House of Dust (21 page)

“I . . . yes, I do,” I said, deciding that I might as well be straight with her.

Raphael caught me in her gaze and I felt the power in her eyes. “Good answer,” she said, beckoning me to approach her. We were at the far end of the room, near the Walter Scott settee. She spoke some words I didn't recognise and then held up her nostrum, the screen towards me.

“Shit,” I muttered as I made out miniature versions of myself and Davie hunched over the table in the room near the command centre. I could hear myself arguing the case for Raphael being the sniper's target. “You bugged the place.”

The administrator gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “It was actually my colleague Professor Yamaguchi who placed the device. During a tour of the castle facilities with the former Raeburn 124.”

The Japanese fended off the Mist's accusing glare with a twitch of his thin lips. “We had our reasons,” he said.

“I don't suppose you put one in my bedroom, did you?” I asked. “You'd have got some interesting shots of whoever left the finger last night.”

Yamaguchi shook his head. “Regrettably, I did not,” he said.

The senior guardian moved quickly to catch up as Raphael set off up the room again. “I don't understand,” he said. “What does this mean?”

The administrator stopped suddenly and turned towards the rest of us. “It means that my colleagues and I have come to a decision.”

“You have some information you'd like to share with us,” I said ironically.

“Indeed, citizen.” Raphael's voice was level, giving nothing away. “Why do you think we placed a transmitter in your work room?”

“Search me,” I replied. “You've been getting up-to-the-minute reports from your pals here.” I inclined my head in the direction of Slick and the Mist.

“Don't pretend that you've been keeping your superiors fully informed, citizen.”

I accepted the administrator's gibe with a laugh. “Why did you bug the cubby-hole? To satisfy yourselves that I knew what I was doing with the case.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Very good, citizen.”

Raskolnikov came closer, his long beard caught beneath the flap of his suit jacket. “You'll be glad to hear that you passed the test, Dalrymple.”

A burst of slow clapping from the table made everyone look in that direction.

“Well done, Quint,” Billy called. “You've pulled the wool over some more clients' eyes.”

Raphael's stony gaze put paid to my former friend's bravado. “Let's have your thoughts on the finger and the words that were written on your wall, citizen,” she said, turning back to me. “I've already heard the scene-of-crime report from the public order guardian.”

“I'll bet you have,” I said, glaring at the Mist. “She hasn't shared it with me yet.” I straightened my back and rubbed my hands together. “The finger. Sophia – the medical guardian – has confirmed it's from the victim whose arm was found in your bath.”

The administrator glanced at Sophia and nodded. “Continue.”

I glanced at a piece of paper Davie had just handed me. “As for the writing on the wall, I gather that the author used rat's blood. It would be easy enough to find a donor in this city.” That didn't go down well with Slick. “Presumably he didn't want to use his own blood. The message was very interesting,” I said. “‘ALL ROADS LEAD TO OXFORD.' Written in capitals to make the handwriting less easy to identify.”

“A reasonable conclusion,” the administrator interjected.

“The words themselves are a paraphrase of the proverb about all roads leading to what used to be the capital of Italy,” I continued.

“And is regrettably now a theme park called Pasta, Pizza and Circuses,” Doctor Verzeni put in.

Raphael stared at her colleague to shut him up. “But what do the words mean?” she asked me. “What do they mean in this context, do you think?”

“Assuming you don't go along with the theory that I wrote them,” I said, giving the Mist a disparaging look, “I'd say the perpetrator is trying to point me in the direction of your fair city.”

“That much is obvious,” Raskolnikov said bluntly. “Have you nothing more profound to suggest?” I got the impression that he was less keen on my investigative talents than his boss.

