House of Dust (8 page)

“Of course,” I said, thinking of the new equipment I'd seen in the command centre. Even if it was Bronze Age compared with this. “Who were you talking to?”

She opened her eyes wide at me in admonition. “That is none of your concern, Citizen Dalrymple.” Then her expression slackened. “Not that I have anything to hide. I was talking to my colleagues in New Oxford.”

“Telling them how uncivilised we are in Edinburgh?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn't say that.” She shot a glance at the bathroom door. “Though I could have done without the object in my bath.” She turned to me. “Sit down and tell me what you're doing about that.”

I ran through the sparse fruits of my enquiries then moved on to the preliminary examination of the arm.

Raphael raised her hand. “I've already spoken to the medical guardian about that,” she said. “I gather she's intrigued by the nature of the trauma.”

I nodded, suddenly aware that the administrator was less calm and collected than she'd been earlier. She'd laid one hand on top of the other on the upper of her crossed legs, the implant in her wrist glinting, and the slight tremor in the fingers attracted my attention. Maybe the shock was kicking in now, though she told me that she'd seen worse. And why had she spoken directly to Sophia? That suggested she was very curious about the severed arm. Or perhaps she'd had some bad news from the dreaming spires.

“However,” Raphael continued, “she has come to no conclusion about the instrument used to produce such wounding.” She glanced at me. “How about you, citizen? What do you think? I'm told you have extensive experience of mutilated bodies.”

“That's not something I'm proud of,” I said, irritated by her neutral tone. “For what it's worth I've never seen such a clean and surgical job, at least on the arm.” I held up the stump of my right forefinger but Raphael gave no reaction. “The finger stump trauma is more standard.” I decided to turn the heat up. “Have you had any experience of mutilation?”

“Certainly not,” she said, giving me a steady look. “I'm a university administrator, not a surgeon.” Her hauteur would have persuaded most people to take her words at face value. “I ask you again, citizen: what are you doing to find the responsible party?”

“My colleague is finalising things with the City Guard command centre as we speak. An all-barracks search for the amputee has been instituted. He'll either be dead or in a serious condition by now. Either way, we'll find him. The tattoo shows that he's in a youth gang that we know well. The guard has already started bringing his fellow members in for questioning.”

Raphael raised a hand. “You haven't told me how the responsible party gained access to this place.” Again a tremor ran across her fingers. “Is it safe for me to close my eyes even for a second?”

“Don't worry,” I said, suddenly feeling sorry for her; she was far from home, in a city where she probably imagined that violence of the kind she'd encountered was commonplace. “This is the most secure accommodation block in Edinburgh, especially now.”

She looked at me closely then nodded. “Thank you for that at least.” She got up and moved away. “I will try to get some sleep now. I have a series of meetings with guardians and senior auxiliaries throughout the day.”

That made me think of Andrew Duart. “I gather you know the first secretary of Glasgow.”

She nodded, her face giving nothing away.

“He was wondering if this whole thing might just be some kind of prank.”

“I think not, citizen,” Raphael said.

I thought not too.

Dawn was breaking, grey with no more than an unreliable promise that the sun might make an appearance, as Davie and I headed across the esplanade to the castle. If I hadn't recently become accustomed to all-night investigations caused by the city's youth and to Katharine appearing in the small hours, I'd have felt more in need of my bed. As it was, I reckoned my batteries – unlike those you get in exchange for Supply Directorate vouchers – had a few more hours in them.

An old but highly polished black taxi pulled up ahead of us, blocking the drawbridge.

“Shit,” I said in a low voice.

“Ditto,” added Davie.

The senior guardian, a.k.a. the welfare guardian, Lachlan Lessels and Slick, jumped out and stood waiting for us, his arm in the tweed jacket worn by his rank resting on the vehicle's door. For some reason Edinburgh's top dog had dispensed with the Land-Rover normally used by guardians and taken possession of a restored cab. He'd also done away with his chauffeur and insisted on driving himself, even to official functions. It's easy enough when you don't have to worry about finding a parking space.

“Citizen,” he said, eyeing me beadily through his thick, round glasses. He didn't favour Davie with ocular contact. “Proceed, commander. This is private.”

Davie strode away with a spring in his step. The last thing he wanted was an early morning conference with the city's number one slimebag.

“It's rather cold,” the senior guardian said. “Let's take advantage of my vehicle.” A machine was just about all I could imagine him taking advantage of. Despite a wandering eye and a prurient tongue, Lachlan Lessels was as close to asexual as it gets.

I joined him in the back of the cab and glanced at my steamed-up watch. “I'm a bit pushed for time, guardian,” I said.

“You can spare me a few moments, Dalrymple,” he said, licking his finger and removing a spot from his green corduroy trousers. He looked round at me. “Let me make myself very clear.” His voice was reedy but the tone was sharp. “I and certain carefully chosen colleagues have worked hard to build up Edinburgh's relations with New Oxford over the last year. The Hebdomadal Council has been extremely co-operative and extremely generous.”

The way he stressed the last word made it clear what was driving the Council's relationship with the southern city. Money is underneath everything in Edinburgh – money and sewers. It's just that there are more of the latter than the former here. What did New Oxford expect to get out of Edinburgh?

“This appalling business with the severed arm must be resolved with maximum speed and minimum disruption, do you understand?” The senior guardian shook his head. “It's pure insanity. I want the madman who did this caught today, do you hear? Today!”

He was doing a reasonable impression of a moonstruck specimen himself.

