House of Dust (30 page)

He had a point.

There were some buildings around the junction that bore a resemblance to the worst barracks blocks that had been erected back home. There was also a construction faced with red tiles and standing on stilts that combined grandstand and giant's pissoir very imaginatively, if you like that kind of thing.

Signs on the roundabout exits proclaimed the start of separate suburban zones, each with its own checkpoint. Vehicles like ours which were programmed with the appropriate authorisation weren't bothered, but individuals pedalling bicycles had to stop to flash passes at bowler-hatted bulldogs. Those individuals were wearing clothes that definitely didn't come from the university outfitters: loose-fitting denim trousers, jackets in bright check material and heavy workboots. Most of the men had hair down to their shoulders and were unshaven.

“No more rain shields,” Katharine said, pointing upwards.

She was right. The subs had been left out in the rain and they weren't enjoying it. The drizzle had turned to a much heavier downpour and pedestrians were bending their heads as they struggled down the Cowley Road. Some of them gave the Chariot hostile looks. It moved rapidly past unkempt shops and under-maintained two-up two-down housing; the gas line that fuelled it apparently continued down here. It wasn't long before I discovered why the infrastructure was organised that way. The university had more interest in the suburbs than I'd thought.

“Bloody hell,” Davie gasped. “What's this?”

“The university's engine room,” I replied, clocking the large screen in front of the complex of tall, white, corrugated-metal buildings. It read “NOX Industry Park No. 1”. Underneath the luminous red letters was a long list of company names, most of them prefaced by the New Oxford abbreviation and many of them containing the words “digital”, “hyper-conductor”, “software” and “technology”.

Katharine sniffed and grimaced. “It's noxious enough around here, all right.”

“You kill me, Katharine,” Davie said, looking past her at me. “What do you mean, the university's engine room, Quint?”

“This is how it makes economic sense,” I replied, recalling what the old don had told me about the transnational companies and their sponsorship of research and development. The names of major concerns that I could remember from the early years of the century were on the display too. “It's a business, not an educational foundation. The administrators have set things up so that every faculty makes a pot of money.”

Katharine grabbed her seat. “Where are we going now?”

The Chariot had made a sudden turn on to a wide carriageway and was hurtling northwards, overtaking slow-moving trucks that looked similar to the vehicle we were in but were ten times larger. Stacks of boxes and containers were visible through their canopies. I wondered where they were going. If it was true that New Oxford was surrounded by the so-called Poison Fields, perhaps there was a commercial helijet base somewhere outside the university boundary.

“Ah, I've got it,” Katharine said, her nostrum in operation. “Ted Pym lived in Appleby Terrace. It's the next left.”

Sure enough, the Chariot slipped smoothly off the main road and entered a housing estate that had seen better days; better days about fifty years ago, judging by the overgrown gardens, the plastic sheeting that was replacing many of the windows and the spatter of missing tiles. Despite the rain, ragged children were playing in a desultory way between the potholes in the street. The Chariot wove competently round both kids and cavities, having informed us that it was switching to its onboard fuel tank. No gas lines in this neighbourhood.

“Number thirty-two.” Katharine said. “This is it.”

The vehicle hissed to a halt on Davie's command. He told his door panel to open, then hurriedly changed his mind. “Close!” he yelled.

The three of us leaned towards the onside and I felt the Chariot cant over before its computerised suspension got a grip. A large black dog with foam-specked jaws was snarling at us from the pavement. Then it made the mistake of jumping up against the transparent plastic. There was a sharp crack and it arced back through the air in a spray of urine, landing on its back.

“Shit.” Katharine was out before I could stop her. She kneeled down beside the beast and stroked its head. Then she looked round at us. “Get out, you cowards,” she said angrily. “Our bastard Chariot has dealt with the poor thing.”

Davie and I squatted down beside the motionless dog.

“Is it dead?” he asked.

Katharine shook her head. “No, I can feel a pulse.” She glanced back at the vehicle. “The bloody plastic cuddy must have turned on an anti-tamper device as soon as we entered the suburb.”

