and you. Make some connections, will you?”

Roddie Aitken laughed and his face took on an even more boyish look. It was hard to tell how old he was. Maybe that's why he was dubious about the whisky. “I knew it would sound crazy,” he said.

Davie got up and went over to the window.

Suddenly the young man's face looked older. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the figure in uniform. “Is he there?” he asked in a taut voice. “Can you see a big guy in a long coat with a hood?”

Davie stared down at the street, lit now by the dull glow of streetlamps on low power. Then he turned back to us, shaking his head slowly. “No hooded men, no one dressed up as Santa Claus who's got the date wrong, no one chasing people down the road with a knife. How many beers have you had today, laddie?”

Roddie looked offended. “None.” His face reddened. “I don't like drinking that much.”

“Let's start from the beginning,” I said, giving Davie a look that he ignored. “Someone in a coat with a hood has been following you, right?”

He nodded, glancing at Davie with an injured expression. I felt a bit sorry for him.

“So how often have you seen him? When did all this start?”

Roddie sat up and pulled his orange hat out. “Look, I think I'm wasting your time. I didn't really want to come. It was Jimmie who—”

“Hang on,” I said. “You can't just walk out. I've got my tongue hanging out like a kid whose girlfriend's decided she won't undo her blouse after all.”

He grinned shyly, then sat back again. “Fair enough, citizen  . . . I mean Quint.”

“Right. Fill me in then.”

“The first time I saw the guy was on Christmas Eve. I work in the Supply Directorate – the Deliveries Department. Food mainly, sometimes some booze, cigarettes for the nightclubs, that sort of thing.”

I was interested. It's unusual for someone as young as Roddie Aitken to get a job as a delivery man. The older members of that department hog the driving duty because it gives them the chance to pilfer – if they have the nerve to risk a spell on the city farms or down the mines.

“It was in the Grassmarket, across the road from the Three Graces. I couldn't see a face or anything. It must have been about half seven in the evening and they hadn't turned all the lights on. Anyway, I was in a hurry – they'd suddenly realised they were short of whisky.”

“How did you know he was interested in you?” Davie asked.

Roddie Aitken raised a finger to his lips and shook his head slowly. “I didn't really. It was just  . . . he was staring at me, really hard. You know, giving me the eye.”

“Nothing else happened?” I asked.

“No. I went into the club and made my delivery. When I came out, he wasn't there any more.”

Davie leaned towards him. “You say ‘he'. How do you know it was a man?”

Roddie's forehead wrinkled as he thought about that. It looked to me like he did more thinking than the average citizen. I wondered why he wasn't an auxiliary.

“Can't say for sure. He was big – not huge, but big enough to be a pretty unusual woman.” He smiled at the idea. “The hood part of his coat had a kind of high neck as well; that's why I couldn't see much of his face.”

“Not much to go on so far,” Davie said.

“I know. Then I saw him again three days ago, last Saturday night about half nine. This time it was on Nicolson Street, near my flat. I looked round a couple of times and he was still there, about twenty yards behind me.” He shrugged. “Then I turned into Drummond Street where I live and he didn't show.”

I wasn't too excited so far. Christ, the guy himself didn't seem to be very bothered. But something about his expression, a tightening of the skin around his eyes, suggested the punchline was worth waiting for.

“Then he showed up again the night before last.” Roddie turned to me, his eyes wider. “I'd been working late. One of my mates in the department was sick – pissed, I should think – so I was delivering vegetables to the shops. I got back to Drummond Street just before curfew at ten. The sky was dead clear and there was a frost. That must have been why the footsteps sounded so loud. This time I didn't see him till I was about fifty yards from my door.” He stopped to catch his breath, looking at both of us. “Then he started running. I turned round and saw the figure in the long coat and hood. He had something in his hand. I  . . . I couldn't see what he could possibly want with me so I didn't run, just walked a bit more quickly.”

I began to get the distinct feeling that Roddie Aitken was too laid back for his own good. I reckon I'd have been down the road faster than the mob in London after the millennium when they spotted anyone who looked like a city trader or a lawyer.

“I didn't really see what happened next,” he said. “Jimmie, my neighbour, opened the street door and pulled me in as the guy hurtled past. Jimmie swears blind he saw a big knife, but I don't know  . . .”

“What exactly was this Jimmie doing at the door?” I asked.

Roddie smiled. “He's a nosy old bugger. Always sits at his window. He said he saw the man in the hood and didn't like the look of him, so he came out.”

Davie stood up again and headed for the window. “And you reported this to the guard?”

