House of Dust (25 page)

“Yes, proctor,” she said in a clear voice. “Everything's ready.”

“Run all!” Connington commanded.

The voice sensor activated the four largest screens, one on each wall, and we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a very real crime scene.

“Quadrihypervision,” the proctor said proudly. “Developed by our technicians. Takes you straight to the location of the recording.”

“Oh aye?” I was turning in circles, trying to get a grip on what I was seeing. “It would help if I had eyes on every side of my head.”

Connington gave me an encouraging look. “You'll get used to it.”

I spent half an hour trying and ended up with a headache for my trouble. However, I managed to get some idea of what had happened to the murder victim. His name was Ted Pym and he was a thirty-year-old cleaner who'd worked in the Department of Metallurgy in the northern city centre. On 27 March he'd finished his shift at five a.m. – university regulations apparently permitted cleaning operations only at night to give maximum access to researchers – and was on his way home to the suburb of Cowley on his bicycle. What happened next was unclear. His body was found in the middle of a pathway called Dead Man's Walk to the south of the High Street, the severed arms laid one across the other in the shape of a cross a couple of feet above his head. His bike turned up three days later in the River Cherwell a quarter of a mile away.

“Jesus!” Katharine was shaking her head. “You were right about this Quadrihypervision putting us on the spot.”

All around us were great gouts of blood, the result of extended spurting from the ruptured artery in each shoulder. The poor guy's face was set in agony, the teeth bared and the eyes bulging. This was as messy a scene as the one in Raphael's bath in Edinburgh was bloodless. That wasn't the only difference.

“What was the cause of death?” I asked.

Connington nodded to the blonde bulldog and the pictures changed. Now the screen in front was showing the victim's naked body on the mortuary slab, while those to the right and left had the pathologist's and the investigating officer's illustrated reports. I took in as much as I could.

“He bled to death?” I said, walking up to the front screen. “And the damage to the sternum is taken to be from a heavy boot?”

The proctor was nodding. “Correct. We posit that the killer knocked the victim to the ground – notice the large contusion around the left eye – and then held him down with his foot while he severed the arms.”

I swallowed hard. “The murderer then kept his boot on the victim till enough blood had gushed out for him to succumb.”

Davie cursed out loud, bringing a glare from Connington.

“Whoever did that must have been covered with blood,” Katharine said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Though he – or she, if it was a very strong woman – could have been wearing protective clothing which was subsequently discarded.” I turned to the proctor. “You didn't find anything?”

He shook his head. “We only found the bicycle by chance. It was caught up in the branches of a weeping willow.”

“Any footprints?” I asked, thinking of the mysterious NF138Bs.

The proctor pursed his lips. “It had been dry for days. What marks there were had been carefully obscured with a rough fabric.”

Shit. “What about the weapon used to sever the arms?” I asked.

The image on the front screen changed again.

“Computer reconstruction of the likely instrument,” Connington said. “Single-edged, non-serrated knife. Like the kind favoured by the drugs gangs of old.”

“And by the City Guard back home,” I said thoughtfully, running my hand over the stubble on my chin.

Davie glanced at me. “It's a common enough kind of knife,” he said. “And this is only an extrapolation from the trauma data.”

“Our extrapolations are usually very accurate,” the proctor said firmly.

“Uh-huh.” I gave him a slack smile. “Which is more than can be said for whoever was in charge of the surveillance camera in Dead Man's Walk that night.”

The academic was looking sheepish.

“Don't tell me,” I said. “You've got enough cutting-edge gear to set up a colony on Mars, but there was no operational camera down there.”

Connington's face had turned as red as his gown. “Something went wrong with the power unit.”

Dalrymple's Nineteenth Law of Criminology: do not put your faith in cameras. No matter how good your system is, any criminal who's worth chasing will find a blind spot.

We spent more time in the Viewing Room going over the data before Connington called a halt. We were expected for what he called “pre-prandial drinks” with the administrators at seven thirty. That gave us less than an hour to clean up and change.

