House of Dust (44 page)

“I think,” she said, turning to me, “that your friend Raphael is using you as bait, Quint. I suppose it makes a change. You've done that to other people often enough.”

“I suppose I have,” I agreed. I reckoned Katharine was right about the chief administrator too. The problem was, I didn't have any idea why the assassin was hunting her; or why he'd have any interest in me.

We managed to get something to eat and drink in the Senior Common Room. There was no one else there – no doubt even the dons were required to be in bed by now – but I didn't feel secure under the disapproving gaze of the college's old masters. I took the others back to my rooms.

“Let's have a look at these monsters then,” Katharine said, tugging the blue Noxad folder from under my arm. She pulled the photos out and spread them on the floor around us.

We moved our heads around in dismay.

“Bloody hell,” Davie said.

“Shut up, guardsman,” Katharine interrupted. “Can't you ever come up with anything original?”

He returned her gaze, a grin spreading across his bearded face. “All right.” He looked down again. “Bloody useless. These photos tell us bugger all. The guys are like seven more or less identical brothers, and they're the seven most undistinguishable specimens you could imagine.”

“Apart from their build,” I said, running my eye over the Physical Specifications sheets that had also been in the file. “They're all exactly the same height and weight.” I did a quick calculation. “Slightly over six feet tall and around fifteen stone. Solid citizens.”

“Aye,” Davie said, “but look at their faces.”

I did, feeling a twinge in my gut. There was definitely a hint of the guy I'd seen in them all, something in the cold, unnaturally black eyes. The effect of the photos was weirder than it would have been if the seven of them had been exactly the same. They were
almost
the same – short, crew-cut hair, close-shaven and smooth skin, lips in a perfectly straight line, faces fleshy but firm – but somehow each one still projected his own identity.

“Him,” Katharine said, pointing at the photo on the carpet in front of her. “He looks like the worst of them.”

Davie and I studied the burly face that was staring up at us. He'd been designated Number Three – apparently Grendels didn't qualify for names, like auxiliaries back home.

“Aye,” Davie nodded. “He does.” He nudged me. “Was this the one you saw, Quint?”

I bent down to take in every detail of the photo. There was something marginally more familiar about that particular Grendel, but the feeling was vague, inchoate – like the flashes you get in dreams of people you haven't seen for years, flashes that are gone before you can identify them.

“Could have been,” I said lamely.

Dave was running his fingers through his beard. “Course, what Raphael told you about
one
of these guys losing the plot could be bollocks.” He opened his eyes wide at me. “All seven of them might be on the loose in New Oxford.”

I stepped out of the ring of Grendels. “Thanks very much for that thought, pal.” I headed for the dispenser. “Who wants a drink?”

The big man's face lit up. “Now you're talking.”

I managed to get a bottle of pretty decent malt out of the system. After I'd handed glasses round, I looked at Katharine. “What was the story about the house Professor Raskolnikov used to visit: 456 Banbury Road, was it?”

“Four hundred and sixty-five,” she corrected. “Well, it was a dead-end.”

Davie guffawed. “You got that right.”

I watched as they caught each other's eye. For once they seemed to be sharing a joke.

Katharine swallowed whisky. “Our Russian friend liked to have his backside thrashed with birch twigs. The place is a homosexual brothel catering for senior academics. Run with the Hebdomadal Council's full approval, of course.”

“It was nothing compared with what the wealthy tourists get back home, but it was busy enough,” Davie said. “Raskolnikov had a special friend up there. A Cypriot called Yorgo.”

“So he was into punishment,” I said. “Where's the crime in that?”

“Very funny,” Katharine groaned. “Could the professor's peccadillo have had anything to do with his murder?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. We still don't know what it was that got him moving down the High Street with such alacrity instead of going to the Council meeting. Did you check this Yorgo out?”

Davie nodded. “The bulldogs had already given him the fourth degree. He was terrified – said he hadn't seen the professor since the night before last. I don't think he was bullshitting.”

