House of Dust (38 page)

The professor's desk would have won a Nobel Prize for untidiness in the times before Stockholm and Oslo were turned into communes by Vietnamese and other Asian immigrants. For someone who used to fiddle with his nostrum as much as any of his colleagues, Raskolnikov had been very keen on bits of paper. There were hundreds of them scattered over a large mahogany worktop, the few I glanced at in a Cyrillic scrawl that did absolutely nothing for me. So I could find nothing obvious linking him to the murders, and nothing to explain how he obtained a starring role in the latest one. Time for plan B.

On the left of the desk there was a flat screen with the letters “NOX” in red at the top. It was similar in style to the one in my rooms at Brase, but it looked a lot more sophisticated. I tried unsuccessfully to find a keyboard. Shit. The professor must have used voice recognition. I didn't think my limited impersonation skills would be able to replicate his guttural accent. I sat back in the leather swivel chair and spun myself round. After a while that shook my ideas up. Of course. I didn't need Raskolnikov's terminal. I had my very own nostrum. I wished Katharine was here to give me a quick tutorial. Then again, I suspected that what I was about to key in would bring the house down on me. I swallowed hard, tried to dredge up a remnant of the heroic temperament and typed access code RED3694T00699 on the tiny keys.

For a few seconds the nostrum was silent. Then it emitted some high-pitched bleeps and suddenly the miniature screen was filled with closely compacted writing. I did what I'd seen Connington do in the Camera and pointed the nostrum at the screen on the desk. That did it. The backlight came on, then the file was transferred to a more legible format. I leaned forward and scanned the contents as quickly as I could.

There was plenty of technical guff that I scrolled past quickly, the language an unpalatable blend of scientific, bureaucratic and academic. From what I could gather, the Faculty of Criminology, represented by the Department of Forensic Chemistry, and the Faculty of Biological and Physical Sciences' Department of Applied Bioengineering – whatever that was – were involved in a joint research project. I looked in vain for the word “Grendel” but got no joy. This project seemed to be all about toxic pollutants and the human nervous system. Then a light went on in my head when I saw a reference to the Poison Fields. I remembered what Pete Pym had said about the savage bulldogs who patrolled the contaminated outer regions of the state. Now I was getting somewhere. The departments' joint venture had produced a method of rendering humans immune to high levels of toxicity. Experiments had been extensive and the personnel who'd been treated had shown no signs of tissue or organ damage. And the original test subjects were referred to by names from works of English literature: there was a Volpone, a Miranda, a Tamburlaine, a Pardoner and a Plowman. No Grendel, but it was a pattern of sorts.

Then two things happened in quick succession. The first I'd been expecting. There was a thunderous pounding on the door. I looked over the bookcase and saw the chair I'd lodged under the handle judder. The second I definitely hadn't anticipated. Underlined in blue on the screen, the print sticking out like an operation scar, was a combination of letters and numbers that made my eyes burn. Next to them was a location that was very close to where I was.

The chair finally gave way and the door burst open. Trout careered through, his pal Perch not far behind. Then came Haskins, followed by Professor Yamaguchi. None of them looked at all pleased with me as I closed the file and shut down my nostrum.

But I didn't care. I'd just managed to track down Edinburgh's missing chief toxicologist.

What Lister 25 was doing in New Oxford was another question altogether.

“Citizen Dalrymple.” Yamaguchi came towards me. “What exactly are you doing?”

“You know exactly what I'm doing,” I replied. “The file I accessed had enough alarm bells attached to it to wake up the dead of Jericho.”

The professor gave a brief smile. “Yes, I'm afraid code red files are restricted to administrators and senior academics. If it's vital to your investigation, you can ask the Hebdomadal Council to allow you to see the contents.”

“So much for free access,” I said under my breath.

Trout and Perch stepped forward, their faces set in stone.

Yamaguchi raised a limp hand. “Could I ask how you obtained the file code, citizen?” His tone was light but I registered the interest beneath it.

“You could,” I said, nodding. “In fact, you just did.”

When I said no more, the professor looked pointedly at the male bulldogs. Then he shook his head in annoyance. “Be careful, Citizen Dalrymple,” he said quietly. “There are things in this city that you do not want to meddle with.”

“Uh-huh.” I stepped to the side of him and headed for the door. “Let's talk to Raphael about those this evening.” I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I walked out, but the academic and his canine friends stayed put. Probably trying to find out if there was anything else I shouldn't have seen on the dead man's desk.

I got out of the Taylorian in one piece but I knew that the chains were tightening around me. I needed to make a breakthrough in the case or I'd be taking up residence in one of New Oxford's many incarceration facilities.

A visit to the chemist seemed like a good idea.

Davie came on the mobile as I was walking down Beaumont Street. I'd turned it off when I was in the faculty to avoid being disturbed. Heavy rain was pounding on the protection shields above.

“Where the hell are you, Quint?” he demanded. “You didn't show at breakfast.”

“Couldn't stomach the idea of you taking advantage of the porridge, big man.”

“Very funny. The test results are beginning to come in.”

“Oh aye?” I said.

“The pathology team's been through all the samples from Raskolnikov.” His voice was even. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

I stepped aside to allow a procession of gown-clad students to pass. “You mean, no chemical compounds?”

“Correct.”

“Jesus. So his arms were removed without an anaesthetic.” I was thinking what a horrific experience that would have been if the Russian had still been conscious. Why hadn't the assailant used the compound that had put Dead Dod into a coma? And why was there no blood from the wounds?

“Correct again. They're not sure if the victim had choked on the Eagle One by the time the knife or whatever it was cut into him.”

