Free Water of Death by Paul Johnston

door.
    â€œCitizen? There’s something you should see in the kitchen.”
    We followed the white-suited figure into the back room. She pointed to the kitchen table. Three bottles of whisky stood in the centre of it, the caps screwed on and the labels facing the door.
    â€œThe Ultimate Usquebaugh,” Davie read. “I’ve never heard of that brand.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean,” the auxiliary said. “I contacted the Alcohol Department in the Supply Directorate and they said the same thing.”
    I stepped closer and examined the bottles without touching them. “Be very careful when you dust for prints,” I said. “If this is contraband, we’ll need to trace it.”
    â€œThe dead man worked in a club,” said Davie. “He probably got it there.”
    I nodded, still looking at the whisky. It was a dark brown colour. A small amount had been taken from the front bottle. The other two were full. The label looked to have been professionally printed but there wasn’t much else to go on. The Ultimate Usquebaugh were the only words, in maroon on a grey background with no other design features. “Usquebaugh” means “water of life” in Gaelic. For some reason that didn’t make me feel good.
    â€œAny glasses?” I asked the auxiliary.
    She shook her head. “No dirty ones anywhere. There are a couple of clean ones in the cupboard.” She pointed to the floor under the table. “There’s also this.”
    I bent down and saw a citizen-issue brown shoe that matched the one on Frankie Thomson’s left foot. I picked it up carefully – the scene-of-crime staff had traced round it with chalk – and looked in it. There were no bloodstains. As the dead man had no sock on either foot it was reasonable to suppose that, like a lot of Edinburgh people during the Big Heat, he didn’t bother with them. But would he have walked voluntarily to the rough terrain by the riverside with only one shoe on?
    â€œOur man liked a drink,” Davie said. He had his foot on the bin pedal. Inside were two empty bottles, this time standard Supply Directorate stuff: Cream of Auld Reekie. There was also a half-empty bottle of the same brand on the windowledge.
    â€œDust all these then send them to toxicology – along with the Ultimate Usquebaugh,” I said to the female auxiliary.
    â€œHe definitely had his ultimate drink, eh?” Davie said with a grin.
    I wasn’t on for grinning back at him. I was getting a bad feeling about what had gone on in number 19 Bell Place and at the side of the Water of Leith.
    The barracks commander Raeburn 01 came up from the street. “We’ve located all the residents,” he said, trying and failing to give the impression that he enjoyed reporting to an ordinary citizen like me.
    â€œAnd?” I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.
    â€œAnd only two of them admit to ever having spoken to the dead man.”
    I wasn’t too surprised. After twenty years of the guard’s sledgehammer public order tactics, ordinary Edinburgh folk don’t do them any favours.
    â€œSo what you’re saying is that the rest of them didn’t know Frankie Thomson except to ignore on the street and didn’t see or hear what he was up to last night?”
    â€œCorrect.” The commander bit the end of his pencil.
    â€œWho are the two you’ve managed to strongarm into talking?”
    Davie nudged me hard in the back as the guardian loomed in the hallway.
    Raeburn 01 stared at me then looked at his notebook. “There’s a female citizen called Mary McMurray who heard some noise here late last night.”
    â€œI’ll talk to her,” I said. “Who else?”
    â€œCitizen Drem.”
    â€œAngus with the broken nose?” I didn’t fancy listening to that scumbag again. “What did he tell you?”
    â€œOh, he was very