House of Dust (23 page)

“The next matter is the bullet.” She knew that would get my attention and she met my eyes impassively. “As you correctly deduced, it too was made in Oxford. By Nox Ballistics and Weapons Technology. That is one of the university's most successful commercial operations.” She took another look at her nostrum. “It's an experimental model known as the Eagle One.”

I was scratching my head, taken aback by her sudden openness. “Why didn't you admit that when I told you about the NOX marking on the bullet?”

Raphael raised her hand. “I knew nothing about the Eagle One at that stage. It's a highly sophisticated, top-secret development. I needed to be sure.”

I bit my lip and watched as Davie came back from the cockpit, a beatific smile on his face. “I need to be sure too,” I said in a low voice. “You're telling me that a hot design product from your home city was fired at you by someone who isn't a student but was wearing a student's boots. Jesus Christ, Raphael, someone tried to kill you. Why?”

The administrator didn't react to my use of her surname. “Again, citizen,” she replied in a cool voice, “that's what you're here to find out.” She rubbed her hands together. I caught sight of the implant in her wrist and wondered again about its function. She ran her tongue along her lips. “There's something else.”

“Oh great,” I said with a groan, still trying to work out why she wanted me to catch an assassin from her own city.

“With hindsight I realise I should have told you sooner.” Raphael was taking care to avoid my eyes now.

“This is getting better and better. Let's have it then.”

The administrator pressed her forefinger against her lips. “Very well.” She turned towards me, eyes still lowered. “A week before we left for Edinburgh, the mutilated body of a young man was found in central Oxford.”

I felt my heart start to beat faster. “Mutilated,” I repeated.

She nodded. “But on that occasion both arms had been removed.”

Administrator Raphael certainly had been keeping a lot to herself.

Shortly afterwards Raskolnikov came back to his seat and signalled to me to get out of it. “We'll be arriving soon, citizen,” he said, giving me the usual stony stare. “Then you'll have to show how good an investigator you really are.”

I returned his stare and threw in a smile for good measure. “Just watch me,” I said, brushing past him. As I went I heard the administrator say something to him in a muted voice. After she'd told me about the Oxford murder, she shut up shop and started to commune with her nostrum. Perhaps she urgently felt the need of some time with a machine after spending half an hour with a human being who answered back.

I passed Davie and repossessed my seat. The Russian had left a curious smell behind, something sweet and sickly like incense cut with sweat. It seemed that Nox Underarm Protection Industries wasn't a world leader in its field. Across the aisle Katharine was asleep, her head in profile against the soft leather. In repose she had none of the fierceness she'd cultivated over years of hardship in prison and working the land. Her long eyelashes and high cheekbones still gave her an exotic air, but the slackness of the skin around her mouth made her look like a child at rest – a child who was innocent of the horrors of the world.

“Look what I managed to get,” Davie said, turning to me and holding up two handfuls of Nox snacks.

I tossed over the one I'd declined to open. “Don't eat them all at once, big man,” I said.

“Eat them?” he said. “No chance. I'm keeping them to throw at the locals. Here, what did the woman in charge have to say?” he asked, his expression suddenly intent.

“I'll tell you later,” I replied. “When Katharine comes round.”

He glanced at her then shook his head. “She doesn't know what she's missing. Do you know what our cruising speed is?” He wasn't going to let me answer, not that I had a clue. “Nine hundred and fifty kilometres an hour.” He looked at me. “How many miles is that?” The original Council went back to imperial measurements in an attempt to erase the supposedly malign effects of the crumbling European Union in the early years of the millennium.

“About six hundred,” I estimated.

“Aye. And the pilot told me we're flying at over twelve thousand metres.”

“About forty thousand feet,” I translated. “Why so high?”

“Because there are some headbangers around what used to be Leeds who have ex-Russian army ground-to-air missiles that can reach ten thousand metres. It seems they don't like anything from New Oxford.” Davie grinned. “Any idea why?”

