House of Dust (36 page)

“What have you found, citizen?” Raphael said, moving closer.

“Bloody hell,” I said, feeling my stomach flip. “His sleeves have been sewn up.”

“What?” Katharine's voice was sharp. “Why?”

I stood up slowly. “Why?” I repeated, turning to face them. “Remember what happened to the others?”

“Arm amputation,” Raphael said slowly. She turned to the nearest bulldog. “Cut him down.” Her eyes blazed. “Carefully.”

In a couple of minutes the body was stretched out on plastic sheeting beside the path. The crime-scene cameramen who'd already taken footage of the willow and its strange fruit were recording everything.

“Remove the jacket,” Raphael said, standing over the motionless form.

The medic kneeled down and ran a small blade down the arms of Raskolnikov's suit and parted the material, as well as the unstained white shirt beneath.

Davie was the only one who spoke. “Shit,” he said, shaking his head.

The killer had repeated what had been done to Ted Pym. Both of Professor Raskolnikov's arms had been amputated in the region of the upper humerus, but this time the limbs had been sewn up inside his shirt. The condition of the body was different to that of Ted Pym too. The wound surfaces were clean and free of blood like those of George Faulds. However, the youth gang member back home had been left alive, even if he was comatose.

What had been the cause of the Russian's death?

We found out the answer to that question soon enough. The balding medic had been prowling around the body, his fingers running across the keyboard of a metallic instrument with a tube coming out of its side. He kept pointing the end of that tube, presumably some kind of scanner, at Raskolnikov's neck.

Finally, he straightened up and nodded. “I thought so. There's something between the back of the tongue and the epiglottis. It's partially obscured behind the bone, cartilage and muscle structure.” He called forward an assistant in protective whites. “Tilt the head back,” he ordered.

The medical examiner leaned forward, a pair of forceps in his hand. He moved them around for a few moments then pulled them out carefully.

“Is that what I think it is?” Davie asked.

“An Eagle One,” Katharine said, peering at the bullet.

I turned to the medic. “Presumably he was asphyxiated.”

“That's a good possibility,” he agreed, eyeing the heavy projectile uncomfortably.

Raphael was standing with Dawkley and Yamaguchi. Verzeni was also there, his gaze fixed on the bullet. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

It didn't seem like the right time to ask them if they had any idea why a specimen of New Oxford's most sophisticated ammunition should end up in their colleague's throat, so I left that for later. At least we had a connection with Hamilton's shooting and the murders, not that it was getting us any nearer identifying the killer.

Davie was on his knees by Raskolnikov's discarded gown. “Here's something else, Quint,” he said, holding up the shattered remains of a nostrum by its cord.

“Good God,” Dawkley gasped. “That's impossible.”

I looked at him. “What do you mean?”

He glanced at Raphael. “The nostrums issued to senior personnel are made of the highest quality tungsten steel.”

“Of course they are,” said Katharine.

Dawkley ignored her irony. “They're guaranteed indestructible by Nox Nostrum Industries. How could this be?”

“Guaranteed indestructible?” I repeated, gazing at the crushed device and wondering how the damage to it had been carried out. “The factory needs to improve its quality control.” I turned to Raphael. “And you need to improve the security of your senior staff. Without delay.”

The chief administrator nodded, her face wan.

Things were evidently getting a little too close to home.

Chapter Sixteen

The rest of the evening was a drag. It transpired that high-tech, utopian New Oxford's take on handling murders wasn't much different to Enlightenment Edinburgh's: a slog through the tedious procedural part, plenty of frantic running around and, at the end, nothing much to show for it. By two in the morning, we called it a night.

Katharine, Davie and I retired to Brase with Raphael, Connington and Dawkley to see where we stood. The chief administrator seemed to know her way around the college. She led us straight to the Senior Common Room, having instructed the suddenly obsequious porter to send over food and drink – no messing about with self-service touch pads and delivery units for her.

“Kindly take us through your preliminary conclusions, Citizen Dalrymple,” Raphael said after a pair of white-jacketed scouts had laid trays of sandwiches, wine and coffee on the oak table that took up one end of the long room. Academics who looked like they'd spent too long filleting ancient texts stared down at us from the walls, the extravagant gilt frames of their portraits in tune with the opulent antique furniture.

I wolfed down a sandwich filled with blue cheese that almost took the roof of my mouth off and sank a glass of vintage claret, then pulled out my notebook. Raphael and her colleagues had been playing with their nostrums all evening, but I preferred my handwritten notes: the fact that even an experienced graphologist would struggle to make sense of my scribbles was curiously comforting.

“Right,” I said, running the stump of my right forefinger down the page. “The crime scene. We've found no witnesses to the murder. Not even anyone who spotted Professor Raskolnikov or a potential assailant on the way into the garden.” I glanced at Dawkley, who was taking small bites from a banana and sipping water with a virtuous air. “You were right. The entire population of central New Oxford was doing its homework.”

“Spare us the satire,” the chief administrator said sharply.

I shrugged. “As for traces at the scene, neither we nor your operatives found any obvious material – fabric, hairs, whatever – that might point to the murderer's identity.”

“Subject to further analysis,” Doctor Connington put in.

“Of course,” I said, nodding and then looking at each of the New Oxford officials. “The footprints were more interesting, though. There was no shortage of them and they didn't all come from Raskolnikov's size nine senior academic-issue Oxfords.”

The three of them stared back at me impassively.

“There were the marks of a size eleven, as in the tenement in Leith. The ridging on the sole is identical.” I gave them a tight smile. “It's our old friend Model NF138B.”

