House of Dust (46 page)

Dawkley was on his knees by one of the bodies, his hands covered in blood and his head bowed. “Oh no,” he was moaning. “Oh no.”

I examined the victim. Judging by the suit trousers it was a male, but it was difficult to identify him. The entire upper torso was a lake of blood and the chest looked like it had exploded. The face was covered in blood and other body matter. “Who is it?” I asked the science administrator, trying to remember which of the senior academics had been wearing a grey hood over his gown.

“Yamaguchi,” the science administrator said in a leaden voice. “It's Professor Yamaguchi.”

The hubbub in the hall was beginning to die down as most of the audience managed to get out of the theatre. I tried to locate Davie, but couldn't make him out behind the solid line of bulldogs that had formed across the auditorium.

Raphael appeared, pushing people out of the way. She stood staring at Yamaguchi, her face impassive. Then she tapped Dawkley on the shoulder and gave him a stern look.

I turned to the other victim. He was lying spread-eagled over his seat, arms extended and chest blasted apart in the same way as his colleague's. This time I could see enough of the blood-spattered features to make an instant identification. It was Doctor Verzeni. I thought back to the visit we'd made to the Department of Metallurgy, and the advanced weapon and ammunition that he'd shown us. It looked very much like the Italian had been taken out by the products of his own research.

My mobile went off.

“Quint, come over to the entrance hall. I've got something.”

The connection was cut. Davie really was excited – he'd forgotten to sign off.

I was let through the line of bulldogs by Trout. He was wearing the expression of a man whose girlfriend had just kicked him in the groin. I soon found out why.

“Jesus,” I gasped, looking at the body on the floor of the hall. “What happened to him?”

“I'd say he took a single blow to the centre of the face.” Davie was standing over Perch's sprawled body, keeping his eyes off features that had been completely crushed. “He's dead.” Then he grabbed my sleeve. “Look over here, Quint.” He pointed to a low, clear plastic enclosure on the floor tiles a few feet away. “I saw the shooter heading this way. He—”

“You saw him?” I interrupted. “What did he look like?”

Davie's teeth closed over his lower lip. “Difficult to say. I saw the discharge flashes from his weapon first and then everything went crazy in there. He was big all right, like the—” He broke off and glanced around. “Like the specimens we're after,” he said in a low voice. “He got out of the main chamber at speed. He was in a dark suit and I think he was wearing a wig – medium-length brown hair. But I didn't see his face.”

“Bloody hell, Davie,” I complained. “Did anyone else spot him?”

“None of the bulldogs at the door did. They were all too busy looking at the mayhem in front of them. The proctor's people are outside looking for witnesses; the crowd's probably halfway to the Poison Fields by now.” Davie turned to the plastic surround again. “Anyway, I saw him heading in this direction. I reckon he went down in the lift.”

I slapped my hand against my thigh. Of course; the plastic barrier was over a concealed lift shaft like the ones in the university departments. “Let's get after him,” I said, stripping off my gown and bow tie.

Davie strode over. “How?” he said, waving his control card. “I don't seem to have the access code.”

My card didn't do anything either. I looked around for a touch panel without success.

“Here, citizen.” Raphael was standing behind me. She'd removed the nostrum from round her neck and was holding it out to me. “I have the code programmed in.”

I waved the device over the floor and a small square area was outlined in red light on the tiles. If the assassin had gone down here he must have known the code. I tossed the nostrum back to the chief administrator. “Thanks. There's only room for two. Davie and I are going after the shooter.”

For a moment it looked like she was going to argue, then she nodded. “Very well. But you're on your own. There's no surveillance system in the mole runs.”

“In the what?” I said, grabbing Davie's arm as the floor jerked downwards.

Raphael didn't answer. Her face was solemn, one cheek scratched from the enforced dive she'd taken to the floor.

Then she and her entourage disappeared from sight, replaced by a smooth metallic shaft. By the time the lift glided to a halt I'd already concluded that this strategic decision was on a par with that of Captain Scott not to take dogs to the South Pole.

Too late.

