House of Dust (6 page)

“Citizen Dalrymple is an investigator,” Billy said sourly, his eyes staying off me. “He works for the Public Order Directorate. When he feels like it.”

“Really?” The professor's heavy features became slightly more animated. “And what do you investigate?”

I looked at him. “Murders, mainly.”

“How interesting. You must tell me about them.”

I didn't like the way he was licking his chapped lips so I cut to what I wanted to know. “Tell me, is Raskolnikov your real name, professor? Or is it some kind of nom de guerre?”

His eyes flashed. “Very good, citizen. You've obviously read
Crime and Punishment
.”

I nodded. “But Raskolnikov was the criminal. It seems a strange name for an expert on incarceration.” I caught sight of something glinting on his wrist and looked closer.

The Russian laughed, not very humorously. “The criminal in question achieved redemption,” he said in a firm voice.

“Tell me,” I said, “what's that?” I pointed towards the object that had caught my eye. It was some kind of metallic plate, under an inch in diameter, and it seemed to be implanted into the skin.

“That is none of your business, my friend,” the professor said and turned on his heel.

“Oh very good, Quint,” Billy said. “Very good – putting the knife into one of the city's most important guests.”

Before I could answer he'd wheeled round and shoved himself away.

I was on my own so I grabbed another whisky. What else can you do?

The reception finished about eleven. I wandered off, hoping I could get a lift from Davie. He was still tied up with the security rosters and it was a warm night, so I walked back to my flat. The bars and cafes along Princes Street were still packed with tourists, the dire music they were playing interspersed with raucous shouts which provoked no interest from the guard personnel on duty: tourists can behave as they please.

I stopped for a quick one in hotel bar where they knew me, and by the time I got home the curfew had kicked in. I stumbled upstairs in the dark – the curfew means no electricity in citizen areas – and lit a candle. I'd just dropped my trousers when my mobile rang. After a struggle to find it, I hit the button.

“Quint? Davie.” His voice was clipped. “Where are you?”

“About to get into bed. What is it?”

“Something weird,” he said breathlessly.

“Oh shit.”

“Aye. You know that administrator woman from Oxford?”

“Raphael? Not personally, but I saw her at the reception tonight.”

“Well, a sentry heard a scream from her rooms.” He was enunciating carefully now. “When he went to investigate he found a severed arm in the bath.”

That sobered me up.

Chapter Three

I ran down the stairs in the dark, my fingertips keeping contact with the rough paint on the walls, and jumped into the guard Land-Rover that Davie had sent round. As the female auxiliary floored the accelerator and headed for the castle, I went through what I'd set up. The Oxford administrator and her entourage were staying in Ramsay Garden at the eastern end of the esplanade. I'd sent Davie round there to make sure that nothing was touched, and to put a marker down; it would be harder for the Mist or any other meddler to throw us off the case if he was on the scene early.

We came out of the darkened citizen area and into the central zone, the castle ahead of us lit up like a fireship that had run aground on a rocky promontory. The young guardswoman steered the vehicle across the deserted junction at Tollcross towards Lauriston Place, missing a heavy bollard by no more than an inch.

I gasped. “And people complain about my driving.”

A tight smile appeared on the auxiliary's lips but she didn't speak.

My mobile buzzed.

“Yes, Davie.”

“How did you know it was? . . . oh forget it.” Edinburgh mobiles, as basic as they come, don't display the caller's number but I knew it would be him. “The scene-of-crime squad's on site.”

“Okay, hold them back till I arrive.” I glanced at the driver. “When will that be, guardswoman?”

“In four minutes,” she replied.

“Shit,” I said, gripping the arm-rest with my spare hand. “Any time now, Davie. Have you informed the Medical Directorate?”

“Aye.”

“Lined up all the sentries who were on duty?”

“Aye.”

“Any of your senior officers present?”

“Oh aye.”

“Oh bugger.” I'd been hoping to get a free run at the outset of what sounded like a seriously unusual case.

Davie signed off and I braced myself with both hands as we roared past the infirmary. Which brought my mind back to the object of the enquiry with a jolt. Why the hell had some sick bastard amputated an arm and left it in Administrator Raphael's bath?

The guardswoman pulled up at the checkpoint on the esplanade and waved for it to be raised.

“No worries,” I said, my door already open. “It's been a lot of fun but I'll walk from here, thanks.”

An even broader smile split her freckled face. “Have a good night, citizen.”

“That'll be right,” I said, slamming the door. “Remind me never to get in your dodgem again.”

Davie emerged from a door nearby. “Quick, Quint,” he said. “The Mist's trying to take over.”

“Uh-huh. What does she know about apotemnophilia?”

“Eh?”

“Limb removal,” I explained. “Often for sexual gratification.”

“You're jumping to conclusions, aren't you?”

“Maybe.” I glanced up at the harled white wall in front of me. The topsy-turvy complex of houses and flats known as Ramsay Garden had been started in the eighteenth century and it looked like something out of a Middle European fairy tale. There were projecting towers, patches of red ashlar and carved animals all over the place. It had originally been built to attract university professors to the Old Town. Something similar to that was going on now: the Council uses the accommodation for visiting VIPs and the delegation of Oxford experts had been put up in it.

Davie nodded to the guard personnel inside the heavy studded door and they let me through. Scene-of-crime personnel in white overalls had congregated in the hallway.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Second floor,” Davie replied. “The woman's flat has a view of the castle.”

I looked round at him. “You weren't responsible for security here, I hope?”

Davie shook his head emphatically. “No chance. Only at the reception.”

“Just as well.”

We reached the second floor and walked down, or rather through, a luxurious thick pile carpet – maroon, of course. At the far end there was a gaggle of figures in dark clothes.

