House of Dust (32 page)

We got out when the vehicle stopped at the end of the lane.

“Are they playing what I think they're playing?” Davie asked, squinting at a group of young men in whites.

“And you think they're playing?” Katharine asked impatiently.

“Cricket,” Davie said. “They showed us a film about it in the auxiliary training programme, remember?”

Katharine looked blank and watched as there was a loud shout, then a round of applause from the players.

“Aye,” Davie continued, “there was some reference to it being a good example of English society's inherent degeneracy. The national team's players were allegedly all on the take.”

I nodded. “I had to play the game at school when I was a kid. In shorts, of course. And not on the take.”

“I'm sure you looked very fetching,” Katharine said.

“Very. Scraped knees, frostbite in the toes. In the old days Edinburgh wasn't the place for summer sports.”

Davie grunted. “It's too sweaty for them now, thanks to the Big Heat.”

Katharine had walked on ahead. “Here it is,” she called, pointing to an area on the gravel path that was marked by a cluster of short metal posts, one of them bearing the faulty camera unit. As soon as we approached, a metallic voice started announcing that this was a crime scene. The warning was repeated at one-second intervals, the volume rising when we stayed put.

I waved my control card around. That shut the alarm system up.

“Not much to see,” Davie said after we'd inspected the place.

As I'd expected – apart from the posts and the slightly different colour and texture of the gravel, there was little sign that Ted Pym had been held down while the blood drained from his severed axillary arteries.

I kneeled on the grass beside the path and took out my notebook. I'd written down the salient points while we'd been in the Viewing Room with Connington. Now I was trying to reconcile what we'd been shown in Quadrihypervision with the reality of the locus. It wasn't long before something struck me.

“The only prints came from Ted Pym's shoes,” I said, flicking pages. “Obtained from Cowley Footwear Factory Outlet, model number twelve.”

Katharine was playing with her nostrum. “That's right. Brown work shoe, Plastex upper, Plastex sole, size ten.”

Davie stepped closer. “What have you got there?”

“The full murder file,” she said. “We've got access to everything, remember?”

Davie took the device he'd been issued with from his pocket and looked at it dubiously. “If you can trust this thing.”

“Shut up, Davie,” I said, glancing up at Katharine. “No other shoe or boot prints recorded.”

Katharine nodded as her fingers played across the keys. “The bulldog in charge of their version of the SOCS said she thought the murderer had deliberately obscured all prints.”

“Mmm.” I gave that some thought. “Why did he take that precaution here and not in Leith? That's still puzzling me.”

Davie was scratching his beard. “This murder happened a week before the attack on Faulds. It might not have been the same perpetrator. Or the killer might have got more confident.”

“Or the lunatic might have started laying a trail,” I said.

There was a loud crack from my left and a dark red ball shot across the grass towards us. The fielder chasing it gave us a curious look as he cut it off ten yards away.

“Laying a trail?” Katharine's eyes had come up from the nostrum.

“‘All roads lead to Oxford',” I quoted.

She and Davie nodded slowly.

“The Eagle One that did for Lewis Hamilton is one of those roads, isn't it? I'm bloody sure the arm amputation is another, for all the discrepancies.”

I moved further down Dead Man's Walk, the walls and gables of Merton College – now known as Mert, no doubt – immediately to my right. Ahead, the path pointed directly towards the massive buildings of Christ Church. What did they call that now? I wondered. Christ? If so, what tone of voice was appropriate. Then the look of surprise on the old don Elias Burton's face when I mentioned the college came back to me, as well as Yamaguchi's similar expression at dinner. I quickened my pace, eyes locked on the ecclesiastical architecture ahead. It was only when Katharine called out that I realised we had company.

“What the . . .?” I stopped and stared at the outlandish creature that had been keeping pace with me about five yards away on the prass. It had around to a halt too, its beady eyes fixed on me.

Katharine came up, her movements slow and cautious. “I told you I saw a dodo yesterday.”

