Body Politic by Paul Johnston Page A

.”
    Boots were pounding up the stairs. The noise grew louder, then Davie burst in, my mobile phone in his hand.
    â€œQuint, you’re wanted. Come on.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Davie struggled to catch his breath. “They’ve found another body . . . in Dean Gardens.” He looked at my father, then back to me. “Male this time . . . same modus operandi, it seems.”
    Hector was looking worried. I didn’t feel too good myself.
    â€œSounds like you’ve got a psychopath on your hands, Quintilian. Be careful.”
    Davie set off out the door and I followed. “I’ll try to come again next Sunday. Keep well, old man.”
    Halfway down the stairs I heard him calling out. Something about me not telling him if I’d seen my mother. At that moment, she was the last thing on my mind.

Chapter Six
    â€œShit, Davie.” I clutched the seat. “I told you, I don’t want to die.”
    â€œDon’t worry. There hasn’t been a fatality on the roads for years.” He kept his foot on the floor and called ahead to the next checkpoint. We raced through and were soon crossing the Dean Bridge. The parkland dropping steeply down to the Water of Leith was bright green in the sunlight, the only trace of the days of fog a silver sheen on the leaves and grass that had almost evaporated. Along with the last slim chance of this being a one-off killing.
    Then the Land-Rover swung round hard into Academy Place and I remembered two things. The first was irrelevant, a desperate attempt by my mind to distract itself from what lay in the park; it had come to me that the street used to be called Eton Terrace before the Council took steps to change all names with suspect cultural connotations. The second thing gave me a jolt of electric-chair proportions. Adam Kirkwood’s flat, where I’d been with Katharine two days earlier, was a couple of hundred yards further on. I hoped to hell he wasn’t the latest corpse.
    I counted six guard vehicles, including the public order guardian’s with its maroon pennant. The windows of the houses lining the street were filled with spectators. No chance of the Council keeping this killing quiet.
    Lewis Hamilton emerged from the gap in the railings where the gate to these formerly private gardens had been. “Dalrymple, it’s about time you turned up.” His cheeks had an unhealthy tinge and I reckoned he’d been closer to the dead man than he would have liked.
    â€œWho found the body?” I headed down the slope to the bushes where a group of guardsmen and women stood.
    â€œWe did,” said the guardian. “A woman who refused to identify herself telephoned from the callbox at the end of the bridge. Probably one of the local residents who didn’t want to get involved.”
    â€œVery public-spirited of her.”
    â€œThere are rotten apples in every barrel, citizen.”
    That was too inviting to ignore. “I thought your directorate had got rid of all of them.”
    He gave me a glare that made me feel a lot better. “Clear the way,” he ordered curtly. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him taking things out on his auxiliaries.
    I pulled on rubber gloves and dropped to my knees. There were a lot of footprints on the grass at the edge of the bushes but it was clear they were all recent – from the guard and the woman who’d raised the alarm. It was also obvious what had drawn her to the spot. The stench of decomposing flesh was like a curtain I’d just poked my head through. Beyond the branches a discoloured mass was visible. Even at ten yards’ range I could see that the body was completely naked.
    There was a small clearing beyond the outer foliage. I approached from an oblique angle to avoid touching any footprints. As I got nearer the corpse their number increased and I marked the deepest indentations so that casts could be taken. I already knew what kind of