“Bugger me,” Davie said, peering out of the reinforced plastic box we found ourselves in. “What is this?”

“I see what Raphael meant by mole runs,” I said, taking in the horizontal shafts that led away in four directions, the roofs of the circular metal tunnels lit by strips of green light. This explained how she got to Queen so quickly yesterday. So much for utopian New Oxford. The subs lived in squalor while the administrators spent a fortune on high-speed private transport.

“Why didn't they tell us about this underground network?” Davie said, looking at the maze of different coloured lines that had appeared on a screen at waist height.

I was shaking my head. “There are a lot of things they haven't told us about, big man. The trick is to work out why.” I turned to him. “But that's for later. Let's see if we can track this killing machine down.”

Davie ran his fingers over the screen and brought up a menu.

“Try ‘Last Car',” I said, pointing at one of the options.

He touched it and we watched as one of the lines on the network was highlighted.

“That's presumably the route the vehicle took,” I said.

Davie zoomed in and what I took to be the names of stops came up.

“EX, JES, UN, PET, CAS, HOT, STAT,” I read. “Shit.” Not for the first time I regretted that I hadn't brought the old man's guidebook. “The line seems to be heading west. Yeah, STAT's probably the old railway station.”

“Shall we get going?” Davie asked, a finger hovering over the screen

“Aye.”

He touched “Call Car”, his face splitting into a wide grin as a rush of air came into the plastic box through small ventilation slits. “This is magic,” he said. “Almost as good as the helijet.”

A low, unroofed two-seater vehicle whisked to a stop beside us. The lift shaft cover rose and we were able to step on to the car. As soon as we sat down – Davie making sure he got the driving seat – the cover came down again. Although the air was cool and there was a current of movement from the other tunnels, the atmosphere was sterile. I was glad I didn't suffer from claustrophobia.

“I'll go the way the last car went, shall I?” Davie said, his hands on the control panel.

“Well spotted, guardsman,” I replied, settling my buttocks on the uncomfortable seat.

“Light blue touch paper,” he said, “and ret—”

The word was lost in a blast of air as the car rocketed forwards. Fortunately a windscreen had risen up when we boarded, so I didn't lose my hair. I couldn't make out the speed monitor on Davie's panel, but we were going fast enough to make my eyes water. Almost immediately the speed was cut and we reached the first stop. It was an enclosed plastic box like the one we'd just been in and it was unoccupied. The letters EX were displayed on the outside.

“Stop?” Davie asked over his shoulder.

“No,” I said. “This must be Exeter College. We can assume that bulldogs will be sitting on top of every exit shaft near the theatre. Go on.”

So he did. We slowed down at every stop but saw no sign of the shooter. And then we came to the end of the line. What we found there wasn't a pretty sight.

“Fuck,” Davie said, shaking his head. “We know where the bastard got off anyway.”

The plastic shield that bore the letters STAT was hardly legible. It looked like the inside of a man-size version of the food processors I hadn't seen in Edinburgh since I was a kid – one that had been used to produce a barrel of tomato sauce.

We weren't able to activate the lift shaft's “Raise” function; no doubt the shooter had dealt with it. So we turned the car round in the circle dug out for that purpose and headed back to the previous stop. HOT turned out to be underneath a dilapidated hotel, the lift bringing us on to an enclosed section of the pavement outside it.

I got Connington on the nostrum and told him what we'd found at STAT.

“Bulldogs have already arrived there, citizen,” he said. Even on the small screen I could see how grim his expression was. “The alarm at the top of the shaft was triggered three minutes ago.”

“And?” I demanded.

“There was no sign of the target. The sentry had been shot and dropped down the lift. We think an Eagle One was used, with delayed detonation.”

“Christ,” I said, trying not to imagine what the last seconds of the bulldog's life must have been like; if he was lucky the impact of the projectile would have killed him instantly. “I don't suppose the shooter is showing up on your much-vaunted surveillance system?”

He shook his head. “Grendel Mark Twos are—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Grendel Mark Twos are issued with cloaks of invisibility. I just wondered if he'd let his slip for a moment.” I was thinking of what had happened in my bedroom when the Grendel's face briefly came into view. I broke the connection. “We've lost him,” I said to Davie.