We stared at the heavy bird, taking in its dowdy grey feathers and the feeble wings that were folded against its body. The overall impression it made was of a sweet but dotty aged aunt – apart from the vicious curved beak.

“They're extinct,” Davie said, his voice low. “We learned that at school.”

“Apparently not,” I replied.

The dodo kept its black eyes on us, its steady gaze disturbing. Then it seemed to lose interest. It moved away slowly, its webbed feet flopping over the grass inelegantly but with surprising speed.

“Lewis Carroll was a don at Christ Church,” I said, my eyes again on the buildings towards which the bird was heading. There were two narrow dark-coloured metal columns extending high above the wall: they looked like chimneys, the tops crowned with mesh filters.

Davie and Katharine stared at me.

I didn't go into the dodo's role in
Alice in Wonderland
as there was something I needed to check. I took out my old man's guidebook and found the appropriate page. My memory hadn't been deceiving me.

“What are you looking at?” Davie asked.

I pointed at the photograph in Hector's book. “The Tom Tower,” I said. “Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, containing the six and a quarter-ton bell known as Great Tom. One of Oxford's most striking monuments.” I glanced at them. “Where is it?”

There was no sign of the Gothic tower with its sublime dome.

Katharine's fingers were at work on the nostrum again. “It's probably gone the same way as Christ Church,” she said. “According to the street plan, there's no such college.”

“What's on the site now, then?” I asked.

She looked up at me and gave a bitter smile. “Guess.”

I nodded. “There's nothing marked.”

“Nothing at all.” She turned her eyes towards the imposing cluster of buildings. “I wonder what kind of research facility they've got in there?”

So did I. I was also concerned about the dodo. It seemed to have disappeared behind the forbidding walls.

The Chariot glided to a halt outside the Nox University Outfitters shop on the High Street.

I was through the automatic door before the salesman – it was the same subservient guy – could do anything but take a step back in alarm. Maybe he still hadn't got used to my Edinburgh clothes.

“Yes, sir, good afternoon, sir,” he gabbled. “How may I be of—?”

“Never mind that,” I interrupted. “You dumped a load of dodo shit on me the last time I was in here, pal.”

His eyes jerked from side to side. No one came to help him. Maybe tea breaks were still permitted by the Hebdomadal Council.

“You told me that there were production problems with model NF138B boots.”

The salesman's eyes focused on me but he didn't speak.

“Which was all bollocks, wasn't it?” I yelled. “Just so you know where you stand, we're handling a murder investigation on behalf of the Hebdomadal Council.”

He licked his lips and lowered his gaze.

“I'm going to give you one more chance.” I turned and beckoned Katharine forward. “My colleague has accessed the webnet. She can't find any reference to model NF138B boots in the Nox Footwear Industries' records. Isn't that right?”

Katharine gave the salesman a chilly smile. “None at all. Are you by any chance covering something up?”

He twitched his head. “No . . . no, not at all.” He glanced at the door, where Davie's large form was blocking out most of the light. “I . . . I made a mistake. I thought you were referring to model NF128B, you see.” Suddenly he was very eager to speak. “It was a simple confusion on my part.”

Katharine's hands had flown across the nostrum keys. “I don't think so,” she said, fixing him with her eyes. “NF128B are standard don-issue slippers. And there's been no problem with production of those.”

The shop assistant went quiet again.

“Davie,” I called. “Have you got your knuckle-dusters?”

He stepped forward, one hand rummaging in his pocket. “Oh yes,” he replied with a hollow laugh.

The salesman let out a gasp and clutched the nearest display case. “I . . . NF138B, you say . . .” he stammered. “Yes, of course, silly of me . . . I should have . . .” He looked at me imploringly. “I'll talk, sir, I promise. Just call off your . . .”

I raised a hand. “NF138B boots are issued to . . .?” I asked, making it easy for him.

He gulped, swallowed hard, then raised his eyes to mine.

“They're issued to Grendels,” he said. “Those boots are manufactured exclusively for the Grendels.”

That stopped my own boots in their tracks.