“I hope so for his sake. What else?”

“Connington's people have reviewed all the surveillance records. No sign of anyone suspicious. And something definitely happened to the cameras at the bottom of the High Street and in the Botanic Garden. The team Dawkley sent hasn't worked out how it was done yet.”

“All right. Where are you, Davie?”

“On my way to Souls,” he replied. “To see if Katharine needs a hand.”

“Don't wind her up, will you?”

“Me?” he said, laughing. “What are you doing?”

“Tell you later. Out.”

I stopped at the junction to let a Chariot glide by and gazed up at the imposing, three-storey recessed block in front of me, wings extending on either side of it. It looked about as welcoming as a Victorian workhouse, which may well have been what it had been turned into by Raphael and her mates. I crossed the road and walked past the ranks of bicycles that were piled up against the railings. Signs of student life. Maybe the establishment was still a place of learning. According to my guidebook, it used to be called Worcester College. The black display panel proclaimed in pink letters that it was now known as “Worc”; I presumed that wasn't pronounced “worse”. I passed the sensor posts without any problem and walked through the gateway into a quadrangle that wasn't a quadrangle. Stepping beyond the loggia, I looked round at the asymmetrical buildings. On my right there was a long, graceful façade, while the end straight ahead had been left open. Over to my right was an uneven but picturesque terrace of medieval cottages. Neat architectural contrasts, but they weren't why I was here.

I looked at the staircase and room numbers I'd scribbled in my notebook when the file had been on the screen: 18/25. I wandered around the main quad and soon realised I'd have to look elsewhere. I went through a low passage and found myself in a wide expanse of garden, a lake to my right and a well-tended lawn dotted with trees all around. There were several late twentieth-century stone and brick buildings at the far edges of the grass. I ran over – no rain shields here – and located staircase eighteen in one that a screen identified as the Masterman Building.

And then, not for the first time that day, I felt a frisson of shock. The curtains to the first room that I reached on the ground floor were half open. Being an investigator – and also a nosy bastard – I couldn't resist a peek. Jesus. Wiping the rain from my eyes, I concentrated on the two partially clad individuals, one male and one female, who were closely entwined. I recognised the man with the goatee beard instantly: Andrew Duart, Glasgow's first secretary. He was getting around a lot in New Oxford. I had to wait till the woman turned, her head leaning back as Duart nuzzled her heavy breasts. This time I wasn't quite as surprised as I had been yesterday. It was Hel Hyslop, former Glasgow detective and, apparently, former convict.

What was this pair of migrant lovebirds doing three floors beneath Edinburgh's missing chief toxicologist?

Chapter Seventeen

I slipped past the sensor posts at the entrance to the accommodation block – my control card really had been programmed to allow me access everywhere, it seemed. The building was functional, late twentieth-century drab, a major let-down after the spectacular old buildings in the main quad. The brickwork was discoloured and pocked with unfilled bullet holes. It wasn't the kind of place Andrew Duart would usually frequent.

I felt my way down an unlit passage, estimating where the door to the room would be. I thought about knocking, but decided against it after a couple of seconds' thought; surprise is always a useful weapon, especially with people who normally dispense orders. I waved my card at the metal wall panel. There was a dull click and the door swung open. I was in.

So was Glasgow's first secretary. There was a partition wall separating most of the small study cum sitting room from the sleeping area. Through the gap next to the window I could see a tangle of bare legs and two fused sets of loins. The couple had collapsed on to the bed, the floor around it littered with items of clothing. Hel Hyslop's hands, fingers apart and bent for purchase, were exerting what looked to me like excruciating pressure on Duart's buttocks. Relief was at hand.

“Ding ding,” I said, sitting down on the wide ledge beneath the window. “End of round one.”

Andrew Duart's rapid pumping stopped. He glanced round, his cheeks beaded with sweat. Hel Hyslop's head appeared over his shoulder. She looked much more in control of herself, her grey eyes fixed on me and her lips set in a tight line.

“Dalrymple!” the first secretary gasped, pulling away and lunging for his trousers.

I averted my eyes but couldn't miss a flash of the thickly curled hair in Hyslop's groin. She made no attempt to cover herself.

“What the fucking hell are you doing here?” Duart yelled.

I stared at him until he realised what he'd said.

“Well?” he demanded, his anger fading. “Do you normally walk in on people when they're . . . when they're . . .” He seemed to have lost the verbal proficiency that political operators like him are born with.

“When they're overcome by passion?” Hyslop's voice had an edge to it. She got off the crumpled bed slowly and pulled on a dressing-gown. Her breasts, fuller than I'd imagined, swung provocatively as she moved.

“Hello, Hel,” I said, giving her a cautious smile. I'd been on the wrong end of her temper more than once in the past. “What happened? Did your friend here get you out on parole?”

“That's nothing to do with you, Quint,” she said, turning to the washbasin and starting to dash water over her lower torso.

I glanced at Duart. “What's going on, Andrew?” I glanced around the room. The walls were painted in an unappealing shade of beige. The only decoration was a large overhead photo of central Oxford with the words “NOX Secure Imaging Inc. – Vision is Power” in red over the Radcliffe Camera: one of Crim Fac's money-spinning sidelines, I guessed. “Surely your friends in the Hebdomadal Council could have found you somewhere better than this.”

“I'm not staying here,” he said with a sneer. “This is the inspector's . . . em, Hyslop's room.” He was fully dressed now. Donning his expensive dark suit and glistening black loafers had enabled him to regain most of his authority. Most, but not all: his cheeks were still glowing and his hair was ruffled. “Guests from New Oxford's trading partners are accommodated at the Rand.”