Hardcover(First World Publication)
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Independent Edinburgh, 2033. The Council of City Guardians has been forced to relax its grip on citizens and the borders are no longer secure. Then a human heart is found on a football pitch. Maverick investigator Quint Dalrymple is called in - but before he makes much progress, a citizen’s headless body floats down a canal.
Quint uncovers a link to the planned referendum over Edinburgh joining a reconstituted Scotland. But who is behind the killings and mutilations? Are the city’s notorious gangs responsible, or does the solution lie with the rulers of Edinburgh and other former Scottish states? Quint must dig deep to save the Council from collapse, and to retain both his head and heart…
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727885036 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 08/01/2015 |
| Series: | A Quint Dalrymple Mystery , #6 |
| Edition description: | First World Publication |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.70(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Heads or Hearts
The Return of Quint Dalrymple
By Paul Johnston
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 Paul JohnstonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7278-8503-6
CHAPTER 1
There was a pounding on the door.
'It's open, ya loud lout,' I shouted.
Davie appeared, his black hair turned to rat's tails by the deluge outside, and careered across my small living room.
'This is for you.' He dropped a package in brown paper on my belly.
'Ooh-yah!' I extracted the contents. 'Talisker? Where did you get that?' Even City Guard barracks weren't supplied with whisky not made locally.
'Wouldn't you like to know?' The big man sat down hard on my armchair, recently given new covers by the Supply Directorate but still sprung like a Model-T Ford with 200,000 miles on the clock. 'Shit!'
'Not there, if you don't mind. My bathroom, resplendent with new fittings and fitments, is at your disposal.' Until recently, citizens had been forced to use communal bath-houses because of water shortages brought about by the Big Heat, climate change's version of the Edinburgh summer. Now that the Big Heat had become the Big Wet, flats have been re-plumbed and we can use as much water as we like. Until the two-minute timer kicks in.
'I don't need any more water, thanks,' Davie said, shaking his head and leaving spatters all over the wall behind him. 'Bloody summer.'
'It's symptomatic of life in the city.'
'What's that supposed to mean, Socrates?'
I raised an eyebrow. 'That's no way for a senior auxiliary to talk. I know Plato debates are only monthly and non-compulsory now, but still ...' The Council of City Guardians had originally consisted of university professors who followed the Greek philosopher's thinking – at least, the bits that suited them. None of the original rulers were on the Council any more and flux was the rule, even when it came to the Edinburgh Enlightenment's most hallowed principles.
'Everything's turned into its opposite,' I said. 'Summer, until a couple of years ago as dry as the Mediterranean in August, is now wetter than the Indian sub-continent in the monsoon season. The Council doesn't imprison many people these days – it just gives the average criminal a month in the luxury New Bridewell rehabilitation facility, with as much pampering as they can take. Citizens can start their own businesses and vote for their own ward reps – not that the local barracks commanders let the said reps do anything to rock the rowing-boat of state. Citizens can even walk round the tourist zone and marvel at the things they can't afford.'
'They have vouchers to spend, and not just on food,' Davie said. He pointed to the ugly beige device on my wall. 'And they all have telephones like that one.'
'Which aren't tapped by the Guard, oh no, never.'
He ignored that. 'And they get free holidays.'
'To camps down at Portobello, where the sea is completely unpolluted by sewage, honest. And there's still no TV, smoking or private cars.'
'Are you going to open that bottle?' Davie demanded.
I got up and looked out the window. I could hardly see the tenements on the other side of Gilmore Place through the rain.
'All right, what is it you want? You wouldn't have come here in this downpour just to drink Tali ... yes, you would.'
Davie laughed. He looked younger, thanks to the Council's reversal of the rules governing male facial hair. Previously male citizens had to have their hair cut to a maximum of half an inch – no metric measurements in the 'perfect city' – and weren't permitted facial hair, while auxiliaries, the Council's bureaucrats and enforcers, had to wear beards as if each one was an ancient philosopher – though at least the females didn't have to wear face wigs. Now auxiliaries have to be clean-shaven, while citizens can wear their hair to any length – even those who work with tourists – and do what they like with their facial hair. That has led to a male civil population with either moustaches Wyatt Earp would have been proud of or beards down to their sternums. Not to be left out, women can wear their hair in any style, leading to an eruption of salons across the city – all part of the Finance Directorate's private business initiative. I've managed to resist temptation, keeping my now worryingly grey hair short, though my stubble is only occasionally under control. I opened the whisky and inhaled.
'Peaty and sweet,' Davie said, picking up a couple of glasses from my dresser.
'And all the way from the Isle of Skye.' I added a dribble of water from the jug I always have on the coffee table – although Talisker didn't, citizen-issue whisky needs heavy diluting.
We imbibed and luxuriated in silence.
'Which begs the question,' I said eventually.
'How did it get here?'
'Very good, guardsman.' Although Davie was a senior commander, I'd never got out of calling him by the rank he had when we first worked together in 2020.
'Patronizing tosser. If you must know, it comes from a crate donated to the Guard by the Lord of the Isles.'