“I wish I did have a set of knuckle-dusters,” Davie said wistfully when we were back in the Chariot.

“I'll bet you do, big man,” I said, glancing at my watch. A thought had struck me.

Katharine was playing with her nostrum again. “This is interest— Ow!”

I loosened the pressure my fingers had applied to her upper thigh and looked at her meaningfully, my lips making a sibilant “shhh”. I directed that at Davie too. After a few seconds of bewilderment, he got my drift too.

“Head for the helijet pad,” I said to him.

He gave the Chariot its driving orders. We swung across the High Street in front of a posse of students on bicycles and headed back towards Magdalen, or rather Magd. The vehicle soon stopped outside the side entrance on Longwall Street.

I put my nostrum on the seat and gestured to the others to do the same. Then I got out and led them past the sensor posts towards the high, transparent blast shields. I glanced at my watch again. This time yesterday the helijet was making its final approach with us on board. I gathered the others into a huddle, facing inwards.

“What's going on, Quint?” Katharine asked, her eyes screwed up.

The familiar high-pitched whine of the jet turbines was becoming audible in the distance. I waited a few seconds longer then put my arms round their shoulders and drew them even closer.

“I don't know what game Raphael and her people are playing yet,” I said. “So we have to assume they're watching us all the time and listening to everything we say.” I still couldn't understand why the chief administrator had put me on to what seemed to be a secret model of boot.

“Just like the guard would do back home if they had the equipment,” Katharine said.

“Just like the Mist
is
doing back home,” I reminded her. Already we were having to raise our voices against the engine noise. The dark blue aircraft had appeared above the trees to the north. “Anyway, keep things to yourselves till we can find a secure spot like this.”

“Maybe we should communicate by Morse code,” Davie suggested. “You know, tap messages out on each other's hands.”

“Save Our Souls?” I said, watching as the helijet drew near. “That'll be right. We haven't much time. What did you find on your nostrum, Katharine?”

“Grendels,” she shouted, the blast almost deafening now. “I wanted to know what the guy in the shop was on about.”

The salesman had refused to say anything else, even when Davie stepped in close. Sweat was running down his face and he was twitching like a rabbit in a snare, but all the guy would do was refer us to Doctor Connington.

“Wasn't there some kind of monster called Grendel?” I yelled. “In an Old English poem?”

Katharine nodded. “That's what I found on the webnet. Grendel was the embodiment of evil – supposedly descended from Cain – in the poem
Beowulf
. He killed and ate a large number of warriors until the hero of the poem caught up with him.”

A dim memory of the poem came back to me. I went through a phase of being fascinated by heroic poetry:
The Epic of Gilgamesh
, Homer,
The Song of Roland
– any kind of violent, glorious tale. I was in my mid-teens at the time and I soon realised that the kind of mayhem going on around me as the UK fell apart was very far from being heroic.

“What are you saying, Katharine?” Davie shouted. “I haven't seen many monsters around New Oxford. You remember that the salesman referred to them in the plural?”

I nodded and watched as the helijet neared the ground, its flimsy-looking undercarriage lowered. “Monsters provided with rib-soled boots? That is interesting. Let's see what we can find out about them later on. The thing to do now is increase our options.”

Katharine's lips were close to my ear, but she still had to raise her voice. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning we split up.” I looked at Davie. “You go back to the Department of Metallurgy, guardsman. Question the researchers and any other staff you can find and see if what they say about the dead cleaner squares with the statements on file.” The noise from the turbines was suddenly cut. “Also,” I said more quietly, “see if you can find out if anyone could have got access to an ASAR weapon and Eagle One ammunition illicitly.”

“Right,” he said.

“What about me?” Katharine asked.

“How do you fancy making a nuisance of yourself?”

Davie grinned. “Aye, you're good at that.”

“Screw you, guardsman,” she said.

“Calm down,” I said. “Go and get in Doctor Connington's way. Don't mention the NF138Bs and the Grendels till we know more about them. Tell him you want to review all the data on the Pym murder again. That might distract him from what I'm doing.”