No response.

“Model NF138B,” I repeated. “As issued exclusively to Grendels.” I looked at the chief administrator. “Not students.”

Connington's eyes flicked open in surprise, but the two administrators were giving nothing away.

“What exactly are Grendels?” I asked Raphael. “Or is that another detail you want me to find out for myself?”

Raphael glanced at Dawkley then looked back at me. “Grendels are top secret for reasons that I cannot go into now. I suggest you follow whatever angles you see fit, citizen. I do not wish to prejudice your enquiry in any way.”

“Aren't you prejudicing it by withholding vital information?” Katharine demanded. She was standing behind me, her hands on the top of my chair. I could hear her fingernails scrape on the polished wood.

Dawkley raised his eyes to Katharine and gave her a withering look. “How do
you
know such information is vital to the case?” he asked, his tone harsh. “That is for Citizen Dalrymple to decide.”

I swivelled my head and shook it in her direction. If that was how they wanted to play it, I'd find a way to get round them. Maybe the whole issue of the boots was a sideline; maybe anyone could obtain a pair of the supposedly exclusive boots on the black market. I was pretty sure there would be one of those operating in the suburbs.

“As for the modus operandi,” Davie said, having dealt with a large plate of sandwiches and emptied the claret jug. “The arm amputation was performed with what looks very like the same weapon that was used on the youth gang member in Edinburgh; the surfaces of the wounds were cauterised.” He glanced around. “The precise nature of that instrument is still undetermined.”

I turned to Dawkley. “Have your people been working on anything that could have removed the arms?”

He nodded slowly. “We have advanced expertise in many fields.” He frowned. “Are you suggesting that a New Oxford scientist killed the professor?”

“As you said, administrator,” I replied, “that's for me to decide.” I gave him a slack smile.

“But why both arms?” Raphael said. “What is the point of that . . . that horror?” She was looking uncharacteristically shaken.

“You tell me,” I said. “The perpetrator, assuming the same individual was responsible in all three mutilation cases, has obviously got a thing about arms. At this stage, I haven't got a clue why.” It's always best to declare ignorance, especially when you think you're on to something. I was positive the modus was significant, but I didn't want to make my interest too obvious yet.

“What about the post-mortem?” Katharine asked, turning to Davie. He'd attended it.

He raised his shoulders. “Too early to say. They've taken all the relevant samples for testing. Cause of death is definitely asphyxiation due to the bullet Raskolnikov was forced to swallow. Time of death – well, there's no argument about that. We already know it was between seven fifteen and eight p.m.”

“You'll have the test results first thing in the morning, Dalrymple,” Dawkley said. “The equipment we have at our disposal is the best there is and the laboratories are working as we speak.”

Raphael stood up, her hand to her forehead. “Anything more?”

I nodded. “Raskolnikov's nostrum. Is it possible to reconstruct its memory cells? I'm pretty sure he must have received an urgent message that sent him hightailing down to the Botanic Garden.”

Connington, also on his feet, nodded. “My technical people are working on that.”

“Good.” I smiled at him. “Maybe they'll also be able to ascertain how it was destroyed.” The proctor's face fell but I still hadn't finished with him. “And maybe they'll also be able to find out how the surveillance cameras near the locus were tampered with. I presume you accept that they didn't go down by accident?”

Dawkley glanced at the proctor. “I'll provide a team of expert fibre-optic engineers, Connington.”

I nodded. “Okay. Then it's time for you to hit the sack.”

Raphael twitched her head at me and led the others towards the door.

“Oh, one more thing,” I called, focusing on the chief administrator when they turned round. “The Eagle One bullet that Raskolnikov choked on.”

“What about it, citizen?” she asked tersely.

“You might want to think about why it was used,” I replied. “After all, that model of ammunition isn't exactly common and access to it is supposedly strictly controlled.” I gave her a tight smile. “Don't forget: the assumption is that the one we removed from Lewis Hamilton's body was aimed at you.”

She swallowed audibly then moved off again. “Report to the Hebdomadal Council at eight tomorrow evening, citizen,” she said. “Goodnight.”

I wished her sweet dreams – inaudibly.

Katharine, Davie and I moved to the leather armchairs at the far end of the long room.

Davie yawned massively. “I want to hit the sack too.”

“What's keeping you?” Katharine asked.

“Calm down, children,” I said. “We're all going to bed in a minute. I want to work out what we're doing tomorrow first.”

“You mean today,” Davie said, looking at his watch and shaking his head.

“Aye. You keep on the pathologist's back, big man. And check that Connington keeps his eye on the ball too.”

He nodded.

“Katharine, can you take a look at Raskolnikov's rooms in his college? While you're there, see if you can find out anything about his private life.”

“Do they have private lives in this place?” she asked. “New Oxford's even more obsessed with control than the Council back home.”

“Who can control his fate?” came a wheezing voice from behind us.

The three of us jumped like performing monkeys.

“Jesus!” I said. “You shouldn't sneak up on people, doctor.”

Elias Burton looked over his shoulder. “My apologies. Perhaps you hadn't noticed the alternative door.”

“Perhaps not,” I said. “Who can control his fate? Is that a quotation?”

“Very good,” Burton said, clapping his hands and gazing at the table beyond us. “It's from
Othello
. Is that wine I see there?”

“Help yourself,” I said, glancing at the others. I wondered how long the old academic had been lurking in the shadows.

Burton returned with a glass of Nox Chardonnay and sat down. “You and your friends appear to be working overtime, Quintilian,” he said.