'For your admirable services in keeping him safe while he was in the city.'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Apart from the fact that he's a scumbag aristocrat who ran away when the crofters revolted back in the early 2000s and has only come back because oil's been found in the waters off the Hebrides?'
Davie scowled. 'I just do what I'm told. Unlike the great Quintilian Dalrymple, who plays at being the protector of ordinary citizens while screwing up official investigations.'
I grinned. 'Love you too, big man.' It was true that I use what clout I retain to twist auxiliaries' arms and find missing citizens, put right cases of mistaken identity, get innocent citizens off – there were no courts in the City of Eden, so Guard personnel often did what they liked – and catch the odd ward rep who'd tapped into his inner Mafioso.
Davie took another sip. 'I know you do some good, Quint, but it's nothing compared with what you could do if you worked with us.'
'Oh, so that's what this is,' I said, pointing at the bottle. 'A bribe. Really, guardsman, I thought you were above that kind of behaviour.'
'Screw you. The public order guardian told me to get you back on board. Council orders.'
'Does she know about the Talisker?'
'Er, not exactly.'
'What if I tell her?'
'Give it a rest, will you? I'm serious.' Suddenly my old friend looked troubled, which was not in his character.
'What's happened?'
Davie looked down. 'I can't tell you unless you sign up.'
'So it's like that, is it, Hume 253?' I used the barracks number that was formerly the only way auxiliaries were addressed. Now they have their names on badges. Until recently I'd never known that Davie's surname was Oliphant.
'Yes, it is, citizen. Are you in or out?'
'Out.' Although I'd been the Council's chief investigator in numerous major cases over the years, I always went back to my own clients. Working for citizens was generally more fulfilling – and substantially less life-threatening.
'You're just guilty,' Davie said, meeting my eyes. 'Who helped set up the City Guard? Who wrote the Public Order in Practice manual that's still used in auxiliary training? Eh, Bell 03?'
I sat back in my man-eating sofa. There was no getting away from my earlier life. I'd joined the Enlightenment when I was a student, fought for it through the drugs wars and been one of the Guard's chief ideologues. Then, a couple of decades back, I lost my faith in the system and dropped out.
'Low blows, Davie.'
'Don't care. We need you.' He fixed me with a fearsome glare. 'I need you.'
I turned my eyes to the cascade of water on the window. 'That's very touching. But you can't expect me to drop everything at some whim of the Council. I've got cases, people who depend on me.'
'This is no whim of the Council, Quint. Trust me, you're going to be stuck with this one way or the other. Why not get in at the start?'
'That big, eh?'
'Potentially.'
'So tell me.'
'No chance. The guardian will have my balls for haggis.'
'How can you be afraid of a woman called Doris?'
'I'm not afraid of her, but she's my boss.'
'The recently appointed Doris Barclay. I remember her when she was Knox Barracks commander. She was wound tight, but no more than most of her kind.'
'She remembers you too. Not hugely favourably, it has to be said.'
'Great. But why no written order?'
Davie shook his head. 'Nothing's being written about this, not even Guard reports.'
I had to admit it was enticing. The Council's Edinburgh is the ultimate bureaucratic state, with information stored about everything – formerly in hand-written archives and more recently, in some directorates, in computers bought on the cheap from the warring states that formed after China tried one economic coup too many and disappeared in the biggest financial crisis in history. If the guardians themselves were avoiding written records, a meteorite of excrement was heading for the wind turbine – they've been put up on the Pentlands in recent months in a belated attempt to go green.
'How about a clue?'
'No.'
'Take me to the crime scene?'
'There isn't one. Well, there is, but it isn't clear what the crime is.'
I stared at him. 'Are you pulling my —'
'Certainly not.' Davie got up. 'Am I taking the whisky or leaving it?'
I caught his eye. 'Can I trust you on this? Is it really going to be worth my time?'
'How do I know? It looks like the beginning of a massive case, but these things sometimes fizzle out.' He picked up the bottle. 'I have a feeling this one won't.'
I grabbed the Talisker.
'All right, I'm in. But I'll be out the minute it gets boring.'
Davie laughed grimly. 'Ever the boy adventurer. What age are you next birthday?'
I kicked the back of his leg. The prospect of the big 5-0 was scaring the shit out of me.
'Where are we going?'
Davie was at the wheel of a new and shiny white Korean 4 × 4. The Guard's fleet of ancient Land Rovers had finally been put out to grass – or rather, handed over to the wards to run, spare parts not included.
'Wait and see.'
'I told you I was on board.'
'Don't you always say that an unprejudiced mind is essential when encountering evidence and scenes?'
The windscreen wipers were on full blast but I could still hardly see anything of the road ahead. Fortunately Davie was a skilled driver, something he was inordinately proud of. He swerved smoothly past a couple of drenched citizens on their bikes, then a bus full of workers going home. We passed the revitalized Market District, buildings whose foundations had been laid in the early years of the century finally completed. That was all part of the city economists' master plan to turn Edinburgh into a tax haven and financial services hub. States in Europe and around the world were getting back on their feet after decades of in-fighting and extreme disorder. We'd been starved of international news, the Information Directorate providing only stories that put independent Edinburgh in a good light. I remembered that offshore banking, low-tax regimes and unregulated markets had been part of the problem that tore the world's economy apart when the man and woman on the street finally had enough of being urinated on.