“There's very little to go on,” I pointed out. “We're trying to—”

“I know exactly what you're doing,” he interrupted. “I've spoken to Administrator Raphael and to the public order guardian – not that he was much use.” He turned on me again. “No excuses, Dalrymple. Find the lunatic today.” His lips formed into an ugly rictus. “If you fail, you'll be among the first prisoners in the New Bridewell. Point taken?”

He'd screwed up. Being a lifelong atheist I don't go in for articles of faith, but there's one I always observe: never let a member of the Council get the better of you.

“Point taken, senior guardian,” I said with fake deference. “But there's something I have to bring to your attention.”

“And what is that?” he demanded.

“Well,” I replied, looking past him towards the hills of Fife which had just been illuminated by a shaft of milky sunlight. “I know how the individual with the arm gained access to Ramsay Garden without attracting the sentries' attention.”

His eyes bulged. “Really? How?”

“By wearing a guard uniform.”

That put an extra layer of grease on his forehead.

Chapter Four

The upshot of my conversation with the senior guardian was an emergency meeting in Lewis Hamilton's office. Slick himself was unable to attend as the Oxford delegation was waiting for him, but he made it very clear that the sentries were to be dragged over all available coals. He also specified that the Mist was to attend the meeting – to maintain some degree of objectivity, as he put it. To act as his listening device was what he meant.

Hamilton stood behind his desk, the pens and pencils arrayed with military precision as usual, and glowered at his deputy. “Well, Raeburn 124, make yourself useful. Ask my secretary to send in coffee.”

It was a cheap shot but she took it, only the slight colouring of her heavy cheeks showing what she thought of her superior's management style.

“What the hell do you think you're up to, Dalrymple?” the public order guardian demanded as the Mist went to the door. “How dare you accuse my directorate of involvement in this crime?”

“Calm down, Lewis,” I said, glancing at Davie. He didn't look impressed either. “I didn't accuse guard personnel of anything.” I felt Raeburn 124's fleshy presence at my side again; she hadn't taken long to put in her order. “All I suggested was that whoever took the arm into Ramsay Garden was wearing a guard uniform, not that he or she was one of your people.”

Hamilton's face took on a slightly less aggressive appearance. “Why didn't you make that clear to the senior guardian then?”

I shrugged. “He drew his own conclusions.” Everyone in the room knew that Slick would jump at any opportunity to put the knife into Hamilton's directorate.

The Mist was interested in something else. “You said ‘he or she', citizen. You don't seriously think that a woman was responsible for removing and transporting the arm, do you?”

I looked into the pale blue eyes that shone from her round face. “It wouldn't be the first time a female criminal has run riot in Edinburgh.”

That reference to one of the city's worst cases of serial violence since independence shut her up.

“So you're saying that someone – male or female – may have impersonated a member of the guard?” Davie said.

I nodded. “It has to be a strong possibility.” I pointed to the sheaf of statements he had under his arm. “None of the sentries on the esplanade checkpoint reported seeing any unauthorised individuals.” I looked at Hamilton and his deputy. “But they're not required to log their fellow guard personnel, are they?”

Raeburn 124, not long in the Public Order Directorate, made a face that showed her boss what she thought of that piece of procedure.

“But none of them reported seeing anyone even trying to enter Ramsay Garden, auxiliary or not,” Davie insisted. “I asked that.”

Hamilton's grey-suited female secretary bustled in, deposited a tray on his desk and bustled out again.

I let the others get stuck into the coffee – it had an aroma that promised trouble. “Fair enough,” I said. “But the point is, would they have noticed this particular one of the many guard personnel who pass the checkpoint on the esplanade?”

Hamilton gulped from a cup, the twisting of his lips showing that the mess-hall coffee was even nastier than usual. “Maybe not, but how did he” – he glanced at the Mist – “or
she
get into the accommodation block? There was no sign of illicit entry, was there?”

Davie shook his head. “The scene-of-crime squad is still checking, but there's nothing in the vicinity of the stair we're interested in.”

The guardian looked at me triumphantly. “You see, Dalrymple? There's no way the miscreant could have got past the sentry on the door; he logged everyone who went in or out, auxiliaries included.”

It was always like this: guardians and auxiliaries couldn't countenance incompetence among their ranks, let alone disloyalty or improbity. I never had that problem.

“What about the rota?” I asked innocently.

“What about the rota?” countered Hamilton, the glare he directed at his deputy warning her to keep out of the discussion.

She jumped in regardless. “Could the mystery person have slipped in when the guard was changing?”

Davie scratched his chin through the growth of beard. “Unlikely. I could ask the watch supervisors again.”

“What's the point?” I asked. “They're hardly going to change their accounts and land themselves in the shit.”

The guardian's face was suffused. “My people do not behave—”

“Spare us the sermon, Lewis,” I interrupted. “You and I both know that there's often a delay of a few minutes between the time the sentry going off duty after a two-hour stint signs off in the guardhouse and the replacement takes up position.”

“There is not!” Hamilton roared.

I looked to Davie for support. “Em . . . yes, there can be such a gap, guardian. People are desperate for a hot drink or a leak.”

Raeburn 124 was enjoying the exchange. “I think I'd better institute an enquiry into sentry practice, don't you, guardian?” she said, trying to keep her lips in a straight line.

I raised my hand before Lewis could do another lion impersonation. “This raises a couple of important points. First, the arm-bearer must have had an intimate knowledge of guard procedures in order to have timed his or her arrival and departure so perfectly.”