“Coming through, gentlemen,” I said when we reached them.

“Ah, Mr . . . excuse me, Citizen Dalrymple.” Professor Raskolnikov's eyes shone above his long beard. “The investigator. Are you going to investigate this outrage?”

“I'm hoping to.” I looked at the Russian and his colleagues. “Did any of you see or hear anything?”

They all shook their heads.

“Nothing,” said Doctor Verzeni.

“Nothing except the administrator's scream.” The permanent smile on Professor Yamaguchi's dry lips struck me as incongruous. “And the pounding of boots.” He glanced at Davie's hobnailed guard-issue footwear.

“I want you all to return to your rooms,” I said. “We'll take full statements from you later.”

The academics departed reluctantly, deep in conversation.

The door to flat 2C – a.k.a. The Joseph Bell Rooms according to the ornate silver plaque at eye height – was opened the instant I knocked. I got quite a shock when I saw the pale-faced person inside.

“Andrew Duart,” I said.

The man with the goatee and the high-grade pinstriped suit nodded seriously. “The great Quintilian Dalrymple. I was wondering when you'd turn up.”

I stepped past him and saw Administrator Raphael, Lewis Hamilton and his deputy at the far end of the lavishly furnished room.

“What's the first secretary of Glasgow doing in the city that regards the west of Scotland as the Great Satan?” I asked.

He gave a dry laugh. “That's in the past. We're all friends now.” He glanced at Raphael. “I just wanted to reassure the administrator. She was pretty shaken up.”

“Know her, do you?”

“Oh yes. My city has a lot of contacts with New Oxford.”

I saw Hamilton coming towards us out of the corner of my eye. “Are you staying here?” I asked the Glaswegian.

He nodded. “Came across in the evening.”

“Go back to your room, please,” I said, moving away. “I'll be wanting a word later on.” I headed for the public order guardian, trying hard to come to terms with Duart's presence in Edinburgh. Apparently the Council had suddenly turned into a coven of devil-worshippers.

“I'm glad you're here, Dalrymple,” Hamilton said, the skin above his beard glowing red. “That idiot deputy of mine has been trying to run things here. I've told her you're in charge and that's all there is to it.”

“Right. Thanks, Lewis. I want Davie in on it too.”

The guardian nodded. “Very well.” He glanced round at the administrator. “You understand the sensitivity of this investigation, don't you?” he said in a low voice. “I've already had the senior guardian on my back. As far as he's concerned, relations with New Oxford are of paramount importance.” It didn't sound like Lewis Hamilton went along with that, but his position in the Council was precarious. “Find the lunatic who put the arm in the bath and find him quickly.”

“Okay.” I turned to Davie. “Let the scene-of-crime squad loose here, but not in the bathroom yet. I hope they find at least some fingerprints that haven't been obscured by people who shouldn't have been allowed access.” I looked back at Hamilton. “Such as Andrew Duart. What the hell's he doing here?”

The guardian shrugged. “He's been invited to the prison opening ceremony. Don't ask me why.”

I moved towards the two women, clocking the flat silver gadget that was hanging round the visitor's neck. “I'm relying on you to keep your deputy out of my hair, Lewis.”

He smiled grimly. “My pleasure.” He strode up to the Mist and tapped her on the shoulder. “Come on, Raeburn 124. The professionals are here.”

The stocky woman turned and surveyed me with distaste. “Am I to understand that Citizen Dalrymple is investigating this case, guardian?” She shot me a withering glare. “He hasn't been able to locate the chief toxicologist yet. What makes you think he'll be able to find someone with one arm?”

“Out,” Hamilton hissed. “Or I'll have you in the dungeons for insubordination before you can whistle.”

The Mist's composure took a hit. She wasn't used to Hamilton asserting himself. “Em . . . surely a female auxiliary should be present when the administrator's statement is taken. I'd be happy to—”

“Out,” Hamilton repeated, this time louder.

She wasn't happy but she went with him.

I flashed Administrator Raphael a brief smile. “Sorry about that. Demarcation dispute.”

She gave the same look of self-control tinged with alarm that she'd been directing at the Mist. “And you are?”

I realised that Hamilton had hung me out to dry. “The name's Dalrymple.” I often tell people to call me Quint but in her case I didn't bother – an air of formality came off the administrator like a very subtle, very expensive perfume. “Chief special investigator.”

My title seemed to reassure her. I thought it might. “Raphael,” she said, extending her hand and squeezing mine with surprising force. It was no surprise that she kept her first name to herself. “I direct New Oxford's liaison programmes, including the one we have developed with the Council.” She gave an almost imperceptible nod. “But then you know that already. I saw you at the reception.”

And I thought her head was up in the clouds – or rather down in the mist – of incarceration policy. “We'll take a statement shortly,” I said, “but perhaps you could tell me what happened after the reception.”

The administrator led me to a long settee covered in fabric displaying the titles of works by Sir Walter Scott. I watched as she sat down on
Old Mortality
and beckoned to me to join her.

“I won't, thank you,” I said. “I need to see the contents of your bath.”

She closed her eyes for a moment.

“You were brought back from the Corrections Department building at what time?”

“Before I give you that information,” Raphael said in a cool voice, “you may like to know that I had a bath before the reception. I can assure you that, apart from my own, there were no arms in it then.”

Touché. I should have asked her that.

“I returned at eleven fifteen,” she continued, sitting back and crossing one long leg over the other. “I bade my colleagues goodnight and let myself in here. I went straight to the bathroom . . .” She gave me a forbidding look. “Call of nature. As soon as I turned the light on, I saw it.” Her head twitched, the grey hair swinging in front of her face. That only added to the weird vibes I was getting from her, authority combined with an almost sensual physicality.