I looked straight at Raphael. “More profound?” I asked. “Well, how about this. The same individual is responsible for the removal of the youth gang member's arm and the attempt on your life, which mistakenly resulted in Lewis Hamilton's death. That individual has significant connections with New Oxford, as proven by the NOX bullet fragment and by the sophisticated drug used on Faulds.” I turned towards the senior guardian. “That individual also has a substantial knowledge of City Guard working practices – remember the ease with which the security in this building was compromised – and of Edinburgh geography. He – and I'm assuming the perpetrator's a male until I get evidence to the contrary as the footprints found in Leith were size eleven – managed to discover where I live as well.” I flicked my eyes back to the administrator. “Final conclusion: you've got a lot to come clean about.”

Raphael gave me a neutral look, then smiled with a surprising amount of warmth. “Very well, I will come clean, as you put it.” Then she turned away. “On this afternoon's helijet to New Oxford.”

The Joseph Bell Rooms were suddenly as silent as a pharaoh's dusty tomb.

Somehow I managed to get what I wanted. Slick wasn't keen, but his resistance crumbled in the face of the approval Administrator Raphael gave to my request: Davie and Katharine were allocated seats on the plane as well. We went back to the cubby-hole to make sure we had all the files we might need.

“Bloody hell,” Davie said, shaking his head in disbelief like a kid who's finally found the key to his old man's booze cabinet after years of searching. “I'm going up in the air.”

Katharine was standing with her arms crossed, her lips pursed. “Is that the only thing you can think about, guardsman?” She turned to me. “What's going on, Quint? Are you sure this is a good idea?”

I looked up from my notebook. I'd been so caught up in the practicalities of the unexpected development that I hadn't considered the big question: was I jumping out of the frying pan?

“Em, possibly,” I said. “I don't know, Katharine. Christ knows what we'll find down there. But I haven't exactly got many options left in Edinburgh. Slick and the Mist were about to lock me up and melt down the key.”

She looked at me dubiously. “But why does this administrator woman want you to go to Oxford? Shouldn't you be staying here to track down Hamilton's killer?”

“What makes you think Hamilton's killer is in Edinburgh any more?” I asked. “Let's face it, there are enough indications that he's linked with the university-state.”

Davie grinned at her. “You don't have to come if you don't want to, Citizen Kirkwood.”

Katharine raised a finger at him. At the same moment the door opened and Sophia walked in.

“Glad to see your team's operating in perfect harmony as usual, Quint,” she said, an icy smile on her lips. The medical guardian and Katharine had always been an even more lethal combination than Davie and Katharine. She came up to me and handed over a thick maroon folder. “Here's all the data on the amputee and on Lewis Hamilton. The drug specs – such as they are – examination and p-m reports, everything. They might be useful.” She gave me a penetrating stare. “Are you sure that leaving the city is a good idea?”

I raised my eyes to the vaulted ceiling. “Not you as well. Look, what choice have I got? Raphael's got Slick's balls in a vice. If she wants us in New Oxford, we're going, period. Anyway, Slick and the Mist were about to consign me to the nearest dungeon.”

Sophia nodded. “You're probably right.” The smile returned. “Though it's the first time I've seen you do what a woman asked without playing for time.”

“She didn't ask, Sophia,” I said. “She ordered.”

“Now I see where I went wrong.”

Katharine moved closer. “Have you finished, guardian?” she demanded.

Sophia kept her eyes on me. “Good luck, Quint. Come back in one piece.”

I felt my stomach flip. “Thanks a lot. You'll keep the senior guardian and his sidekicks on the right side of the City Regulations?”

She nodded, raising her hand to her face. “I'll try,” she said. She walked slowly to the door. “As long as the painkillers have an effect.”

I wondered how long she'd be able to hold the line in the Council chamber.

“We've only got three-quarters of an hour till take-off, Quint.” Davie sounded uncharacteristically nervous. He swung the Land-Rover round a citizen on a bicycle in Inverleith Row, eliciting a yell of alarm.

“Calm down, big man,” I said. “You won't miss your inaugural flight. I have a feeling they'll hold the helijet for us.”

He glanced at me. “They're that keen on the great Quintilian Dalrymple's abilities, are they?”

I shrugged, gazing out at the soot-stained barracks block to my right. “I don't know. Raphael certainly seems to think I can solve her problem.”