I laughed. “Nice, easy-going people like Raphael and Raskolnikov? An overriding interest in discipline and imprisonment? Beats me.”

Suddenly there was a reduction in the engine noise and I felt my stomach jump. Then, almost imperceptibly, the front of the aircraft tilted groundwards.

“We're on our way down,” Davie said, sounding disappointed.

“Aye,” I replied, shaking Katharine's knee gently. “The fun's about to start.”

“Mmm?” she asked, her voice languid. “What fun?”

Good question.

For a short time everything was obscured by clouds. Then we were through them and descending at an angle that wasn't too threatening. Looking down, I made out a curiously regular band of grey earth that must have been at least ten miles wide. As I sat back, Silver Suit came down the aisle.

“What happened down there?” I asked, pointing out of the window. “Looks like a desert of ash.”

The operative glanced nervously towards the area where Raphael and her team were sitting, then nodded. “You're not far off. They're the Poison Fields. They surround the university-state on all sides. There was massive pollution caused by the fertilisers they used at the turn of the century. There's only one safe way through them and that's to the south of the city.” He looked round again and continued on his way.

The Poison Fields. That sounded pretty ominous. I took them in again, seeing no sign of habitation or infrastructure. Then I remembered the bloody message on my wall. In this area there were apparently no roads leading to Oxford at all.

Davie's nose had been glued to the window. “Have you seen the way it looks down there, Quint?” he asked, turning to face me. “It's like a bloody great dartboard.”

I looked again, this time to the front beyond the helijet's swept wings. He was right. We were in the airspace over a huge roundel, the ashen fields forming an outer ring. Then there was a wider band of what seemed to be intensely cultivated land – the green fields much larger than the ones around Edinburgh – and, further ahead, a distant centre circle of buildings. The angle of descent became more acute. It looked like we were in the process of scoring a bull's eye. Or an ox's eye.

The sun was lower in the west now and the nerve centre of the university was caught in its light. As we approached, I became aware of the shape of the city: a long, narrow strip running from north to south, separated from other built-up areas to the east and the west by the thin, meandering blue of rivers and the green of fields and woods. The streets in the suburbs were much shorter and closer together than those among the central buildings.

“Shit!” Katharine snapped her head back from the window and ran her hand over her eyes. “Watch out. You need sunglasses.”

I peered out again gingerly and blinked as the sunlight was reflected off what seemed to be a large expanse of glass near the centre of the city. Shielding my eyes with one hand, I made out several more patches of shiny roofing in the area. Either the university's scientists had come up with a new building material or a double-glazing salesman had made a major killing. Looking to the left, I realised that the suburbs were not endowed with reflective roofs.

The belt tightened itself over my belly and a few minutes later we were hovering over the golden heart of New Oxford. The crenellated towers and battlements of the colleges came into focus as the final descent began. Directly below us was a large area of parkland, in the centre of which was a landing zone surrounded by transparent blast walls. There was a large black identification mark on the white concrete.

“X” marked the spot.

“Citizen?”

The speaker by my ear made me jump again.

“What?” I replied, deliberately omitting Raphael's title.

“I have arranged for the proctor to meet you and your people.”

“Really? And what's a proctor?”

I heard a faint sigh. “The proctor is responsible for order and discipline in New Oxford.”

“Ah,” I said. “Your equivalent of the Mi— The public order guardian.”

“Along the same lines, yes,” she replied. “He combines university duties with those previously undertaken by the late and unlamented Thames Valley Police Force.”

“So the proctor was in charge of the armless murder case.”

“Correct. He will give you a full briefing. And you will give me your preliminary thoughts at dinner this evening. Farewell.” There was a muted click from the speaker.

The belt round my midriff had undone and rewound itself. I stood up and watched as the administrator and her entourage disappeared through the front door.

Silver Suit was standing just in front of us, pointing to the rear. He smiled unconvincingly and nodded. “Farewell.”