Trout and Perch escorted us out of the Camera and headed towards the nearest college. The heavy wooden gate was open and they left us in the porter's lodge without saying a word. It looked like bulldogs were better at biting than barking.

A gruff old guy in pinstriped trousers and a black jacket took our control cards from us and keyed in room numbers. “Your rooms are all in Old Quadrangle.” He pointed through the arched entrance. “That's it there.” He turned back to us. “The lady is in staircase five, the gentlemen in staircases two and seven.” He gave us an intimidating glare. “No gentlemen in ladies' rooms or vice versa. No movement about the college after midnight without special permission. And no fraternising with the students.”

I made sure I didn't give any indication that we were going to go along with his instructions. “Isn't this Brasenose?” I asked, trying to resurrect my local knowledge.

“Brase,” he corrected, looking less than happy. He'd probably been around when the original names were in use. “And make sure you keep your noise down. I don't like noise.”

I went through the gateway, wishing I'd brought my Screamin' Jay Hawkins cassettes.

“Shouldn't we have told the administrator that we wanted a double room?” Katharine asked with a tight smile.

I shook my head. “It's better that they've split us up. Sniff around and see what you can find out from your neighbours.”

We separated and headed for our staircases. The quad, its central carpet of lawn cut immaculately, was deserted apart from us. Never mind no fraternising with the students – there didn't seem to be any. I went up the worn stone stairs and found my room easily enough. I could hardly miss it as my surname, prefaced by the title “Mr” was lit up on a black panel on the door. I moved to slide my card into the slot under the handle but the dark blue wood swung open as I approached. Perhaps it smelled me coming – I needed a wash.

On first appearance the rooms – a spacious sitting room and a much smaller bedroom – were a blast from the time of Evelyn Waugh and his drunken pals, though there wasn't anything approaching a handful of dust in the place. The furniture was brown going on black, the wallpaper was in your face and the sofa could have done with a new set of covers. The main room was a strange brew of medieval and futuristic. I couldn't fail to notice a large screen set into the wall above the roll-top desk and discovered that the humming cabinet beneath it contained a fridge – empty, unfortunately. I was about to give the accommodation the thumbs up when I saw the bathroom, or rather the shower hole. There was no cabinet or curtain, just a pipe with a battered head and a single, cold tap. High-tech New Oxford seemed to have an ancient Spartan heart.

Then I saw the dinner suit laid out on the bed. Holding it against myself, I realised it was the right size. Someone must have been measuring me up covertly. There was also a dress shirt, a pale green bow tie and matching cummerbund, and a pair of gleaming black shoes. I picked up my mobile to see if Davie had been given a change of clothing too, then remembered how far from Edinburgh I was. I fingered his number anyway and was amazed to hear a ringing tone.

“Here, have you been kitted out with a penguin suit?” I asked after we'd got over the shock that our clapped-out Supply Directorate phones worked in Oxford; maybe the technicians in the Camera had programmed the control cards to do something magic to our handsets.

“Aye,” he replied. “I'm not planning on wearing it though. It makes me look like a right—”

“You are wearing it, pal,” I interrupted. “Just go along with everything they want. That way we stand more of a chance of picking up the stuff they're keeping hidden from us.”

He started grumbling so I cut the connection. It occurred to me that if they'd facilitated our phones, they might be listening to our calls.

At twenty past seven the screen in my sitting room let out a high-pitched bleep and a mechanical voice instructed me to proceed immediately to the front gate. Fortunately the bow tie was on an elastic so I'd almost finished my preparations. No shave though. I didn't want to look too clean-cut. Earlier I'd knocked on all the other doors on the staircase in search of a friendly local. Nobody was at home – or at least nobody who wanted to risk opening up to me.

