House of Dust (26 page)

Raphael appeared out of one of the stalls at the head of a small group. From the other side of the central passage Doctor Verzeni led out a gaggle of academics, among them Yamaguchi. Gowns of various colours were draped over their dinner jackets, but the administrator and several other individuals were more soberly dressed, in high-necked black suits of the kind she had worn in Edinburgh, their nostrums glinting in the subdued lighting.

“Duke Humfrey's Library,” she said, opening her arms expansively. “Built in 1444, restored by Sir Thomas Bodley at the beginning of the seventeenth century. What do you think of it, Citizen Dalrymple?” She accepted a minuscule glass of what I took to be sherry from a white-coated waiter and sent him in our direction.

“Very impressive,” I replied, taking a larger glass than hers from the tray. “Do you consult the volumes here regularly?”

She gave me a tight smile. “Few of them are relevant to the modern world.” She looked at the group of dons as they took possession of the remaining glasses. “Besides, I am only an administrator, not a scholar.”

“Only an administrator indeed!” said a pallid guy whose neck was too long even for the raised collar he was wearing. He gave Raphael an admiring look then turned to me. “You realise you are talking to the chief administrator, the university's de facto chief executive.”

Raphael nodded at him. “This is Administrator Dawkley,” she said. “He oversees the university's science departments.” She introduced five more administrators, two of them women and all of them attentive but extremely reserved.

I tried to keep up with their names, but I was more interested by the fact that Raphael was the university's number one and that administrators rather than academics apparently called the shots. From what I could see, the university ran everything in the state of New Oxford. I wondered why she hadn't come clean about her position earlier. It certainly gave some insight into the shooter's motivation. Putting a bullet in the head of state was a lot more significant than killing a faceless bureaucrat. Then again, what was so important about the incarceration initiative in Edinburgh that New Oxford's supreme commander felt she had to drop everything and make a personal appearance?

Verzeni and Yamaguchi, along with Connington, had taken charge of Katharine and Davie and were introducing them to other academics. I hoped they'd both be on the lookout for any potentially interesting information, but predictably the big man was more keen on the tray of canapés that was circulating.

Raphael gave me a penetrating look and beckoned me to another stall. I leaned back against an angled medieval desk top and waited for her next move.

“They made them like this to stop scholars falling asleep,” the administrator said, resting her haunches on a desk across the aisle from me.

“No danger of me falling asleep here,” I assured her. “What exactly is the deal then?” I drained my glass and looked for somewhere to put it down.

“Here,” Raphael said, extending a hand. “I'll take that.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “The deal, citizen?” she asked.

“The deal, the play, the rules of engagement.” I returned her stare. “You wanted us down here so we came. What do you want us to do?”

“I've already told you that, citizen,” she said brusquely. “You're to find Hamilton's killer – the one who in all probability was aiming at me and who may well have been involved in the murder here.”

So my thinking had been right. I kept my eyes on her. “Yes, but you've got a massive security and public order system in place in Oxford. Why do you need me?”

Raphael laughed. “Because you are an unorthodox, inquisitive, awkward investigator. Doctor Connington and his people are competent but they could hardly be described as imaginative.”

I wasn't sure if I bought that, but I let it go. The waiter appeared and offered us more sherry; it was dry enough to provoke a tear from the most heartless of topers, but I never leave a drink unfinished on principle. I also grabbed a couple of biscuits covered in a pale brown substance.

“Foie gras,” the administrator said. “From the Department of Agricultural Zoology's farm.”

My mouth was filled with a magnificent and overpowering taste. Not even the richest tourists in Enlightenment Edinburgh got a sniff of this class of product. I was silenced for a couple of minutes.

Raphael stood straight when I'd finished chewing and brushed invisible dust motes from her suit. “Very well, citizen. The deal, as you put it. Tell me your requirements.”

