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was tied back in a loose grip. The public order guardian’s presence didn’t seem to bother her. One of the old guard, literally.
    â€œSo what happened . . .” I leaned forward to read the barracks badge on her mountainous chest “. . . Moray 58?”
    â€œThe squad of labourers arrived when I was coming on duty.” The guardswoman was standing to attention, her eyes fixed on a point above my left shoulder. I got the feeling that she wasn’t enjoying making her report to an ordinary citizen. “I asked for their job authorisation form. It looked to be in order.”
    â€œDid you check it with the Labour Directorate as regulations require?” Hamilton demanded.
    Moray 58 stiffened even more. “I was about to,” she said. “Then a truck arrived with a delivery of supplies to the auxiliary training centre. I was busy clearing it through and the leader of the labour squad told me not to waste my time checking his papers.”
    The public order guardian snorted in disgust. “And you went along with that?”
    â€œI presumed,” the guardswoman said with less assurance, “that maintenance of the electricity cable was bound to be above board.”
    There was a frosty silence that made it clear to the guardswoman how limited her career prospects were.
    â€œCan you describe the squad leader?” I asked.
    Moray 58 nodded. “Certainly. He was approximately six feet two in height, fifteen stone in weight and wearing standard-issue labourer’s overalls, boots and jacket with luminous stripes.” She stopped abruptly.
    â€œIs that it?” I said when the silence began to drag. “What about hair colour, facial characteristics, accent?”
    The sentry was still looking above my shoulder. “I can’t say,” she answered after a long delay. “He was wearing a miner’s helmet and a protective mask.”
    â€œWhat, even when he first arrived?”
    She nodded.
    â€œSo he could have looked like Boris Karloff and sounded like Bela Lugosi and you wouldn’t have noticed?”
    â€œI am not familiar with those individuals, citizen,” Moray 58 said stolidly. “I cannot describe the workman’s face or voice, if that’s what you mean.”
    I swore under my breath, loud enough for the guardswoman to hear and be appropriately scandalised by language citizens are not supposed to use.
    â€œI suppose the same goes for all the others?”
    The sentry nodded again.
    â€œHow many of them were there?” I demanded. “Assuming you can count.”
    Moray 58 ignored the jibe. “Three including the squad leader.”
    The public order guardian stepped forward. His cheeks were red, and not just from the cold. He couldn’t cope with incompetence from his staff. “What finally raised your suspicions, guardswoman?” he shouted. “What finally woke you up?”
    The sentry jerked back, somehow managing to remain at attention. “It . . . it was the way they were working, guardian. For all the rain and cold they were so . . . so diligent. I’ve never seen Edinburgh labourers go through a shift with such commitment. They didn’t even stop for the tea-break.”
    I stifled a laugh as the guardian took in what the woman was saying. It’s been the case for years that ordinary citizens, whose faith in the Council has been gradually eroded to the lowest level, have developed shirking into an art form – not that Lewis and his colleagues on the Council could let themselves believe that.
    â€œSo you began to realise that they were maybe up to no good?” I said.
    Moray 58 opened her eyes wide and nodded slowly. She pulled out her guard notebook and flicked it open. “At eight-oh-five I came out here and asked for the job authorisation form again. I intended to get confirmation from the Labour Directorate.” She broke