Water of Death by Paul Johnston

Author:Paul Johnston
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers Ltd
Published: 2012-01-09T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The building off Nicolson Street to the east of the university had once been a school. Despite the original Council’s commitment to education, more recently some schools in the city centre have been converted to tourist accommodation – making money from visitors takes priority these days. The granite façade of the three-storey block had been cleaned, and it stood out from the soot-blackened buildings around it like a crown in an old man’s mouth. The scaffolding had been removed and a sign declared “The St Leonard’s Hostel Will Welcome Foreign Visitors in July 2025”. There weren’t many days of the month left for that to happen. Lines of hard-pressed citizens in workclothes were passing in and out of the main entrance rapidly, suggesting that final preparations were being made in an atmosphere of controlled panic. The facility was clearly aimed at the cheap end of the tourist market as it was outside the central zone, but the quality of workmanship was still a lot higher than the Housing Directorate’s standards for ordinary citizens’ homes.

I flashed my authorisation at the sentry on the door and pushed through the scrum of craftsmen and women in the hall. A guy putting a last coat of paint on the staircase’s ornate iron railings watched me approach.

“Do you know where Agnes Kennedy’s working?” I asked.

The decorator gave me the suspicious look ordinary citizens reserve for members of their rank they suspect are actually undercover operatives.

“Who wants to know?” he demanded, licking his thin lips. The specks of paint on his face made him look like he was suffering from a terminal attack of blackheads.

“A friend,” I replied.

He laughed humourlessly. “Our Agnes doesn’t have many friends, pal.” Then he gave me a smile I couldn’t quite fathom. “Good luck to you. She’s up there.” He swung his arm up, flicking black dots on to my T-shirt.

I looked up to where he was pointing. “Bloody hell.”

The citizen laughed. “Aye, you need guts to do her job.”

I started to climb the stairs, craning up at the glass cupola three floors above. An elaborate system of ropes had been strung beneath it, from which a harness was hanging precariously. I felt my stomach somersault. I’d rather dig turnips for a month on a city farm than dangle from a contraption like that. Even when I got to the third floor Agnes was about fifteen feet above me, her body out in the middle of the stairwell. She was painting the convex frame of the cupola, her face set in an expression of complete concentration. She had on her usual workclothes, the mauve scarf tied round her neck and her head covered by a paint-spattered cap.

“Agnes,” I called, not too loudly. I didn’t want to provoke any sudden movements.

It seemed to take a few seconds for my voice to get through to her. Then she swivelled her head slowly and stared down at me. “Citizen Dalrymple,” she said without emotion. “What a surprise.”

“I told you before, call me Quint,” I said.

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