“Right. If you really want me to get to the bottom of this, I need a guarantee of free access to all parts of New Oxford.” I gave her a questioning look. “And to all databases. And to all people: students, academics, workers, the lot.”

“I am listening, citizen,” she said, her expression neutral. “Assume I approve your terms unless I tell you otherwise.”

I nodded, surprised that I'd got as far as I had without opposition. “I also want a guarantee of no surveillance. I need a completely free hand. No worries that my every word and movement are being recorded. And no moronic computer voices telling me what to do all the time.”

No reaction.

“I also want transport – one of those Chariots will do – and I want us to be able to move around without bulldogs escorting us. Or on our tails.”

Still no response. There had to be a catch somewhere.

“And I want a nostrum for each of us, fully programmed, each one accessible to all our voices.”

Raphael glanced to her right and nodded at the waiter. “Is that all, citizen? Dinner is about to be served.”

I shrugged. “That's all for the time being.”

“Very well,” she said, stepping away. “I'll expect your plan of action after we've eaten.”

I followed her out, kicking myself for not having demanded a Chariot-load of gold bars as well.

Any remaining doubts I'd had about who ran the place were blown away when I saw the seating arrangement. Raphael was placed at the centre of the long table, a fellow administrator on each side and the dons towards the ends; the latter definitely below the salt, which was contained in ornate, solid-silver shakers. We'd been led downstairs and into what was once the Divinity School, a six-hundred-year old Gothic hall with a glorious vaulted, arched and bossed ceiling. While we were taking our seats, Verzeni remarked that divinity had ceased to be a subject studied at the university after the drugs wars; apparently no one was interested in theological matters any more. That would explain why no one said grace, not that I was complaining.

“I don't suppose you've been to Oxford before, have you, Citizen Dalrymple?” Professor Yamaguchi said. He was sitting to my left, with Katharine on my right, while Administrator Dawkley was following what was said from the other side of the table.

I considered keeping quiet about my visit with the old man, then decided to see if I could provoke an unguarded response. “I have, actually,” I replied, watching the Japanese's face. It remained unreadable. “Back in 2000. My father was a professor at Edinburgh University before the last election. He delivered a memorial lecture on ancient rhetoric at Christ Church.”

It only lasted a second or two but Yamaguchi suddenly looked less sure of himself. I glanced across at Dawkley and registered a similar uncertainty on his bloodless features. Then the moment passed and the administrator handed me a basket of rolls.

“Try one of these, citizen. We've been working on a new modification of wheat. The taste is remarkable.”

I took a bite and nodded in agreement. “Modification?” I said, remembering the civil disorder caused by that word in the early years of the century, especially when it was collocated with another. “That wouldn't be genetic modification, would it?”

Dawkley laughed, a strident noise that might have meant more to a horse. “We're well past that stage, I can assure you,” he said disdainfully. He turned to his colleague and paid me no more attention.

The food was superb, courses of the best soup, freshwater fish, lamb, cheese and fruit that I'd had since I'd been in Glasgow a couple of years back; it certainly bore no resemblance to the primary-school slop I'd been served with on my last visit to Oxford. There was also a succession of excellent wines. I didn't ask, but I had the feeling that New Oxford probably ran to a Department of Oenology and Viticulture; the torrid summers of recent years would have made the production of top-quality wines feasible as long as there was enough water. From what I'd seen from the helijet, the university-state had no shortage of rivers and lakes.

“Do I get the feeling we're being fattened up?” Katharine asked as the port decanter appeared in front of Raphael, not that the chief administrator poured herself any.

“There's a quid pro quo,” I replied. “Any minute now I'm going to have to tell them how I'm going to solve the case.”

She smiled and sat back in her chair. “Sounds like a fair exchange to me.”

Then Raphael tapped a spoon against her glass of water and called on me to address the company.

I swallowed the last of my claret and got to my feet, concentrating on not pushing my chair over the edge of the platform. Looking round at the glorious high windows and the fine old stonework, I found it hard to believe I was in the middle of a city that had put its faith in ultra-smart computers and the surveillance dome on the top of the Camera. That was as good a place as any to start.