I watched as she eased the dog on to its side, then saw two pairs of small feet appear on the uneven paving slabs nearby.

“What you done to Shelley?” asked a small girl with a muddy face.

“They topped her, Fran,” said a boy with long blond hair and a fine collection of dried snot.

“No, we didn't,” Katharine said gently. “She went too close to the Chariot.” She smiled at them. “You make sure you stay away, okay?”

They nodded uncertainly then looked round at the sound of quick footsteps.

“Fran, Rex, what you doing?” The woman's voice was on the edge. “What happened to Shell?”

I stood up and opened my arms. “Sorry . . . she jumped up on the vehicle . . .”

“Who the fuck are you?” The voice was harsh now. “What the fuck you done to my dog?”

“We . . . we're—” I broke off, wondering how to explain myself. “You're Mrs Pym?”

She looked at me uncomprehendingly. “That's old language,” she said, her eyes screwed up. “I'm Maddy Pitt.” She stared at the comatose dog and then at Katharine, whose smile seemed to encourage her. “I lived with Ted, if that's what you mean.”

I nodded. “We're trying to find your husband's . . .” I was suddenly aware of the children's blank faces. “We're investigating—”

“You're not bulldogs,” she interrupted, her eyes now fixed on Davie's guard uniform. “Who are you?”

There was a murmur of voices and I realised that a crowd of people was gathering in the street.

“Trouble, Maddy?” called a large, long-haired man in a dirty vest which displayed his massive biceps.

She glanced at me again. “I don't think so, Pete. I'll let you know.” She smiled briefly and her face was transformed. Although she was young, her drooping shoulders and aggressive demeanour had made me think she was the kind of citizen that pushed around a wheelbarrow full of grudges. Now I could see that she was a fighter. “You better come inside, whoever you are,” she said. “Shelley'll be all right. It's not the first time she's got herself pulsed.”

“Pulsed?” I said, following her up the uneven path.

“You're not from Oxford, are you?” she said, looking back at me. “Didn't you see the warning signs all round the industry park: ‘Danger – Unauthorised Personnel Will Be Pulsed'?” She held the flimsy front door open. “Just one way to keep us in our place.”

I walked into a surprisingly well-kept living room. The furniture was basic and old, but the place was clean – no sign of any dog hairs – and the small collection of ornaments on the ancient television was neatly arranged and dusted. The volume was low, but it was still easy enough to see how much of a moron the man wearing a floral suit was. He was running some sort of quiz show and he was egging the contestants on like their lives depended on getting the answer right. Maybe they did.

“You kids, go and play upstairs,” Maddy Pitt said, her voice soft now. “It's too wet outside.”

“What about Shelley?” said the little girl.

“Don't worry,” Katharine said, stroking her hair and smiling. “I'll keep an eye on her.”

Maddy shooed her children out then eyed us dubiously. “What you want then? You must be working for the bulldogs even if you're not wearing stupid hats. Otherwise you wouldn't have a Chariot.”

“We're not working for the bulldogs,” I said. “The administrators have asked us to investigate your man's death.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because it might be linked to one in our city,” Katharine said.

“Where's that then?” Maddy said.

“Edinburgh,” Davie replied, pointing to the maroon heart on his tunic.

“Never heard of it.” The Oxford woman turned away and took a silver packet from the dresser. “Smoke?”

We shook our heads.

“They're safe,” she said. “No cancer.” She stared at the packet. “'Least that's what they tell us. Course, people still end up in the hospital.”

I glanced round and realised there was a complete absence of books, magazines, any kind of reading material in the room. “Edinburgh,” I repeated. “It's in Scotland.”

“Never heard of it,” she repeated.

“Didn't you do geography at school?” Davie asked. “Or history? Or modern studies?”

Maddy Pitt looked at him and laughed. “School? There aren't any schools out here.”

Christ. The significance of the term “sub” was beginning to become apparent.