I turned pages in my notebook. “What about the damage the professor's nostrum sustained?”

The others were both gazing at the Grendel photos again.

“Look at the state of those headbangers,” Katharine said. “They could probably crush a nostrum with their bare hands.”

That made me think of Pete Pym. He was bloody lucky to have got away with his throat intact. I hoped he'd made it back to Cowley in one piece.

Davie was stifling a yawn.

“Yeah, it's time to crash,” I said. “But first I've got more to share with you.” I sat down in the armchair and told them about the sights I'd seen in Worc: about Andrew Duart and Hel Hyslop, about Hel's involvement in the Grendel session, and about Lister 25's condition.

The last description sent them off to their beds without a spring in their steps.

I was about to hit mine when someone hit the door – not very hard, just a few gentle taps. I'd declined Katharine's offer to keep me company overnight because I didn't want her there if the nocturnal visitor reappeared. Now I was gripped by the panicinducing thought that the guy with the killer's eyes was at my door.

I grabbed my mobile and pressed Davie's number, then touched the Open button on the door frame. There seemed little point in winding up the Grendel, given that he could probably pulverise the door if he felt like it.

“Oh, it's you, Burton,” I said, taking in the shrivelled figure in a moth-eaten silk dressing-gown. “False alarm, Davie. Out,” I said into the phone. That wouldn't have impressed him much. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard voices,” the old academic said. “I was wondering if you had any . . . any booze.” His leathery face cracked into an uneven smile. “The college governing body doesn't let me have any in my rooms, you see.”

I glanced at my watch. “All right, doctor,” I said, intending to get rid of him as soon as I could.

“Aren't you going to join me?” he asked after he latched his gnarled fingers round the tumbler I'd given him.

“If you insist,” I said, pouring myself a slug and pointing him to the sofa.

“Tell me, Quintilian,” Elias Burton said after he'd taken a sip. “How's your trip to New Oxford progressing? Is your investigation reaching a satisfactory conclusion?”

If it hadn't been so blatant, I'd have thought the old bugger was pumping me for information. As it was, he was probably bored stiff from gutting too many musty Latin tomes. That didn't mean I was going to tell him anything. I gave him a few vague details about Raskolnikov's death. The Hebdomadal Council had kept it quiet, but it seemed the university grapevine was in good nick because Burton had already heard about it. Then I remembered the references he'd made to the place I stood outside earlier in the day, the place that Pete Pym had been trying to penetrate.

“Doctor,” I said, leaning forward and giving him a smile of encouragement, “you've spoken more than once about what used to be Christ Church, what you called the House of Dust. What exactly—?”

Burton's manic hand movements made me break off. He put his glass down carefully and got up, pointing towards my bedroom. Inside there, he went over to the shower and turned the water full on. Then he beckoned me towards him. He was standing about two inches from the flow. He must have read plenty of spy novels in his time.

“Quintilian,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “be very careful. It's one thing for a crazy old fool like me to rattle on about that place, but anyone else who discusses it will be at the mercy of the bulldogs.”

I had my ear close to his lips. I screwed my head round to look at him. “I've tied the House of Dust into my investigation,” I said. “What the hell goes on there?”

Elias Burton was examining me, his eyes damp. “Hell is the right word, my boy,” he replied. “If hell is what we do to others when we absolve ourselves of responsibility for our actions.” He shook his head. “Let alone guilt.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, but what
is
the House of Dust?”

The old man nodded slowly. “I imagine you'll be finding out about it soon enough.” He looked at the jets of water and spoke in a voice that caught even more in his throat. “The House of Dust is the worst of New Oxford's many incarceration facilities, Quintilian. It is an underground composite of the Bastille and Belsen, Barlinnie and San Quentin, Newgate and Alcatraz.” His eyes met mine again. “It is worse than any poet's depiction of the infernal regions, believe me.”

I did.

