House of Dust (15 page)

There were a couple of guardians' Land-Rovers by the fence. One of them I assumed was Sophia's. Who else was attending the ballistics report? It wasn't long before I found out. After our ID was checked, Davie and I were admitted to the yard outside the weapons store. The steel-panelled door opened as we approached.

“Hurry up, Dalrymple,” the Mist said, her cheeks blotched with red. “We're waiting.”

Davie and I exchanged glances and went inside.

“Hello, Quint,” Sophia said, her voice clipped. She favoured Davie with a frosty nod. “Raeburn 124 has been trying to rush things.” She looked at the Mist with no attempt to hide her contempt. “I told her that driving a guardian vehicle before the Council has approved elevation to the rank is contrary to regulations. Not to say disrespectful.”

I nodded. “I agree.” I went over to Sophia. “What did the post-mortem show?”

She held the Mist at bay with her eyes. “Lewis Hamilton died of heart failure. The impact of the bullet caused massive shock.”

“What about the wound?”

Sophia's face was stern. “I've never seen a bullet like this one. It's large but the trauma is much less than I would have expected, even though the shell didn't exit the body. That's why I want to hear the expert's report.”

A barred door at the rear of the entrance hall banged open.

“Are we all ready?” A short, thin auxiliary in a white lab coat that hugged the contours of his body walked in, swinging his hips. “At last?”

“Ready, Nasmyth 99,” Sophia said with a faint smile that seemed to gratify him enormously.

“Oh good.” The ballistics genius turned his hazel eyes on to me. His beard was fair and scant. “And who's your friend, guardian?”

“Dalrymple,” I said. “Special investigator.”

“The famous Quintilian,” he said, offering me a surprisingly strong hand. “Delighted. I'll call you Quint, shall I? You can call me Trigger.” He looked past me towards Davie. “I know this big laddie already.” He turned to me. “He doesn't like me, you know.”

The stage whisper didn't impress the Mist. “Stop mincing about, Nasmyth 99,” she ordered. “Remember that your superior officer was shot earlier today,” she said, demonstrating the senior auxiliary's ability for hypocrisy. “Proceed with your report.”

Trigger ushered us to the door, his lips repeatedly mouthing a word that ended in “itch”.

His inner sanctum was a gun-lover's wet dream. Every bit of wall space was hung with firearms, ranging from heavy, Border Guard-issue assault rifles to dull black machine-pistols to the single-shot pen guns occasionally given to undercover operatives. Glass cases at the far end were filled with stacks of numerous types of ammunition. There was even an antique anti-tank gun suspended from the ceiling, the draught from our entry making it swing to and fro like a bird of prey on the wing. The place had an acrid smell, a mixture of gunpowder, hot metal and lubricating oil. In the centre of the room was a high bench covered in tools and stands, a burner with a tall flame at the end.

“Well, boys and girls, gather round. This is what you've come to see,” said Trigger, climbing on to a stool and pointing at a flat-pointed shell he'd mounted on a metal plate. “And I'm here to tell you that I've never seen a little beauty like this before.”

I looked at the metal object through a glass that he'd set up over it. “Not exactly little, is it, guardsman?”

“Trigger,” he said, his voice even higher. “No nasty ranks here, please. No, Quint, you're right. An inch and a half in length, three-quarters of an inch in diameter. And it weighs nearly an ounce.”

“What?” Davie was incredulous. He knew more about firearms than I did. “No wonder it took the guardian out.”

Sophia was bending forward too. “It's an odd colour too, isn't it?”

Trigger nodded. “Burnished gold, you might say. Very attractive. Very hot at the time of impact as well, I'd hazard.”

“Any markings on it?” the Mist asked, her eyes fixed on the slug.

“Not a one,” the expert replied. “The only feature I can see is a bevelled edge round the base.”

“What kind of weapon would have fired this?” Davie asked.

“Good question,” Trigger replied, giving the big man an approving look that didn't go down well. “The simple answer is I have no idea. Possibly a gas-powered rifle, possibly even a long-barrelled target pistol.”

“We reckon the shooter was three hundred yards from the guardian,” I said.

“My dear,” said the auxiliary with an exaggerated gasp. “I am impressed.”

Sophia stepped closer to him. “Nasmyth 99, I am extremely interested in finding out how this shell produced the wound it did. Can you give me any idea of that?”

“Low to medium velocity, given the shape and weight.” He stroked his wispy beard. “Wide-ish entry wound, no exit wound,” he muttered, then looked up. “I can't understand how there was no exit wound, though. This shell could go through a brick wall.” He shook his head in frustration “No, guardian, I can't help you.”

Sophia's shoulders dropped. “Then I'm wasting my time.”

“You are, guardian.” Then Trigger raised his hand, his face suddenly more animated. “Unless you give me authorisation to take the shell apart. I've already photographed it extensively.”

“What are you waiting for?” Sophia said impatiently.

The Mist moved closer. “One moment. Perhaps we should obtain clearance from the Council.” There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

Sophia looked at her icily. “Unlike you, Raeburn 124, I am a guardian. I have all the authority I need.”

I managed to stop myself applauding.

“I go ahead?” Trigger asked, picking up a high-powered cutting tool.

“You go ahead,” Sophia confirmed.

That turned out to be a decision she regretted for the rest of her life.

Chapter Seven

There was a sharp crack and a blindingly intense eruption of light from the lab table when Trigger applied his instrument. I felt myself jerk back and collide with Davie's solid frame. Hands grabbed my shoulders and stopped me hitting the floor. As the vision began to seep back into my eyes, I became aware of a high-pitched keening nearby.