He was looking down the street towards the former railway station. There were two Chariots with flashing lights outside the low buildings. “What now?” he asked, looking at me. “Back to the theatre?”

I was peering down the road to my left, trying to get my bearings. A couple of hundred yards up there was the canal I'd walked down yesterday on Pete Pym's tail. What had happened to him? I wondered. Had he ever got out of the tunnel, or had the Grendel been waiting for him on the way to the House of Dust? Then I remembered where I'd been before that: the college called Worc.

“Raphael's people can handle the scene at the Sheldonian,” I said. “Let's see how the chief toxicologist's getting on.” I shook my head at him. “It might be our last chance.”

There was a narrow wooden gate set into the high wall on the college's southern extremity. My control card made it swing open and we found ourselves only a few yards away from the brick building where Lister 25 had been lodged. Before we entered, I stepped over to Hel Hyslop's window. The curtains and blind were fully open. There was no one inside.

I ignored Davie's raised eyebrow and led him upstairs. It was dead quiet on the third floor and there was no sign of any interfering nurses. Lister 25's door clicked open when I waved my card at it. I stuck my head round cautiously.

“Hello? Ramsay? It's Quint.”

No answer. I beckoned Davie in.

“Where is he?” Davie asked in a loud whisper.

“H-eeee-re,” came a long-drawn-out croak from behind us.

We jumped and crashed into each other as we turned.

“Shit,” Davie grunted. He leaned forward. “Is that you, Lister 25?”

The figure in the chair was bent and limp, the head facing the knees as if it were too heavy to be held upright.

“Hu-uuume . . . 2 . . . 5 . . . 3?”

At least the old chemist's memory hadn't been affected. His brain must have been one of the few organs that was still intact, though. His hands were shrivelled and his breath rattled out of lungs that sounded like they were on the brink of terminal shutdown.

Davie kneeled down beside him and loosened the straps that attached his arms to the sides of the chair.

“The nurse . . . she . . . she said I might fall.” Lister 25 made a cracked sound that I realised was a laugh. “I wish . . . I wish I would.”

I joined Davie on the bare floor in front of the toxicologist. I was thinking again about the RED file that the visitor to my bedroom had put me on to. I wasn't only being pointed towards the Grendels. My attention had also been drawn to Lister 25's presence in New Oxford.

“Look, Ramsay,” I said. “We haven't got much time. You remember you were telling me about the research facility at Sutt?”

The old man raised his head a couple of times, enough to signal that he was following me.

“Did you see anyone you recognised there?” I asked. “Anyone from back home?”

Now Lister 25 managed to lift his head and keep it up, one hand under his chin.

“Quint? Have . . . have you got . . . a blues cassette . . . with you?”

I stared at him then shook my head slowly.

His lips separated in a loose smile. “Pi . . . pity,” he said with a gasp. “I'd . . . like to . . . to hear RJ once . . . once more . . .”

“You'll be hearing plenty of Robert Johnson songs when we get you back to Edinburgh, Ramsay,” I said.

The toxicologist twitched his head. “Too . . . late.” He focused his rheumy eyes on mine. “Did I see any . . . anyone . . . I knew?” His eyes narrowed and he seemed to nod his head.

For a few moments I thought I'd struck the mother lode. Then the old man's face slackened and his chin hit his upper chest.

“No, Qui . . . Quint,” he drawled. “No.” He looked up once more. “Now . . . get out of . . . here. I . . .”

We waited to hear the rest of Lister 25's sentence but he left it incomplete. I squeezed his fleshless arm once then left him to whatever thoughts were filling his mind.

And hoped that he was hearing sweet and melodious acoustic blues by the master.

Davie and I left the way we'd come. It was while we were on the corner under the spire of Nuff College as a posse of students on bicycles raced past that my mobile rang. Raising it to my ear, I saw that a message had also been left earlier, presumably when I was out of contact in the mole run. Shit, I hadn't checked it.