“Jimmie told me I should.” Roddie Aitken shrugged. “I suppose he had a point – after all, he saw the knife. There are some crazies around, even in Edinburgh.”

He was right there. But I couldn't figure out why even a crazy guy would follow a delivery man around. “Is there anyone who's got a grudge against you, Roddie? At work, for instance?”

He looked at me innocently, as if the idea were ridiculous. “No. I get on fine with everyone, Quint. I reckon it's just a piece of nonsense.” He paused and glanced down at his hands. They had suddenly started to shake. “At least I did, until I saw him behind me as I came along Lauriston Place on my way here.”

That explained why he'd been acting like a five-year-old on speed in the street. Davie was already on his way towards the door.

“What colour was the coat?” he asked.

Roddie shrugged. “I'm not sure exactly. Dark – maybe navy blue or black.”

The door banged behind Davie.

“Have you got a complaint reference?” I asked.

“Aye.” Roddie handed me a crumpled piece of official paper numbered 3474/301221. It told me that citizen Roderick Aitken, address 28f Drummond Street, age twenty-two years, next of kin Peter Aitken of 74m Ratcliffe Terrace (relation: father), had reported an attempted assault by a person unknown (probably male). The location and a description of the assailant were also given. I was pretty sure that the guard would have paid about as much attention to Roddie's report as they pay to the city's few remaining Christians when they complain that the Moslem tourists get more religious tolerance than they do. The thing is, the Christians are right. Maybe Roddie Aitken was too.

“Look, how do you feel about this, Roddie? Do you reckon the guy is really after you?” I fixed my eyes on his. “You'd better come clean with me. Are you in trouble?” I was thinking of his work – maybe he'd got in some heavy-duty black marketeer's way.

Roddie opened his arms to protest his innocence. “I haven't got a clue, Quint, honestly. I'm straight.” He looked at me with his wide brown eyes. “All I ever wanted was to be an auxiliary, but I failed the exams two years ago because my maths is so crap. I'm having another go next month. I don't do what some of the others in the department do – pilfering, selling black and the like.”

I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it.

“And I haven't been telling tales either. None of my workmates knows I'm doing the exams.”

I believed him. He was a pretty wholesome citizen, the kind who should have been in the guard instead of arselickers who don't give a shit about the city. Like all of us, he could have done with a better diet and a shower more than once a week. But he gave the impression that he was proud to be an Edinburgh citizen. There aren't too many like that these days.

“All right,” I said. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Great. I can't pay you very much  . . .”

“Don't worry about that. The Public Order Directorate subsidises me. After a fashion.” I looked at my watch. “There isn't much I can do tonight though.”

Roddie stood up. “No problem. I'm going out with my friends.”

“Right. Stick with them and ring my mobile if you see the guy again.” I scribbled the number on a piece of paper. “I'll come round to your place tomorrow and talk to your neighbour.”

He pulled his hideous orange hat down over his ears. “What time do you think you'll come?” He suddenly looked a bit awkward.

“Some time in the middle of the day.” I wasn't going to let him off the hook. “What's the matter? You don't like drinking, so you won't have a post-Hogmanay hangover. Not planning an illicit sex session by any chance, are you?” Citizens are only supposed to have sex with officially approved partners.

His face was red, but he looked pleased with himself. “Well, I've got this girlfriend, Quint, and I'm hoping  . . .”

“It's okay. I won't tell Hume 253.”

A second later Davie came back shaking his head. “No sign of the mystery man.”

I went to the door with Roddie and put my hand on his shoulder. “I'll see you tomorrow then. Don't worry about the idiot in the hood. Have a great Hogmanay.”

“Thanks, Quint.” Roddie headed down towards the street. “Same to you.”

“Not much chance of that,” I called after him. “I'm going to the guardians' annual cocktail party.”

“Lucky you,” he replied, without a trace of irony.

He'd have had a great future as an auxiliary.

Chapter Two

I pulled on the least crumpled of my black sweatshirts and a reasonably clean pair of strides, also black. I wouldn't wear anything smarter to a Council do on principle and anyway, my only suit is retro enough to be banned on the grounds that it might bring about a 1990s nostalgia cult. Then I checked myself out in the mirror. The usual suspect. One thing to be said for food rationing is that it keeps you trim. My jawbone looked like it was about to break through the parchment of my face and I didn't seem to be big enough for my clothes. My half-inch-long hair was continuing its deep and meaningful relationship with greyness, but at least my teeth hadn't fallen out. Yet.