House of Dust (42 page)

“Hold me back. Where?”

I told him and signed off. As I headed towards the city centre, I called Katharine. Either she was otherwise engaged or there was something wrong with the signal again, so I left it for later.

At that moment I was keener on a building than on Katharine – not that I'd been intending to tell her that.

“Carfax?” Davie said, looking up at the old tower that rose above the crossroads. I'd met him there and told him we were going to the House of Dust. “Why's it called that? There aren't any cars around here, let alone any fax machines.”

“Oh very good,” I said. I had my father's guidebook open. “You'll find it comes from the Latin
quadrifurcus
, meaning four forks or ways.” I glanced at him. “What's a fax machine?”

“You remember, those things they had in pre-independence times that sent bits of virtual paper down the tele—” He broke off when he saw the derisive look on my face. “Up yours.”

“Come on then,” I said, leading him across the road. “Leave the Chariot here. Let's do this on foot.” I was struck again by how little traffic there was apart from students on public-use bicycles. This was how to ease congestion on the roads: make everyone walk or ride a bike. Pity no government before the break-up of the UK had had the balls to legislate for that. It would probably have stopped the mob laying into Westminster. Then again, people were deeply in love with their cars – until the oil companies upped their prices once too often and the refineries were torched by committed but short-sighted activists.

“What do you think you're going to see from the outside?” Davie asked, stepping out of the way of an elderly female academic with half-moon glasses and hair like a crow's nest.

“Don't know, pal.” I looked across St Aldate's at an ornate building with arched mullioned windows and a grandiose entrance.

“What's that place?” Davie asked.

I glanced at Hector's book. “The town hall, as was. Jacobean gables, turrets, ogee roofs, balustrade of—”

“Change of function,” he said, pointing.

I focused on the words on the dark blue display screen by the door. “‘Faculty of Criminology',” I read. “What a surprise.” I looked again. “Department of Prison Privatisation.”

“Oh aye,” Davie said.

“Oh aye exactly. That'll be where the consultants they sent to Edinburgh came from. They no doubt make a pile of money from states that are desperate to get shot of the responsibility for their prisons.”

“That's not what's happening back home,” Davie argued. “The Mist's got Public Order Directorate personnel running the New Bridewell.”

“For how long?” I asked. I was still puzzled about the relationship between the Council of City Guardians and Raphael's regime. What was in it for New Oxford?

We walked down the road.

“That's it, isn't it?” Davie said, pointing ahead. “The House of—”

I put my hand on his arm to silence him. There weren't many people about, but I knew that, unlike bicycles, the name Elias Burton and Pete Pym had spoken wasn't for public use.

From the north the amber walls of what used to be Christ Church were still impressive, even though the tall, narrow windows had been covered by steel shutters and there were large patches of shell damage. The pair of vast metallic columns shot up into the sky like the amputated legs of a giant. I could make out wisps of steam or smoke around the cowling at their tops. The two small towers on either side of the main gate were in reasonably good condition, their stone a darker shade. But my eye was irresistibly drawn to the vast stump of the Tom Tower above. Christ knows what had happened to it. Some drugs gang must have had a serious aversion to the college: maybe the leader was a former student who'd come from a state school. A massive amount of explosives must have been detonated around the Gothic tower's base. There was no sign of any debris. The raised edge of the stump's outer rim indicated that the tower had fallen inwards. I felt what remained of my right forefinger begin to tingle in sympathy.

“What the hell goes on here?” Davie demanded, tugging at his beard.

“Not much, by the looks of it,” I said. “There's nobody at the gate.” We were now standing directly opposite the heavy steel barrier. “It doesn't look like that entrance is used much.”

“Are we going to cross over?” Davie stepped towards the road but I stopped him again.

“No. I don't want to look too interested.” I screwed up my eyes. “Can you see a panel or sign saying what the buildings purport to be?”

After a few moments Davie shook his head. “Not a thing,” he said in a confused tone. “Why not?”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. “Information in New Oxford is pretty much on a need-to-know basis, wouldn't you say? The people who know what goes on here don't need a sign.”

Davie nodded, his face grim. “And the rest of the population pretends that the House of . . . I mean this facility doesn't exist.”

I reckoned he'd hit the nail's head well into the surface of the wood.

Back at Carfax I came to a decision. I activated my nostrum, ignored the list of Missed Calls and highlighted “Chief Administrator” in the Contacts Menu. Almost immediately Raphael's face appeared on the small screen.

“Citizen Dalrymple,” she said with a mixture of relief and irritation. “Where have you been?”

“Don't tell me you don't know, administrator.”

She let that pass without comment. “Kindly don't deactivate your nostrum again. I need to see you urgently.”

“Ditto,” I said. “But I don't want anyone else present.” I noticed her eyes open a touch wider than usual. “How about inviting me round to your private quarters?”

Raphael thought about it. “If you insist. I want you there as soon as possible.”

“You want me where?” I said, looking at the mini-camera's eye on my nostrum.

“Queen, staircase one.”

The picture flickered and died.

I laughed.

“What?” Davie asked. “Where is that?”

“Where do you think?” I replied. “What used to be called the Queen's College.”

The way that people in power lose all sense of irony never fails to amuse me.

Davie had me down the High Street in well under a minute – he'd managed to work out the high-speed commands. I hadn't been able to tell where Raphael was on the nostrum screen, but I assumed she was in the Council building and wouldn't be down here for a while. I tried Katharine again while I waited. She still wasn't answering. I tried to call her up on the nostrum. The words “Transmission Failure” came up in red on the screen.

“Do you know the address of the place Katharine went, Davie?” I asked.

He pulled out his notebook. “Aye,” he said, “465 Banbury Road.”

“Get up there while I'm in with her majesty, will you? I don't know why Katharine isn't answering.”

