House of Dust (27 page)

Raphael declined to comment on my deliberately provocative terminology. She nodded and pushed her chair back, making it clear that my time was up.

“One more thing,” I said, smiling at the diners. “This city's wired up better than an electric chair.” I took out my control card and brandished it at them. “You can't go anywhere without the right codes being input.” I grabbed Yamaguchi's wrist and held it up so the implant sparkled in the light of the nearest candle. “Which is why all you people have these pieces of jewellery buried in your flesh, isn't it?”

“They perform the same functions as the cards you've been given,” the chief administrator said. “What's your point, citizen?”

“This is my point. Whoever cut Ted Pym's arms off, held him down till he died, then disappeared into the night in the centre of New Oxford also has one of those implants.” I took in their uneasy expressions. “The killer isn't just a legitimate citizen of your city. The chances are the killer can get into plenty of places you imagine are totally secure.”

It looked like they found that observation a lot more indigestible than their dinner.

Chapter Twelve

We were heading out of the Bodleian – or, rather, Noxad – when Doctor Connington came up behind us, his gown billowing and his face crimson.

“You're not following us, are you, proctor?” I said, giving him a hostile look.

“No, no,” he stammered. “Of course not. I . . . well, the chief administrator wanted me to make certain things clear to you.”

Katharine, Davie and I formed a half circle round him in the brightly lit quadrangle. That didn't put him at ease.

Connington glanced at Katharine. “Em, earlier today you asked about killings in New Oxford. Well, the fact of the matter is that there hasn't been a murder in the centre of the city for over five years. Until the wretched Pym, that is.”

The way he stressed the word “centre” caught my attention. “And how many people have been killed outside the centre?” I asked.

“Ah.” The proctor was suddenly pensive. “That is a different story. The subs in certain areas are hard to control.”

“The subs?” Davie and I said in unison.

Connington nodded. “That is how non-university citizens of New Oxford have been designated.”

“What's that short for?” Katharine demanded. “Subhuman?”

The proctor looked affronted. “Certainly not. Subs simply refers to inhabitants of the suburbs beyond the university boundary.”

“Couldn't you have found a less demeaning name for them?” Katharine said, her eyes flashing. She was always quick to defend those she perceived as underdogs.

Connington tried to give the impression that he didn't know what she was talking about, but the nervous movement of his lips gave him away.

“You're saying that some of the suburbs are out of control?” I asked before Katharine could savage him more.

The proctor shook his head. “Absolutely not. We maintain order, but with a degree of difficulty. What I wish to draw to your attention is that murders are not unknown in the suburbs, especially those to the south-east of the city centre such as Cowley and Blackbird Leys.”

“Ted Pym came from Cowley, didn't he?” I said. “You think he might have been in some kind of trouble there? There was nothing in his personnel file to suggest that. And even if that was the case, why would he have been killed in the university area?”

Connington raised his shoulders. “I don't know, Citizen Dalrymple.” He turned away. “Administrator Raphael gave you a free hand,” he said over his shoulder. “Use it.”

I just managed to restrain myself from using it on him.

Although it was a few minutes after midnight, the door that was inset into the great wooden gate of Brase opened automatically as we approached. The porter we'd met earlier was still on duty and he cast a wary eye over us as we passed his lodge. I guessed his screen was telling him to give us carte blanche, but he didn't look too happy about it.

We walked into the front quad. On the north wall there was an antique sundial under the gabled windows of the top storey. I checked my watch. A mobile spotlight had been rigged up on a cable to replicate the movement of the sun at night. I wasn't sure what to read into that: the light of learning is never extinguished in New Oxford?

Davie waved a hand and went towards his staircase.

Katharine stopped outside hers. “Well, isn't this exciting?” she said with a mocking smile. “A romantic tryst in an ancient seat of contemplation.” She came closer. “How about breaking the rules and spending the night in my rooms?” She gave a throaty laugh. “You could see how far that free hand of yours gets.”

I glanced around the deserted, preternaturally quiet college. “I told Raphael that there was to be no surveillance on us, but how can we be sure? No one else around here seems to be taking any chances.”

Katharine draped her arm round my shoulders and pressed herself against me. “Screw the surveillance. How can you resist a woman in a dress like this?”

I couldn't.

It was just before six when I woke. Katharine's rooms were almost identical to mine and the major drawback to illicit nocturnal activities was the single bed. I'd retired to the floor and spent a night that didn't do my back much good. I got dressed and flitted across the quadrangle, feeling like a fool in the dinner suit trousers with the silk strip down the leg. Fortunately, yet again, there was no one around.

Back in my own rooms, I checked the state of my bag and the files inside. As far as I could tell, nothing had been interfered with. So I had a very quick cold shower and kitted myself out in my own clothes: the black strides and sweatshirt were well-worn and definitely not the height of fashion, but at least they weren't what everyone else was wearing in the university city.

Despite the fact that I'd dined like a dissolute monarch the night before, I felt pangs of hunger. Outside, there were at last signs of movement, a few students scurrying around in their jackets and gowns. The smell of bacon was hanging over the quad in the still morning air. I decided to follow my nose to the hall. Opening my door, I saw a small cardboard box on the floor. It must have been left there while I was changing. For a few seconds I wondered if I'd been presented with a case-breaking clue – an ear, maybe, or another severed finger – but inside all I found was the nostrum I'd asked for, along with a booklet aimed at first-year undergraduates with the title
The Nostrum for Virgins
. Just what I needed.