Davie was already waiting under the archway, his bulky frame fitted up surprisingly well in a suit identical to mine. Next to him was a woman I initially didn't recognise. It was only when she turned round, the knee-length ochre evening dress carving out an elegant flourish, that I realised it was Katharine. She was wearing what looked like a silk shawl round her otherwise bare shoulders and her shapely legs were given even greater effect by high-heeled leather pumps. I was glad to see that she'd managed to maintain some integrity: her short brown hair had been brushed straight up and gelled in a striking clash with her formal get-up.

“This way.” Trout had appeared outside the gate. I was relieved to see he was still in his bulldog suit. Even though he'd demonstrated that he could speak after all, I didn't fancy sitting next to him at dinner.

“Where are we going?” Davie asked as we stepped out into the square around the Camera.

“You'll see,” replied Trout, keeping his eyes to the front.

“Sorry I spoke,” Davie muttered.

I turned to Katharine. “You look . . . well, spectacular.”

“I'm not sure if I feel that way,” she said, looking down at her legs. “I haven't worn a dress for a hell of a long time.”

“You want to complain. I haven't
ever
worn a dinner jacket.”

She smiled. “I'd never have guessed. Actually . . .” She ran her eyes over me. “You don't look too bad either. I'm not sure if green's your colour though.”

“I
am
sure that green isn't my colour.” I glanced at Trout and moved closer to her. “Anything or one interesting on your staircase?”

She shook her head. “No one around. The door screens only said that the occupants were out; there wasn't any more information about them.”

I gazed around as the bulldog led us through a narrow passageway, the ubiquitous sensor post on the outside.

“This is the Bodleian Library, isn't it?” I asked.

“Was the Bodleian Library,” he replied after a pause.

We came out into a quadrangle which instantly took me back about five centuries – and also to the days of my youth. The flagstoned square and the buildings with their battlements and tall windows were exactly as I remembered them; Hector had talked one of his professor friends into getting us temporary passes back in 2000. It didn't look like the drugs gangs and their heavy artillery had done much damage here.

I came back to what Trout had said. “What do you mean? What's this place now?”

“The university doesn't use books very much these days,” the bulldog said, suddenly loquacious. “Everything the students need is in digital form.” He opened his arms wide and spun round in a surprisingly light-footed movement. “This is the university administration centre – Noxad for short.”

I stared at him and then took in the glorious towers and façades again. They'd turned one of the most famous libraries in the world into an office block.

What did that say about the people who ran the university-state of New Oxford?

“Hurry up, citizen.” Professor Raskolnikov was standing at the entrance to the Gothic western side of the quad. As ever his beard and long gown gave him the look of a medieval monk, his tone suggesting that he'd been fasting far too long. “We can't keep the administrators waiting.”

“Just watch me,” said Davie, stopping to inspect the bronze statue of an armoured nobleman that stood before the door.

“Come on, jackass,” I hissed. “This is serious.” I had a lot to lay on Raohael and her friends, and I was expecting plenty in return.

“Is it true that the university doesn't use books any more?” I asked as the Russian led us up a winding staircase.

He gave me a pained look. “This is the twenty-first century.” He lifted the nostrum from his chest. “What do you think technology is for?”

“You mean you do your research with a two-inch piece of metal?”

“Don't be an idiot. I mean we use the technological advances in data processing to cut out the drudgery. You have a wall screen in your accommodation, do you not?”

I nodded. “So you, the students, whoever, can access whatever documents or publications are required without going anywhere near a library?”

“Precisely.” Raskolnikov stopped at the top of the stairs and gave the three of us the once-over. “I'm glad to see you've got rid of those Edinburgh rags. We try to maintain some standards in New Oxford.”

Davie raised his middle finger at the professor's back as we were taken past a pair of regal busts and into a long room filled with stalls. They weren't for animals, though. The shelves above the sloped desks were lined with old tomes and incunabula, some of them attached to the stanchions by chains. It looked like even the classics were subject to incarceration in the university-state. Above us, the panels of the ceiling were covered with coats of arms and the hall reeked of learning and devotion to reading; at least there was one place in the city where those pursuits weren't served up digitally.