Free House of Dust by Paul Johnston Page B

Davie. He didn’t look impressed either. “I didn’t accuse guard personnel of anything.” I felt Raeburn 124’s fleshy presence at my side again; she hadn’t taken long to put in her order. “All I suggested was that whoever took the arm into Ramsay Garden was wearing a guard uniform, not that he or she was one of your people.”
    Hamilton’s face took on a slightly less aggressive appearance. “Why didn’t you make that clear to the senior guardian then?”
    I shrugged. “He drew his own conclusions.” Everyone in the room knew that Slick would jump at any opportunity to put the knife into Hamilton’s directorate.
    The Mist was interested in something else. “You said ‘he or she’, citizen. You don’t seriously think that a woman was responsible for removing and transporting the arm, do you?”
    I looked into the pale blue eyes that shone from her round face. “It wouldn’t be the first time a female criminal has run riot in Edinburgh.”
    That reference to one of the city’s worst cases of serial violence since independence shut her up.
    â€œSo you’re saying that someone – male or female – may have impersonated a member of the guard?” Davie said.
    I nodded. “It has to be a strong possibility.” I pointed to the sheaf of statements he had under his arm. “None of the sentries on the esplanade checkpoint reported seeing any unauthorised individuals.” I looked at Hamilton and his deputy. “But they’re not required to log their fellow guard personnel, are they?”
    Raeburn 124, not long in the Public Order Directorate, made a face that showed her boss what she thought of that piece of procedure.
    â€œBut none of them reported seeing anyone even trying to enter Ramsay Garden, auxiliary or not,” Davie insisted. “I asked that.”
    Hamilton’s grey-suited female secretary bustled in, deposited a tray on his desk and bustled out again.
    I let the others get stuck into the coffee – it had an aroma that promised trouble. “Fair enough,” I said. “But the point is, would they have noticed this particular one of the many guard personnel who pass the checkpoint on the esplanade?”
    Hamilton gulped from a cup, the twisting of his lips showing that the mess-hall coffee was even nastier than usual. “Maybe not, but how did he” – he glanced at the Mist – “or she get into the accommodation block? There was no sign of illicit entry, was there?”
    Davie shook his head. “The scene-of-crime squad is still checking, but there’s nothing in the vicinity of the stair we’re interested in.”
    The guardian looked at me triumphantly. “You see, Dalrymple? There’s no way the miscreant could have got past the sentry on the door; he logged everyone who went in or out, auxiliaries included.”
    It was always like this: guardians and auxiliaries couldn’t countenance incompetence among their ranks, let alone disloyalty or improbity. I never had that problem.
    â€œWhat about the rota?” I asked innocently.
    â€œWhat about the rota?” countered Hamilton, the glare he directed at his deputy warning her to keep out of the discussion.
    She jumped in regardless. “Could the mystery person have slipped in when the guard was changing?”
    Davie scratched his chin through the growth of beard. “Unlikely. I could ask the watch supervisors again.”
    â€œWhat’s the point?” I asked. “They’re hardly going to change their accounts and land themselves in the shit.”
    The guardian’s face was suffused. “My people do not behave—”
    â€œSpare us the sermon, Lewis,” I interrupted. “You and I both know that there’s often a delay of a few minutes between the time the sentry going off duty after a two-hour stint signs off in the guardhouse and the