I followed a group of fresh-faced students into the dining hall. The males' college ties were knotted neatly and their hair was short, back and sides, while the females were all in sober skirts and – believe it or not – blue stockings. The kids seemed to be normal enough, if distinctly well behaved. Their conversations were pretty serious for first thing in the morning: one lot was on about the benefits of free trade, while others were arguing about the laws of thermodynamics. I stuck to filling my tray. The food here was a lot more basic than on the administrators' table, but it was still a hell of a sight better than the Supply Directorate's efforts back home. The bread was wholemeal and healthy, the bacon lean and the tea aromatic – the university probably maintained a plantation on the slopes of Boar's Hill.

I headed for an empty table and sat down. At the far end of the hall, above what was presumably the high table, an ancient metal door knocker in the shape of a lion's head had been hung on the wall.

“The original brazen nose,” said a man who'd arrived silently behind me.

I looked round and took in an elderly specimen with greasy off-white hair. He was wearing a jacket that had almost as much leather patching as tweed on it and his dark blue university tie was spattered with enough stains to keep a forensics operative busy for weeks.

“Ah,” I said, swallowing bacon. “I see.”

“It dates from the twelfth or thirteenth century,” he said, putting his tray down unsteadily. “May I join you?”

“Go ahead.” I watched as he strained to swing his leg over the long bench.

“The name's Burton,” he said, smiling crookedly and revealing uneven yellow teeth. “Elias Burton.” He raised his shoulders apologetically. “I'm afraid you'll have to call me doctor. According to Hebdomadal Council Regulations, all academic staff apart from readers and professors are to be addressed thus.” He laughed drily. “Even those, like me, who never bothered to undertake a doctorate.”

“I imagine it wasn't a requirement to do so when you started your career,” I said, vaguely remembering Hector telling me during our visit that plenty of dons at Oxford weren't doctors. This old man looked like he'd been around since I was in nappies.

“No, it wasn't,” he said, looking at me curiously. “And who are you, young man?”

“Quintilian Dalrymple,” I said, gratified that at least there was one person in the world who classed forty-four as youthful. “Call me Quint.”

Doctor Burton's heavily lined face broke into a smile that couldn't be said to be attractive. “Well I never,” he said, shaking his head. “Who in this benighted land would name their son after the old Roman orator?”

I might have known that my full moniker would be familiar to some of the university's denizens. I went for another point of contact. “My father chose the name,” I said. “He was a classicist.”

The old don's pale blue eyes opened wide. “Not Hector Dalrymple?” he gasped. “Not the world authority on ancient rhetoric?”

I nodded. “Did you know him?”

Elias Burton twitched his head. “Not personally. But I am familiar with several of his papers. You see, I too am a classicist, though my interests were originally more centred on the Horatian ode.” He looked despondently at the pot of marmalade on his tray. “I am one of the few remaining scholars of antiquity in Oxford.”

I noticed that he didn't give the university-state its qualifying adjective. “I seem to remember there being hundreds of classicists here.”

Burton nodded, then thrust his knife into the marmalade with surprising speed. “Indeed there were. The university was one of the world's major centres for the study of classical languages and literature, as well as history and philosophy.” He screwed his face up. “Then the drugs wars came and the old university was torn apart. The—” He broke off and glanced around. Apart from the solemn figures in gowns on the paintings, there was no one in earshot. “The damned modernisers – the so-called administrators who took over the Hebdomadal Council which used to consist of academics – they changed everything when they took control and re-established the university. Now the only courses offered are those judged to serve a vocational purpose. That was a condition of the companies, the multinationals, transnationals, whatever the money-grabbing shysters call themselves, who invested in the place.”

I pushed my plate away and concentrated. This old guy was giving me insights into New Oxford that I hadn't got from Raphael and her crew. “So everything's business and science, is it?” I asked, recalling the conversations I'd heard on my way in.

Doctor Burton nodded as he loaded up a piece of toast with dark brown marmalade. “The applied sciences primarily. Biotechnology, software development, engineering, agriculture, that sort of thing. Oh, and I mustn't forget criminology. That's the largest faculty, along with business and economics.”

“Criminology?” I said, thinking of the prison in Edinburgh, and Connington's surveillance operations. “What about law?” I seemed to remember plenty of bent politicians who'd read that subject at Oxford in the years leading up to the dissolution of the United Kingdom.

He gave a hollow laugh. “Law? That's nothing more than a minor component of the criminology foundation course that every first-year student must complete. The administrators don't care a fig about law. They rule by decree.”

Given Raphael's autocratic demeanour, I wasn't too surprised by that revelation. “Where do all the students come from?” I asked, peering round at the subdued young people with their respectful eyes and old-fashioned clothes. “There aren't many schools left in these islands, are there?”

“Where do you come from yourself?” Burton asked, his watery eyes on me.

I told him.

“Good God,” he scoffed. “I heard that Edinburgh was nothing more than a fortified village run by lunatics.”

There was something in what he said. I gave him a slightly more objective take on the Council's efforts, though I decided against mentioning that Hector had been a guardian.

“I see,” he said when I was done. He finally had enough of the marmalade, screwing the lid on and slipping the jar into his pocket. “Well, your understanding of the state of what used to be Great Britain is somewhat out of date, Quintilian. Although the major cities and towns were severely damaged – most of central London is still under water after the Thames barrier was blown up – several of them have got back on their feet now and instituted local regimes of varying hues. So students do come from the English free cities, but many more originate abroad. The companies sponsor them, you see. The university's nothing but a production line of willing labour nowadays.” His voice was bitter.