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And, on the top, his ID card. That saved us some time. It also gave me a medium-voltage shock.
    â€œWell, well,” I said.
    â€œWhat have you got?” Davie came over.
    I fended him off. “Thomson, Francis Dee,” I read. “Status – citizen. Born 24.4.1972, height five feet five inches, weight eight stone six pounds, hair grey, teeth incomplete (upper rear denture plate), distinguishing mark none, employment Cleansing Department, Tourism Directorate, address 19 Bell Place, Colonies, next of kin none.” The face staring out was the one I’d seen by the river. In life the eyes looked as vacant as they did now.
    â€œIs that it?” Davie sounded disappointed.
    â€œNo, it’s not,” I said, turning the laminated card round and holding it in front of his face.
    â€œAh,” he said, registering the letters “DM” in bold maroon type at the bottom. “The dead man was a demoted auxiliary.”
    â€œKind of changes things, doesn’t it?” I said, putting the card into my pocket. Although the Council carefully avoids doing DM-class citizens like me any favours when we’re alive, they find us much more interesting when we’re dead. Because demoted auxiliaries are by definition untrustworthy characters who’ve sold the Enlightenment out one way or another, their deaths are automatically treated as suspicious until proved otherwise.
    â€œI’d better notify the guardian,” Davie said, turning away.
    I reached out an arm and grabbed his shoulder. “Hold on. He’ll be off to the Council meeting soon. Let’s sit on this for a bit till we dig up some more about the guy.”
    â€œAre you out of your mind?” Davie said, his eyes wide open. “The guardian’ll have my balls for breakfast if he finds out I’ve colluded in suppressing significant information.”
    â€œWho’s going to tell him?” I asked. “Anyway, you don’t have to work with me on this if you don’t want to.” I gave him a tight smile. “Or if I don’t want you to.”
    â€œWhy are you doing this?” he asked desperately. “It’s just a waster who passed out in the sun, for Christ’s sake.”
    I ran my fingers across my unshaven cheek slowly. I wasn’t too sure what I was doing myself. Maybe I felt some irrational sympathy for a fellow former auxiliary. But more than that, something I couldn’t put my finger on felt strange about the whole set-up.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “I’ll give your boss a full report later on. Anything else interesting?”
    Davie shook his head in extreme frustration then continued his search. He’d taken the few books off the shelves and checked them for inserts. It’s amazing how many citizens put letters and other bits of paper they want to keep inside books. Maybe it’s a side effect of the Council’s drive to increase reading. He shook his head. “Nothing, Quint.”
    I went over to the rear wall and looked behind the Supply Directorate print of the castle. No interesting stash there. Then I looked round the room, wondering again about the accommodation Frankie Thomson had been allocated. Demoted citizens are supposed to get standard citizen-issue everything – housing, clothes, jobs, whatever – so how had he ended up with more rooms and space than single citizens are entitled to? I made a note about that for when I checked his file. Then I pulled out my mobile and rang the Tourism Directorate. It took some shouting and a three-minute wait but I got what I wanted.
    â€œWhat do you think of this, Davie?” I said as I cut the connection. “The dead man was a cleaner at the Smoke on the Water marijuana club in the Dean Village.”
    â€œSmoke on the Water? Isn’t that a piece of music?”
    â€œDepends how you define music, my friend.”
    A female scene-of-crime auxiliary appeared at the