After that, sleep was a suffocating blanket that I struggled with all night. At least I had no undesired company. I woke to the sound of church bells – presumably atheist New Oxford retained them to keep the students on time – and the smell of fresh bread. My watch told me it was eight thirty. I'd slept late. I closed my eyes again and reasoned with myself. I'd allowed myself to get distracted by what was nothing more than hearsay about the House of Dust; after all, Elias Burton hadn't been able to tell me anything specific about the place after he'd run through every prison name and underworld metaphor he could think of. I let myself sink back into the pillows. Then I remembered what was planned for the day and apprehension stabbed me in the gut.

I got up and went through to the main room. I noticed a line of text flashing on the screen above the desk. It informed me that a delivery of clothing had been made. On the other side of the door there was a heap of packages wrapped in transparent plastic. It was pantomime time.

Davie came on the mobile as I was finishing dressing. “Alive, alive oh, Quint?”

“So far. Have you had breakfast?”

“Oh aye. I made sure I got it in early. We'd better get over to the Camera.” We'd arranged with Doctor Connington to go over the final pieces of the security operation for the Encaenia.

“Right. I'll see you at the porter's lodge. Any sign of Katharine?”

“Uh-uh. Out.”

I called her and got no reply. Edinburgh phones weren't reliable in New Oxford, as I'd discovered yesterday when I tried to raise her. I couldn't get through on the nostrum either, which made me worry more. Then again, maybe she was in the shower. I picked up my gear, glanced in the mirror long enough to make me shake my head at my reflection and headed out. Rather than going straight to the gate, I crossed over to staircase five. The outer door to Katharine's rooms was closed but there was a message in green letters on the screen by the jamb.

Quint – checking a long shot.

See you at the Camera.

K

I went downstairs and across the quad.

“Did Katharine say anything to you about a long shot?” I asked Davie as I came up behind him. He was examining the college rugby team sheet.

“What?” he said, turning. “Oh, what?” he repeated, his voice rising. “Jesus, Quint. What the hell do you look like?” His mouth formed into a ribald smile.

“Yeah, all right,” I said, glancing down at the dark blue pinstripe suit and the black gown that I'd been provided with. Fortunately the white bow tie was out of view. “The hood's not too bad,” I said, pulling the blue and white silk garment round.

He swallowed laughter. “Aye, you're less of a target than a full-blown Doctor of Philosophy, I'll give you that.”

“That long shot of Katharine's?” I repeated, giving him the eye.

He raised his shoulders. “Don't know, Quint. She didn't say anything to me last night. Where is she?”

“Search me. She's going to appear at the Camera.”

Davie looked at me. “She's probably scouring the outfitters for the latest Nox frock.” The smile died on his lips when he saw my expression.

He knew better than to joke about females and fashion.

Doctor Connington looked up at the ornate antique clock that was suspended from the high ceiling of the Camera. It was as incongruous as a Colt .45 in a collection of Roman swords.

“It's ten thirty, Dalrymple. We'd better get over to the muster area.” He was wearing an even shinier version of his red and blue quartered gown. “Are you clear about everything?”

I nodded. I reckoned we were as ready as we'd ever be.

“Quint?” Davie said in a low voice. “Katharine.”

I looked up expectantly, then realised he wasn't announcing her arrival. She should have been here by now. I hit the buttons on my mobile and my nostrum simultaneously.

“Dalrymple?” Connington asked. “What is it?”

I waited. There was still no response on either. “Our colleague Katharine Kirkwood,” I said. “I can't get through to her and I don't know where she is.”

The proctor frowned. “We don't have time for this,” he said, turning away. “The chief administrator and her guests are waiting.”

I glanced at Davie. He raised his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “Doctor,” I called, “do me a favour. Get one of your operatives to check the recordings. She must have left Brase before nine a.m.”

“My operatives are all fully occupied with the Encaenia,” Connington said, his face darkening. “Do you seriously—?”

“Do it or I'm not coming,” I interrupted.

He thought about it, but not for long. A bulldog was detailed to run the check and report as soon as possible.