That seemed to be the standard term around here. I began to wonder if the helijet was a time machine. Or maybe today's Oxford people just got a kick out of speaking like characters from the stories of H.G. Wells.

We walked down the ramp into the late afternoon sun. It was being refracted as it came through the blast wall and my eyes registered rainbow flashes. I squeezed them shut then opened wide and experienced another time shift.

“Quintilian Dalrymple?” asked a heavy, red-faced man in a full-length red and blue academic gown. He even had a tasselled mortar board under his arm. “I am Doctor Connington, proctor and fellow of Corp.” He didn't extend a hand.

“Corp?” I said. “As in corpse?”

He gave me a restrained smile. “After a fashion. As in Corpus Christi. For ease of diction, the colleges no longer use their full names.”

“Is that right?” I said, wondering if that was also New Oxford's way of breaking with the past. I introduced myself and the others. “For ease of diction you can call us Quint, Katharine and Davie.” I looked beyond him and worked hard to suppress an explosion of laughter. “Who are your friends?”

Connington glanced at the pair of tall, muscle-bound guys in dark suits and bowler hats. “Ah, these gentlemen are bulldogs. Security operatives.” He looked at me dubiously. “I imagine what you would call policemen.”

“No, we wouldn't,” Davie put in. “We'd call them—”

“Thank you, guardsman,” I interrupted, giving the doctor an encouraging smile. “I gather you're going to brief us on a murder.”

The proctor nodded gravely. “Indeed. I'll take you to headquarters and tell you all you need to know.” He stepped aside and ushered us towards a door in the transparent wall. “I hear you are an expert investigator, citizen,” he said from behind me.

“I told you, call me Quint. What should I call you?”

“You choose,” he replied. “Doctor or proctor.”

I resisted the temptation to compose a limerick on the spot. Obviously he fancied first-name terms as little as the administrator did. “Investigator?” I said. “Oh aye. Expert? That depends on how much information you give me, doc.”

He stiffened, as did the two bulldogs. “I've been instructed to answer your questions and to give you all the help you need,” he said in a lofty tone.

“Make sure you do.” I've learned from long experience of dealing with guardians that it pays to show your teeth to senior personnel as soon as you can.

We walked out on to a path that ran through a wide expanse of uncultivated parkland. Beyond it a tall bell-tower rose from a cluster of college buildings of different vintages. I seemed to remember it was Magdalen. Presumably they called it Maud these days, as in “come into the garden”. There was a group of people in front of the nearest stone accommodation block who'd done just that. As we got nearer I saw that most of them were young – some of them worryingly young – though there were a few figures in black robes among them. What struck me was that the young ones – students, presumably – were all wearing similar clothes: the males were in pale-coloured cavalry twill trousers and sports jackets, while the females were in white blouses and knee-length tweed skirts.

“Looks like a convention of trainee guardians,” Katharine said with a hollow laugh.

Davie was right behind me. “They're having a tea party,” he said. “I wonder if they'd give me some cake?”

“Haven't you got your pockets full of those snacks from the plane?” I asked.

“I want real food,” he complained.

“Later, big man.”

Katharine pointed away to the left. “What's that over there?” She sounded seriously surprised.

“Haven't you ever seen deer before?” I enquired.

“Not the deer, you moron,” she replied. “Behind them. It's just going round the corner.”

“That waddling bird?” said Davie.

“Yes,” Katharine said excitedly. “It can't be.”

I hadn't managed to see what they had. “It can't be what?”

She stared at me, shaking her head slowly. “It looked like one of those fat things in kids' books. The ones that are extinct.”

“Dodos?” I suggested with a laugh.

“Exactly. It looked like a dodo. What do you think, Davie?”

He shrugged. “I didn't see it clearly. I don't know . . .”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Katharine said. “Take it from me, it was a bloody dodo.”

The proctor was walking sedately down the path, paying no attention to our conversation.