“Be quiet, Nasmyth 99.” The Mist's voice was firm. “Injury report – now!” She may not have come up through the ranks of the City Guard but she'd obviously learned the relevant emergency procedure. Now I thought of it, the same controlled tones had been audible after Hamilton went down.

“Hume 253,” Davie said. “No injuries.”

The screaming coming from the ballistic expert was hoarser now.

“My eyes,” he wailed. “I can't see! My eyes!”

Blinking, I watched as the acting public order guardian stood over Trigger's prone form and drew her forearm slowly across his face. Her tunic sleeve was quickly soaked with blood.

“How many fingers?” Raeburn 124 asked, giving the auxiliary a reverse V-sign.

“Two,” he gasped. “Two.” His tremulous tone had suddenly disappeared. He ran his hand across his face and smiled slackly. “I can see after all.”

The Mist stepped away, shaking her head. “Citizen Dalrymple?” she said, opening her eyes wide at me.

“No damage,” I replied, brushing a sheen of tiny glass fragments from my jacket. Then I heard a low moan to my right. Christ. Sophia. We'd forgotten about the most senior person in the room.

“Quint?” she said unsteadily, one hand extended. “Is that you?”

I pushed the bent metal frame of a stool out of the way and kneeled down beside her. She was in a terrible state, her tweed jacket in shreds and her features criss-crossed by dotted trails of blood. There was a thick coating of dust and debris on her short white-blonde hair and she was holding her right hand over part of her face.

“If anything happens, see . . . see that Maisie's looked after, Quint,” Sophia said, catching her breath between the words. She took her lower lip between her teeth for a few moments, then she withdrew her hand. “What's in my cheek?” she asked calmly.

I looked at the ruptured skin and gave an involuntary grunt.

“Maisie . . .” she repeated, the final vowel tailing off as her eyes fluttered.

I dragged my eyes off the vicious-looking shard of metal that was protruding from her face about an inch beneath her right eye. “Get an ambulance,” I croaked.

“It's on its way, Quint,” Davie said, pocketing his mobile.

He pulled me gently away and we watched as Raeburn 124 did what she could to make the now unconscious Sophia comfortable. But all I could see was the little girl and her impish, smiling face.

“What the hell happened, Trigger?” I demanded. Sophia had been carried away by a team of medical auxiliaries. They'd decided against removing the object from her cheek on the spot. There was no way of telling how far it had penetrated towards the eye above. They'd stabilised her and left before I could ask for a prognosis; unsurprisingly, the guardian was being treated with a lot more solicitude than the average citizen gets.

“What happened?” The weapons man winced as a medic dabbed iodine on his ear. “The bastard shell went off in my hands, that's what happened, you fool.” Apparently Trigger's lip had escaped serious injury.

The Mist approached, mobile in hand. “The wee girl's all right for the time being,” she said with unlikely tenderness. “The creche will keep her until we know how things are going to be with the medical guardian.” She gave Trigger Finger a malevolent glare. “So you've finished whining, have you, guardsman? Not before time. Let's have your report.”

Davie was eyeing the ballistics expert with evil intent as well.

“All right, all right.” Trigger pushed the medic away and went towards the shattered remains of his worktop. “God almighty, my equipment!” he exclaimed like the female lead in one of the melodramas that the Culture Directorate forces citizens to sit through every month.

“You and what's left of your equipment will be down the nearest coal mine if you don't hurry up with that report,” the Mist threatened.

Trigger was bobbing up and down, magnifying glass in hand. After a few moments he disappeared beneath the table. “Ah-ha,” he said triumphantly. “We're in luck.”

We gathered around him as he stood up, holding a piece of darkened metal about a quarter of an inch across in a pair of tweezers.

“Aye, we're in luck, all right,” I said, squinting at the piece of shrapnel. “Which is more than can be said for the medical guardian.”

Trigger was given ten minutes to sniff around the lab for more traces of the bullet. It was the only tangible link we had with Hamilton's killer, even though it was now in small pieces, and I wasn't going to let it go.

The Mist spent the time clearing the staff out of the next-door lab room and arranging for the projection gear the weapons man wanted. It didn't take him long to get a detailed view of the fragment up on a wall screen.

“Apart from this piece there's nothing but minuscule fragments left of the projectile,” Trigger said, shaking his head.

“Apart from the much larger piece in the medical guardian's face,” the Mist put in. She didn't sound too distressed about what had happened to Sophia.

Davie, Trigger and I stared at her sullenly.

“Yes, well, I don't have that available for analysis,” the ballistics expert said after a frosty silence.

“You set the bullet off, didn't you, guardsman?” the Mist said.

Trigger's lacerated cheeks reddened even more. “I did not set the bullet off, Raeburn 124,” he said in aggrieved tones. “The only thing I can think of is that it was fitted with an anti-tamper device. I've heard that you can get those on the new generation of smart ammunition.” He peered at his superior disconsolately. “Not that we ever see that kind of thing in the guard.” He wasn't the only auxiliary who reckoned the best way to deal with gang violence was to use firearms. “Anyway, let's see what we've got,” he said, turning towards the screen.

We stared up at the image he projected.

“What's that mark in the top left corner?” Davie and I glanced at each other after we came out with the question in unison.

Trigger fiddled with the projector and produced a close-up. “Mmm, interesting,” he said. “Are those letters, do we think, people?”

I nodded. “I reckon. Three of them. Can you get in any closer?”

More fiddling, then a satisfied shout. “Gotcha!”

“Gotcha indeed,” I said under my breath.

“N . . . O . . . X,” Davie spelled out. “Nox.” He turned to me. “Mean anything to you, Quint?”

I could feel the Mist's eyes boring into me, but I didn't meet them with my own. I kept those focused on the three letters.

“Well, citizen?” Hamilton's deputy asked impatiently.