Free Water of Death by Paul Johnston Page A

obliging.”
    â€œI’ll bet,” I said. He was no doubt the type who likes to make contacts in the guard. That’s how the black market prospers.
    â€œBut he didn’t have much to tell. Apparently Citizen Thomson often drank to excess.” The commander wrinkled his nose. Senior auxiliaries usually have no time for human weaknesses like heavy drinking, despite the provision of alcohol in barracks messes. “Drem said he often saw him slumped over the table in his window.”
    I took Davie aside. “I want you to put the shits up Angus Drem. Threaten him with the third degree, a cell in the castle, whatever it takes. I want to know if he’s ever been involved in handling contraband whisky. Don’t mention the name of that stuff we found though. And Davie?” I lowered my voice. “Find out if he knew Frankie Thomson was DM.”
    Davie gave me a grim smile and headed out. I reckoned the Supply Directorate storeman would soon be regretting that he’d identified the body.
    â€œWhere does the female citizen live?” I asked Raeburn 01.
    â€œNext door to the right. Number 21.”
    I went outside and looked down the street. Lewis Hamilton was speaking on the phone in his Jeep – probably still playing with his rosters. I knocked on the neighbouring front door.
    Mary McMurray was the woman I’d seen on my way to the body. She was painfully thin and had mousy hair, her face sunburnt and dotted with what I hoped were benign melanomas. Her daughter was right behind her, clutching her hand.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said, kneeling down and smiling at the little girl. She was about five, her fair hair done up in plaits. “I’m not one of those nasty people in uniforms. I don’t like them.”
    The girl stared at me seriously then shook her head. “Neither do I. They stamp their feet and shout all the time.”
    I laughed. “My name’s Quint. What’s yours?”
    She was still looking at me with a grave expression. “Quint’s a silly name. I’m called Morag.”
    â€œYou’re right, Morag. Quint is a silly name.” I decided against telling her it was short for Quintilian. “Will you go and play while your mum and I have a wee chat?”
    Mary McMurray shook her head. “Forget it, citizen. When I’m home, she never lets me out of her sight.” She led me into the front room. It was clean and tidy, the curtains partially drawn against the sun. Above the fireplace was a photograph of a handsome smiling guy.
    â€œThat’s my daddy,” the little girl said, catching me looking at it. “He’s gone to heaven.”
    I looked at her mother. After a moment she shrugged.
    â€œWhat could I tell her, citizen? I know we’re supposed to be atheists but she won’t have it any other way.”
    â€œBorder duty?” I said in a low voice.
    She nodded. “Cattle raid two years ago.”
    After a bit Morag went to the corner and started playing with a doll.
    â€œSo tell me about Frankie Thomson, Mary.”
    She hesitated. “You’re the investigator they sometimes write about in the Guardian , aren’t you?”
    I nodded.
    â€œBut you do things for ordinary citizens as well as work for the Council?”
    â€œI’m a free agent, Mary. That’s why I’m dressed in rags.”
    She smiled reluctantly. “All right. But I haven’t much to tell you, citizen.”
    â€œCall me Quint.”
    â€œI still haven’t much to tell you, Quint.” The smile had stayed on her lips but her eyes were as sad as any I’ve seen in the city. “Frankie, och, he was okay as a neighbour. Apart from the drink. He got steaming a couple of nights every week. I suppose he had the booze from the club where he worked.” She looked out of the gap between the curtains for a moment. “Like I say, he was all right. At least he was quiet.” She turned