The kitchen was insanely overstocked. There was a full range of French saucepans that would have been worth a small fortune in that country before the Moslem fundamentalists reduced it to a collection of bankrupt city-states. The cupboards were full of tinned foods that are never available in the city's shops: tomatoes, olives, kidney beans, stuffed vine leaves. I even found the components of a pasta machine. I can't remember the last time I ate spaghetti.
After an hour I began to run out of steam. The only documents I'd found were from standard Finance Directorate files and there was no sign of any foreign exchange. I began to suspect that Billy had organised a hiding-place. I squatted down on the carpet in the middle of the sitting room and looked dispiritedly at the heap of his personal possessions that I'd piled up.
“Shit, Billy,” I muttered. “What the hell have you done with it all?” Pins and needles started to attack my feet. I got up and went over to the table where he kept the first edition of Hume's treatise. The first creak of the uneven floorboards made no impression on me. Then I shifted my weight to the other foot and the noise came again, this time louder. Eureka.
I ran to the wall. Although the carpet looked like it had been secured with tacks, it came up easily when I stuck my fingers between it and the skirting board. I quickly moved the furniture aside â a couple of armchairs, a coffee table, an escritoire and a Georgian display cabinet that almost broke my back â and rolled up the heavy floor covering. Where the small table stood, there was a two-foot square cut in the underlay. I lifted it and the boards beneath it, thinking how Billy must have been laughing to himself at the idea of me innocently standing there when he showed me the book. And struck gold. Literally.
The hole contained six bars of that metal, over twenty thousand US dollars and so many wads of Greek drachmae that I didn't waste time counting them. There was also a thick folder of statements from a bank in Berne, a file of papers similar to the one Billy had passed to Papazoglou and, right at the bottom, the confirmation I needed to connect the deputy finance guardian both to Yellowlees and to Patsy Cameron. What was Billy doing with a copy of a research report entitled “Towards the Effective Treatment of Systemic Lupus Erythematosus”? Was he bankrolling the medical guardian's research? Or blackmailing him, perhaps?
And what was he doing with Prostitution Service Department appraisals of ten male and female citizens? Their names had been blacked out and replaced with letter and number references which tallied with ten of those on the headless photographs in Roussos's hotel room. The appraisals included physical and mental profiles and aptitude ratings for specific sexual services. They were all initialled PC. Things were falling into place at last.
My mobile buzzed. I had a job finding it under the carpet at the edge of the room.
“Quint, Davie. Subject is leaving the infirmary. Do I follow?”
“Bloody right you do.” I put Davie in charge of Billy's security so that he could also keep track of Yellowlees. “What about Heriot 07? Has he come round yet?”
“Negative. I've got three guards in his room and another half-dozen in the corridor outside. That do you?”
“Yes. Let me know where the subject's headed. And Davie?”
“Aye?”
“Don't lose him. The killer's probably after him.”
“Christ.”
“Exactly.” I signed off and looked down at the money and documents around the hole in the floor. Suddenly I had a flash of the gaping wounds the murderer had cut in the bodies of his victims. How did what he was doing fit in with Yellowlees and the ENT Man's brother? How did it fit in with Billy and Patsy? There was something missing from the equation and I couldn't work out what it was.
I ran down the stairs, this time impervious to the smell of polish. Something much ranker had filled my nostrils in Billy's flat and I was sure it was about to get worse.
The cloud had thickened over the city and it began to drizzle as I drove towards the castle. I reckoned it was time to come clean with Hamilton. There was too much going on for me to handle without more back-up. Even if there were some Council members who were bent, it wasn't likely that Hamilton was one of them.
I didn't get the chance to find out. He came on the mobile when I was halfway up the Mound.
“Dalrymple, that female citizen you've got working for you . . .”
“Katharine Kirkwood?” I felt my stomach somersault. “What's happened to her?”
“A tourist found her lying unconscious in Reid's Close off the Canongate.”
“Where is she now?”
“She's still there. An ambulance is on its way.”