“Administrators, doctors,” I said, looking to soften them up by using their titles – I've never known that tactic to fail. “Ted Pym was found in Dead Man's Walk. That is, in the immediate vicinity of colleges and close to the High Street.” I shot a glance at Connington. “And yet the camera covering the pathway was out of action.” I looked around the table. “What conclusions can we draw from that?”

Raskolnikov snorted. “That we need to repair it immediately.”

That provoked a chorus of mild laughter.

“Not quite what I was thinking,” I said. “Any other ideas?”

“The killer knew there was surveillance there.” Raphael's voice was low and unwavering. “He took steps to deal with it.”

I nodded, looking at the notes I'd made in the Viewing Room. “Exactly. The victim was cycling down the High Street towards Cowley, as recorded by the camera on the corner of Longwall Street. So he must have been intercepted immediately afterwards, before he reached the lane that leads to Dead Man's Walk. Unfortunately the camera there also suffered a fault that night and transmitted no pictures. Could the killer have tampered with it too?”

Dawkley shook his head. “I don't think so. Unlike the low-level box on the path, that equipment is located six metres above ground level and is fully protected. Anyway, there was no sign of any tampering on either unit.”

“Is that right?” I said. “Surely, in New Oxford, of all places, the technology exists to disable cameras electronically.” I ran my eyes round the administrators' expressionless faces. Their silence made my point for me. “Getting back to Dead Man's Walk. Was the killer also making some kind of point by leaving the body there?”

Verzeni sat up straight. “Of course,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Why didn't I think of that before?”

I'd only been referring to the obvious symbolism of the walk's name, but the Italian was a lot more excited than that seemed to merit.

“Dead Man's Walk,” he said, nodding repeatedly. “Of course. It is believed that the Jews of medieval Oxford took their dead along that path outside the city walls to their burial ground.”

I looked at him quizzically. “Where does that get us, doctor?”

He pursed his lips. “Think of the arms. They were placed in the shape of a cross above his head.”

“Are there Christians and Jews in New Oxford?” I asked, remembering what I'd heard about the lack of religious interest.

Raphael leaned forward on her elbows. “Not in the university. Religious affiliation is banned; we expect our students to be far beyond that atavistic stage of human development before they commence their courses. There may be some vestigial sects in the suburbs.” She looked up at me. “Are you suggesting the killing was religiously inspired? How would that square with the events that occurred in the Council's atheist Edinburgh?”

I shrugged. “No idea.” The angle didn't excite me.

“What about the modus operandi?” Raskolnikov was glaring up at me from the far end of the table.

“I was coming to that,” I said, putting him even further below the salt cellar. “I'd say the killer was highly trained. He left no incriminating traces.” I glanced at Raphael. “On the other hand, Ted Pym was slaughtered with extreme savagery, which doesn't sit easily with the idea of a skilled assassin. He was also killed with a knife, a weapon very different to whatever was used to sever and cauterise the arm of George Faulds, though similar to that used to remove his finger – and note that no fingers were removed here.” I suddenly remembered the unidentified drug that had given the Leith Lancer amnesia, among other things. Raphael hadn't mentioned it on the helijet and there was no reference in the post-mortem report to any unusual substances in Pym's system. I decided to sit on that for the time being.

“So do you now think there may be no connection between the two cases?” Raphael asked, her eyes fixed on mine.

I held her gaze then looked down at my notes. “It's too early to say, administrator. I need to work on the murderer's motivation here. Was Ted Pym simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was he chosen deliberately? More to the point, if the two assaults are connected, why are there so many differences? Not only in the mutilations and the weapons, but in the traces at the scenes.” I looked back up at Raphael. “Why were the footprints obscured here but left untouched in the gang house in Leith? There was no attempt there at – so to speak – a cover-up.”