'Edinburgh as the Cayman Islands? Jersey? Liechtenstein?' I said.
'If you say so.' Davie turned on to Dalry Road.
'Yet another component of the Council's topsy-turvy world. The Enlightenment banned money, remember?' I laughed. 'Though that didn't stop them taking it from tourists.'
'We had to survive somehow,' Davie growled. 'Anyway, the year-round festival wasn't much of a change from before.'
'I don't remember there being marijuana clubs, legalized brothels, a racetrack in Princes Street Gardens and gambling venues all over the city.'
'Neither do I.' Davie shrugged. 'I know the system isn't perfect, but it's getting better.'
'You might be right,' I conceded. 'Then again, what's this big case?'
'Not long now.'
He clammed up and I looked at the shabby surroundings. We were out of the centre now and, despite the Council's efforts to improve citizens' lives, the built environment isn't pretty. Davie bore right and then took a sharp turn. The rain was lighter now and I made out a large maroon sign:
Welcome to Tynecastle, Home of Heart of Midlothian Football Club Hearts, Glorious Hearts!
'Uh-huh,' I said. 'Is there a game on?'
'It's five-thirty on a Tuesday,' Davie said. 'Match days are Sundays.'
'Oddly, I knew that.'
'Didn't think you were a fan.'
'I'm not. I was a Hibee when I was a kid, before match-fixing and doping ruined the sport.' The Enlightenment banned football soon after it came to power, preferring rugby. That was one of many unpopular decisions.
'You supported Hibernian?' Davie said in disgust.
'Don't tell me you're a Jambo. You're a rugby player.'
'Was. Knee's knackered, remember? Aye, I was a Jambo, still am. We lived up the road when I was a kid. Screw Hibs. Bunch of left-footers.'
'May I remind you that sectarianism was proscribed by the first Council, guardsman? And religion heavily discouraged. There can't be more than a few hundred Catholics in the city now.'
Davie pulled up by the south stand. 'You'd be surprised. Since freedom of religion was enacted a couple of years ago, organized religions are making quite a comeback.'
'I'd noticed. None of which explains why we're here.' I looked around. There were no other Guard or official vehicles present – only club vans. 'On our own.'
'Some of my men are inside dressed as groundsmen. You'll do as you are – citizen-issue donkey jacket as usual. I've got a full-length rain jacket.' He pulled it on after he got out.
'Is there an umbrella?' I asked forlornly.
Davie laughed and led me into the complex. A door was open but the only person around was a guy in a tracksuit who was obviously a guardsman. I can spot their air of authority no matter how much they try to disguise it.
'Come on,' Davie said, tossing me a maroon-and-white-striped umbrella. 'What, don't you want it?'
'Bit late. Haven't you got one in green and white?'
'What do you think?'
He opened a door, led me down some concrete steps and suddenly we were on the pitch. I remembered a dire Edinburgh derby I'd attended with my old man when I was about ten. Hibs got stuffed.
The seating in the stands was new and the stadium in surprisingly good nick. It had taken the Council long enough to realize that football was an effective opiate of the people, but they're making up for it now. There was even a sign for free pies above a stall.
Two men were standing under umbrellas like mine in the centre circle, garden forks resting against their hips. There was a large plastic box at their feet. I felt a tingle in my spine.
'What's in the box, Davie?'
'Wait and see.'
We squelched over the sodden grass, though it wasn't as bad as I'd been expecting. Surely the Recreation Directorate hadn't run to an efficient drainage system?
'Step back, guardsmen,' Davie ordered. He turned to me and watched as I pulled on a pair of the latex gloves I always carry in my back pocket. 'Never unprepared, Quint, eh?'
I raised the stump of my right forefinger at him, the rubber hanging down pathetically, then squatted and took hold of the opaque plastic box. A deep breath and I lifted it.
'What the ...'
'You know what it is,' Davie said grimly.
'I do. A human heart, the arteries roughly severed but the parts of the exterior that are visible otherwise intact.'
'Aye. Pleased you signed up now?'
I looked up at him. 'I don't remember signing anything, but I will if you want me to. Right now.'
CHAPTER 2We were out in the open, as the person or persons who'd left the organ on the centre spot would have been. The rain had probably obscured the view from the buildings around, but someone could have seen what happened.
'We can't ask questions,' Davie said after a pair of crime-scene technicians, also disguised as groundsmen, had removed the heart and the turf below. 'Council orders. They're worried about publicity.'
'What if someone talks to the media?' There were quasi-free newspapers and radio stations in the city now.
'They're being monitored.'
'Of course.' There would be undercover auxiliaries in every news outlet.
'Who found it?'
'A groundsman, surprise, surprise. He was in before anyone else – the place didn't open till midday today – and he did the right thing.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Heads or Hearts by Paul Johnston. Copyright © 2015 Paul Johnston. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.