I accelerated out of the corner at the Finance Directorate and drove down towards the ruins of Holyrood Palace. I left the Transit on the pavement behind the ambulance. A guardsman stepped forward, then stopped when he saw my authorisation. A couple of his colleagues were talking to a male tourist who looked shocked. I ran into the narrow close. The high walls were dark grey, the flagstones wet from the drizzle. Round a corner I found the medics. They were bent over a figure in a light blue raincoat. A woollen hat lay on the ground between me and them.
I went closer. “How is she?”
The more senior of the two male medics turned to me. “Coming round. She took a heavy blow to the back of the head.”
“Quint?” Katharine's voice was weak. “Is that you, Quint?”
“What happened?”
“She . . . someone was behind me suddenly . . . hit me . . . I didn't see . . .”
The medic stood up. “She should be X-rayed. She's probably concussed.”
I knelt down and took her hand. Her eyes seemed unfocused. “Katharine, you'd better go to the infirmary. They think . . .”
“No!” she said, her voice suddenly back to normal. “I'm staying with you. I was on to something. She must have seen me . . .”
I looked round helplessly at the medics. “Keep an eye on her for a moment.”
I went back down the close and found Hamilton questioning the tourist. “Did he see anything?” I asked.
The man had a Korean flag on his baseball cap, jacket and shoulder bag. His English appeared to be Korean too.
“From what we can understand,” said the guardian, “he was trying to find his way back to his hotel from the palace.”
“Bit of an indirect route,” I said dubiously.
Hamilton shrugged. “He's got a copy of
Jekyll and Hyde
in his bag. Maybe he was in search of local colour.”
“And he found Katharine in there?”
There was another burst of incomprehensible English from the tourist, accompanied by what seemed to be positive head movements.
“We'll take that as a yes, shall we?” I turned to the Korean. “Did you see anyone else? Was anyone coming out when you went in?”
More yabbering, but the gestures looked negative. I took Hamilton aside. “Get your people to find an interpreter before they take a statement from him. I don't think he's involved in this, but if we stall we can keep an eye on him.”
Hamilton looked confused. “Not involved in what? What exactly was the womanâ”
He broke off as Katharine came staggering from the close, her face white and her right arm against the wall.
“What are you doing?” I said. “You're not supposed to be walking about.”
She pushed one of the medics away. “I told you, Quint. I'm staying with you till we catch her.”
“Catch who?” the guardian demanded. “What's going on here, Dalrymple?”
I took a deep breath. Now was the time to tell him about Patsy. So I did. I was a bit vague about the connection with the missing young people, but that didn't seem to bother Hamilton. A tight smile began to show on his face as I spoke.
“So the controller of Prostitution Services has been up to no good,” he said when I finished. “I can't say I'm surprised. I never approved of her promotion to senior auxiliary rank.”
You sanctimonious old bastard, I thought. Where would the Council be without the income from Patsy's department?
“You didn't see her?” he asked Katharine.
She shook her head. “But obviously she saw me. I followed her from outside her office to a café on the Royal Mile. She sat there for over an hour, then went into some shops. I had that woollen hat pulled down low over my forehead, but she must still have recognised me. Led me down here and hid in one of the doorways and hit me from behind, the bitch.”
“She may have had help,” I said. “You're lucky you weren't injured more seriously.”
Hamilton was desperate to get involved. “Shall I instruct all guard units and barracks to look out for the controller?”
I raised my hand. “Wait a minute. I need to think.” I walked back into the dank close, stood in a granite corner and let the stream of images bombard me. The Bearskin, Patsy's office, the Greek's hotel room where I'd found the headless photographs, the hiding-place in Billy's flat with the Prostitution Department appraisals. All those places had links with Patsy. But there was something else, something relevant that I couldn't quite grasp. I put my hands against the damp stone and tried to hatch the idea that had begun to torment me. There wasn't much time. Even if Patsy hadn't recognised Katharine until she was knocked unconscious, she'd seen her close up here. She knew of my interest in Katharine and it would be clear that I was closing in on her. So where would she go? None of the obvious places, I was sure of that. Patsy had been a smart operator before she joined the Enlightenment and I knew she hadn't forgotten any of her old tricks. So where had she gone? I ran my mind back over the places: the Bearskin, her office â Christ, her office. Suddenly I saw Simpson 134, the dead nurse, the time she came out of the building where Patsy worked. Simpson 134. She was involved with Billy, she'd met him. That was it. I knew where Patsy was.