Davie sniffed. “Pity we don't know what that problem is.”

“The external manifestation of it is that someone's trying to kill her, guardsman.”

He shook his head. “It doesn't feel right to me, Quint. We should be tearing Edinburgh apart to find the bastard who shot the chief.”

I knew what he meant; but I was also finding the prospect of a trip beyond the borders of Edinburgh pretty exhilarating. Maybe the old man would be able to put a damper on my enthusiasm.

Wrong. As soon as I told him what was happening, Hector's wrinkled face cracked into a wide smile.

“Oxford?” he wheezed. “You'll have a great time, laddie.”

I pulled the blanket up his chest and tucked it in under his arms. As usual he was in his armchair, a heavy volume of Latin text on his lap.

“I'm not going there for a symposium,” I said in irritation, glancing at Davie. “I don't really know why I'm going there.”

“Ah, Oxford in the spring,” the old man said wistfully. “The cherry blossom, the river, the gardens . . .”

“Spare us the lyricism,” I said.

“Don't you remember the time you came with me when I gave the Innes Lecture, Quintilian?”

“I was sixteen, old man,” I said. “I had other things on my mind.”

Davie moved into the centre of the room in the retirement home. “You didn't tell me you'd been to Oxford, Quint.”

“I've had other things on my mind,” I said pointedly. “It was a long time ago. I'm sure the new city isn't anything like it was back then.”

“I seem to recall that you were particularly keen on the female undergraduates on bicycles,” Hector said, licking his lips.

“I wasn't the only one,” I countered.

“What do you mean?” the old man demanded. “I was completely engrossed in Seneca's position on imperial corruption.”

“Aye, that'll be right.” I gave him a serious look. “Anyway, I don't know how long I'll be gone. Will you be all right?”

Hector gave an impatient snort. “Don't worry about me, lad. I've lived my life.” He lowered his gaze, shaking his head. “Not always wisely, but to the best of my ability. I tried to change the way other people lived.” Then he raised his head again. “Whatever good I did has been pissed away by the idiots in later Councils. You go where you have to go, Quintilian. Don't bother about me.”

I stared at him. “Well, thanks for the maudlin farewell speech. That's really going to make me leave Edinburgh with a spring in my step.”

An arthritis-twisted, liver-spotted hand shot out from the blanket. “I'm serious, laddie,” he said, gazing at me steadily. “I don't want you taking me into account when you're making decisions.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” I said, suddenly finding it hard to speak.

Hector nodded. “Look in the fourth shelf of the bookcase on your way out. You'll find an Oxford guidebook.”

I squeezed his forearm then turned away. The book was blue and well worn, the unfamiliar name on the flyleaf suggesting that the old man had bought it second-hand. He was always a fearful hoarder of books. This was the first time he'd ever offered me one of his own free will.

I clung to that bittersweet thought as I followed Davie to the guard vehicle.

We screeched to a halt at the corner of Chambers Street and jumped out, leaving the Land-Rover's doors open. A guardsman waved us towards the museum entrance, keeping a group of aggrieved tourists waiting behind a barrier.

“Lift number three takes you to the roof, commander,” he said, ignoring me.

Davie looked at his watch as the doors closed in front of us. “Four minutes to go, Quint. I told you we didn't have time.”

I put the book Hector had given me into my holdall. “And I told you we would have time. Just watch.”

The doors opened and we stepped out on to a clear space underneath the great transparent, curved blast shields. The helijet, all slim lines and massive engine nacelles, loomed above us like a dark-feathered bird of prey perched on its eyrie.

A guy in a silver suit nodded to us punctiliously and handed over plastic cards. “These are your seat controls.” He pointed to a small panel at the top. “Touch these pads” – he played over the surface with his fingers – “and you can change position, order drinks, access webnet, increase ventilation . . .”

We watched as the appropriate words appeared on the panel. It seemed the high-tech world of New Oxford started on the Museum of Edinburgh roof.

“The other passengers are over there,” the steward said, indicating a group standing by a heavy steel door. “I'll take your bags.”