He looked at his watch. “It's not that long since she set off. Maybe she stopped for a walk in the park.”

“The park's some kind of concentration camp, remember?”

“Oh aye,” he said, his face grim. “I'll look after it.”

I got out. “And Davie? Call me on the mobile in exactly one hour, okay? I don't want to lose touch with both of you.”

“Don't worry,” he said, grinning. “You don't get shot of me that easily.”

I waved him away and walked slowly towards the college entrance. I had a bad feeling about Katharine, but I forced myself to ignore it.

My imminent meeting with the chief administrator was more than enough to worry about.

I walked past the sensor post and through an elegant gateway surmounted by what looked like a miniature ancient temple. At least the female statue in it wasn't of Raphael. Apart from a couple of shy students, the spacious front quad was deserted. I was about to ask my way from the porter when there was a loud buzz. A line of red dashes appeared on the flagstones in front of me and a mechanical voice said, “Citizen Dalrymple, follow the line.” I glanced around and nodded at whoever was manning the surveillance system. For a change they were being open about watching me.

The arrows led round to the left. In front of me was a long colonnaded block with pediments and statues on the upper part. Looking round, I realised the front façade of the college was nothing more than a retaining wall, the accommodation forming only three sides of the quad. It was all too regular for my liking, too ordered. That was probably why Raphael had chosen to live here.

I was directed upstairs to the first floor. A door on the uncarpeted landing swung open.

“Come in, citizen,” said an impatient voice when I didn't. “You aren't here to be diverted by the view.”

I entered the chief administrator's pad and took it in. “Nice place,” I said. “You don't think a carpet might improve the ambience? Maybe some curtains? Even the odd bookcase or escritoire?” Apart from a pair of distinctly aged armchairs and a low coffee table, the austere room contained no furniture. There was a bank of screens on the wall above a carved marble fireplace, none of them currently active.

Raphael was standing in the centre of the bare floor, nostrum in hand. “Sit down and refrain from making extraneous comments,” she said, letting the device fall between her breasts. “It's time we talked.”

“Okay,” I said, giving her a bland smile. “But before we do that, answer me this: were you here when we spoke on the nostrum?”

She stared at me then shook her head. “If you must know, I was in the north Noxad building – what used to be the New Bodleian Library.”

“So how did you get here so quickly? I didn't see you come in the main entrance.”

“Really, citizen, what are you trying to prove?” she said testily. “The college has more than one entrance.”

I took the guidebook from my pocket and looked at the street atlas. The New Bodleian was an ugly rubble-walled heap on the north side of Broad Street. How the hell had she got here so quickly? Supersonic public-use bike?

“May we proceed now?” Raphael asked.

“Be my guest.”

The chief administrator sat down and waited for me to follow suit. “Very well, Citizen Dalrymple—”

“Call me Quint,” I put in. “Even if you won't tell me your first name.”

She glared at me. “Kindly do not interrupt,” she said. “Citizen.”

I turned up my palms. If that was the way she wanted it, fair enough. I was still going to run the conversation my way. “I had an interesting encounter today,” I said, pausing to get her full attention. “With a Grendel.”

“What?” Raphael's voice was suddenly animated. “Where?”

“Don't you want to know about when, why and how as well?” I asked.

Her eyes locked on to mine. “Remember that you and your friends are guests in this city.” Her tone was caustic. “And remember that there are numerous incarceration facilities here.”

I breathed in hard, wondering where Katharine had got to. I could have asked Raphael to put her people on to it. Or maybe she already knew exactly where Katharine was. This game was getting very complicated.

“All right,” I said. “Here's the story.” I told her about the tunnel and the Grendel, omitting Pete Pym's involvement.

“What on earth were you doing down there in the first place, citizen?” she demanded when I'd finished.

I shrugged. I wasn't going to tell her about the House of Dust angle yet. “Just following my nose.” I fixed her in my gaze. “Are you going to come clean about the Grendels now or do I have to spell it out? It was one of them who fired the shot in Edinburgh, wasn't it?”

She looked away and I suddenly got the impression that we had company.

“You don't mind, do you?” I asked, standing up and moving quickly to the door behind her. I didn't wait for an answer, flinging it open and looking the place over. It was her bedroom and it was as drab as the main room: a steel-framed single bed with dark blue covers, a narrow wardrobe and a basin, that was all. The mirror above the basin was round and small. The chief administrator wasn't a great one for make-up. I closed the door and went over to the one on the other side of the fireplace. An identical bedroom, this one without a toothbrush between the taps.

“Guest room?” I asked.

She looked at me coolly. “These rooms were originally for two students.” She pursed her lips. “I never have anyone to stay.”

I sat down again. At least the likes of Connington and Dawkley weren't listening at the keyhole, even if they were watching us on a screen somewhere.

“Satisfied, citizen?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Several country miles from that condition. It's time you opened up to me.” I used the double entendre deliberately to shake her up. “Why have you got a Grendel on your tail?”

Raphael leaned forward and smoothed her hands over the dark fabric on her thighs. I couldn't be sure if that was her way of showing that she'd registered my lewd implication. “You seem to have found out quite a lot without my help, citizen,” she said in a dry voice. “Which, of course, is what I wanted you to do. It had become apparent that a fresh approach was necessary.”

I wasn't convinced that she was being straight with me, but what she said squared with the way I'd been allowed to check all my leads – whether I was being watched or not.

“The Grendels,” she continued, looking past me through the tall window at the block across the quad. “They belong to ExFor – the External Force. It is an élite cadre of paramilitary police. It was formed in 2012 and its primary functions were, and are, to patrol and to maintain the state's land borders. Drugs gangs and other criminal elements have been trying to infiltrate for years.”

“Despite the existence of the so-called Poison Fields?” I said.