After ten minutes of jousting, Maddy seemed to decide that we were at least worth opening up to. I got the impression that the bulldogs investigating Ted Pym's death hadn't shown much interest. She produced a tray with tea and some hairy-chested oatmeal biscuits that Davie approved of.

“So have you got any idea—?” I broke off and stared at the TV. “Can't you turn that thing off?”

She shook her head. “You can't turn it off,” she said. “Or cover it up. Or put the boot into it – unless you want the bulldogs round. Only thing is to turn the volume down and I've already done that.” She looked at me curiously. “Anyway, there's nothing wrong with
Want to Make a Mint?
. It's the only way you can get a better house or give your kids a chance of going to boarding school in the centre – though they're prisons like everywhere else in this fucking place and I'm not sending Fran and Rex there, no matter what the dogs say, I'm not and . . .” She ran out of words and let out a desperate sigh.

I looked at the television again and saw that it formed an integral unit with its frame, the legs of which were welded to the floor.

Maddy caught the direction of my gaze. “It's on all day from six in the morning to eleven at night. All you can do is drown it out with the O-blues.” She smiled crookedly. “But if we do that, you won't have any chance of hearing what I say.”

“The O-blues?” I said. “What are they?”

Katharine's eyes flipped upwards. She'd never shared my passion for the devil's music.

“The sound of the suburbs,” Maddy said. “A mixture of old rhythms and guitar crash. The Cowley version's definitely the best.”

It obviously had nothing much to do with any other kind of Oxford blues.

“Get on with it, Quint,” Katharine said.

“Right.” I looked at the woman who'd lived with the dead man and wondered if she had anything useful to impart. “Your man Ted,” I began.

“He wasn't dirty,” Maddy Pitt said, her words coming out in a rush again. “The dogs never caught him for nothing.” Her eyes were wild and she'd taken a step towards me, fists balled. “He wasn't like some of them out here.”

I nodded, trying to placate her. “I know. There was nothing in his personnel file.”

She stared at me, her expression gradually slackening. “I mean . . . he . . .” She turned to the tray and busied herself with the teapot.

“What do you mean, Maddy?” Katharine asked, warning Davie and me off with a stern look. “You said he wasn't like some of them.”

The woman raised her head slowly then shook it. “Leave me alone,” she said in a low voice. “I don't know you.” She let out a sob. “You can't bring Ted back.” She started to weep quietly.

“What the fuck are you doing to her?” The heavily built guy she'd called Pete had appeared at the door. He barged in, heading straight towards me.

Davie had him in a neck lock before he even got close.

After a few minutes things calmed down. A crowd of locals had blocked the light from the front window, their faces fierce. They stayed where they were when they saw how Davie was holding Pete. Katharine spoke to Maddy Pitt while I tried to convince the man in the vest that we had nothing to do with the bulldogs. Eventually he nodded his agreement to my suggestion that he send his friends away. Davie wasn't convinced we were in the clear, but he loosened his grip and the stand-off turned into a sit-down.

“This is Pete Pym,” Maddy said, handing the big man a mug of tea. “Ted's brother.”

Pete glanced at Davie, who was between him and the door. “Fair enough,” he said. “You can't be undercover dogs wearing rags like those.” He grinned. “I'll get you, Black Beard. Where did you learn that lock?”

Davie looked down as Maddy's dog wandered unsteadily into the room, and patted her head. “Never you mind, pal. I've got plenty more to show you if you're interested.”

“All right, boys,” I interjected. “Shall we get on?”

Pete Pym peered at me suspiciously. “Get on with what?”

“We're trying to find your brother's killer,” I said. “Can you help us?”

He shrugged. “Too late to do anything for Ted now,” he said, shaking his head.

“But not too late for other people,” I said. I told him what had happened to George Faulds back home, leaving out the differences between the cases. “Have you any idea why Ted might have been chosen as a victim?” I looked at Maddy Pitt. “What did you mean when you said your man wasn't like some out here?”

She glanced at Pete nervously. “I . . . I just meant he had a clean record.”