“Let's go,” I said, running back out to the pavement. “To Jamaica Street Lane North.”
Katharine came with me to the Transit. As I drove off, Hamilton's guard vehicle in my rearview mirror, I thought of the night I'd hidden behind the refuse bin and waited for Billy to reappear from the lane. He wasn't the kind of guy who would have a meeting out of doors in the dark. He had a hideaway down the lane and I was positive that's where Patsy had gone. I was also positive that we wouldn't find her there alone.
I stopped on India Street, near the bar I'd seen Billy go into that night after he met Simpson 134.
“What's the location?” Hamilton asked.
“I'm not sure,” I said, watching his eyebrows jump. I wasn't sure how to go about identifying the building where Patsy was either. If the people I suspected were there too, using the City Guard's stormtrooper methods mightn't be a good idea.
“Quint?” Katharine said. “What if I walk down the street? That would probably bring Patsy out.”
“More likely get you killed.” I thought about it. “On the other hand . . .”
“Where are you going, Dalrymple?” Hamilton shouted as I reached the corner.
“To talk to Patsy.” I smiled at Katharine. “Right idea, wrong person to carry it out. Patsy and I used to be friends.” I turned to Hamilton. “Put a roadblock at the other end of the lane. If I don't contact you within five minutes, send in the cavalry.”
“Quint . . .”
I faced the front. “Stay here, Katharine.”
The buildings in the lane had originally been stables and servants' quarters, two-storey blocks that had been renovated by young professional people in the years before the Enlightenment. Now most of them are set aside for middle-ranking auxiliaries. Most of them. Billy must have managed to get his hands on one. What number was it? Only one way to find out. My palms were wet and I wasn't in complete control of my breathing.
“Patsy!” I yelled. “Patsy! We need to talk!”
I looked around the damp stone façades. Nothing. I walked on a bit further.
“Patsy! I'm on my own. I'm not armed.”
No reply.
“Patsy! You're better off . . .”
A window to the left above me rattled open. I stopped and waited. There was no one visible.
“Patsy . . .”
“Will you stop shouting, Quint? I might need glasses, but I'm not deaf.” Patsy's head appeared. “Here, you'll need these.” She dropped a ring of keys.
Before I used them, I called Hamilton and told him to stay where he was.
I found Patsy on the first floor. It was a small flat but through the rear window I could see a series of low buildings in what would originally have been a garden.
“I'm impressed, man,” Patsy said with a slack smile. “How did you find out about this place?”
I tapped the side of my head with my forefinger. “Where are they, Patsy? In there?” I pointed to the outhouses.
“Has Billy talked?” Patsy said, her voice hardening.
I let her think he had.
“That little shite. He swore he'd look after things with the Council,” Patsy said bitterly. Then she laughed. “I should have known. Never trust a man. Aye, they're down there. Asleep probably. We've been giving them tranquillisers to keep them quiet.”
“How many are there?”
“Six boys and four girls. The rest are all away to Greece. These ones were to leave at the end of the week.”
“Is there one called Adam Kirkwood?”
“I knew we shouldn't have taken Katharine's brother. He was too much of a good thing. Maybe it runs in the family.” She nodded. “Aye, he's still here.”
I took out my mobile and asked Hamilton to put Katharine on. Then we went to find Adam.
Patsy told the two hard men who were watching over the sex slaves to forget about putting up a fight. They hadn't looked exactly keen when they saw the double squad of guardsmen Hamilton sent in. Katharine ran over to the bed her brother was occupying in the makeshift dormitory and tried to bring him round with a tenderness I hadn't expected. It was difficult to rouse him and the others. Ambulances took them to the infirmary for check-ups. Katharine went with Adam after giving Patsy a look that would have made a statue's eyes water.