Water of Death by Paul Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

grounds of health but if foreigners want to fill their lungs with the smoke from cigarettes and joints supplied with the guardians’ approval, who gives a shit? As long as they pay upfront.
    I walked across the suntrap of the esplanade towards the castle gatehouse, ranks of guard vehicles drawn up on both sides. The guard command centre in the old fortifications is about as imposing a place as you can find, even in this spectacular city. It’s just a pity that the battered Land-Rovers and rusting pick-ups make the place look like a scrap merchant’s yard. The only vehicle with any class is a ten-year-old Jeep donated to the Council by a grateful American tourist agency. Somehow it’s ended up as Lewis Hamilton’s personal transport.
    I found the guardian in his quarters in what was once the Governor’s House.
    â€œAh, there you are, Dalrymple,” he said, looking up from the neat array of papers on his desk. “I was wondering when you’d show up. I suppose you want to find out if the missing lottery-winner is in my records.”
    â€œWell spotted, Lewis.” I went over to the leaded windows and ran my eye over the northern suburbs. Across the firth I could just make out the hills of what was Fife in the old days and is now a Scottish version of the Wild West, complete with gunmen on horseback, massacres of the locals and abandoned mining towns – badlands in spades, pardner.
    Hamilton joined me. “As much as another month of this bloody heat to go,” he said, wiping the sweat from his wrinkled forehead. Although he was in his seventies, the public order guardian still had a firm grip on the City Guard. His beard and hair were almost completely white but his bearing was as military as ever. “Well, I’ve checked all my Restricted Files. There’s no reference to Kennedy  . . .” He broke off and went back to the papers on his desktop. “What the hell was his first name?”
    â€œFordyce,” I said. “Fordyce Bulloch Kennedy.”
    â€œThank you.” Hamilton’s acknowledgement was curt. He didn’t like being helped out, especially by an auxiliary who’d been demoted from his own directorate.
    I can never resist having a go at guardians, especially one as thin-skinned as my former boss. “You would tell me if he was one of your undercover operatives, of course.”
    The guardian’s eyes bulged as he glared at me. Finally he managed to spit something out. “I tell you he’s not.”
    â€œBut how do I know you’re telling the truth, Lewis?” I asked, prolonging the fun.
    â€œHow do you know  . . . ?” Hamilton took a couple of deep breaths. Even in these more open times guardians don’t like having their veracity impugned, as Councilspeak would have it. Auxiliaries are taught tension control techniques but Lewis was appointed by the first Council and never went through the training programme – unlike me. “You’re doing it deliberately, aren’t you? Grow up, man.”
    â€œGrow up, man,” I repeated dubiously. “Bit of an oxymoron, wouldn’t you say?”
    The desk telephone buzzed, saving me from the guardian’s tongue. I watched his expression change as he answered.
    â€œWhat?” Hamilton bellowed. “Where?” He listened for a couple of seconds. “When?” He listened again. “Any ID?”
    Shit. I’d been calculating the odds of him running through the full set of interrogatives beginning with “wh”.
    â€œVery well. Tell the barracks commander to keep me informed.” He slammed the phone down.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I asked, trying to give the impression of idle curiosity.
    â€œNothing for you to worry about, Dalrymple,” Hamilton said, shuffling files.
    Nothing makes me suspicious quicker than a guardian telling me not to worry. “What is it, Lewis?” I said