House of Dust Page 4

  “Get out of the way, citizen,” she said sharply. “Now!”

  “Charming,” I said, pulling out my invitation and waving it at her.

  “Step aside, man,” Hamilton said in a firm whisper.

  I looked round and saw a group of individuals in dark clothes heading up the steps from the Jeep. “Sorry,” I said, giving the Mist an ironic smile. “Wouldn’t want the likes of me to get in the way of the VIPs, would we?”

  “Correct,” she said.

  I moved and stood at the edge of the hall to watch the New Oxford delegation make their entry. I stifled a laugh as Hamilton shouldered his way in front of his deputy and took centre stage.

  “Good evening, Administrator Raphael,” I heard him address a tall, statuesque woman with silver-grey hair. I guessed she was in her early fifties. She was in pretty good shape, though the loose black trouser suit with the high neck that she was wearing didn’t give much away. I picked up an aura of power immediately, power cut with a hint of mystery. This was a woman who knew how to handle herself.

  “Public order guardian,” she said, her voice clear and unaccented. “How pleasant to see you.” The coolness of her tone and the way she continued rapidly to the Mist made it clear where her priorities lay.

  Hamilton’s deputy turned her back and shielded the guest from me, so I couldn’t hear the words they exchanged. They seemed to be on close terms, the Oxford woman’s hand resting on Raeburn 124’s fleshy arm.

  I glanced back at Lewis Hamilton. The three remaining members of the Oxford group were all male academics; they were wearing long black robes over their immaculate suits. They were also equipped with small flat silver gadgets hanging on fine chains round their necks. The striking thing about the trio in gowns was the ethnic mix. Between them they had the features of a great swathe of the earth’s population. In succession the public order guardian greeted Professor Yamaguchi, a short, smiling Japanese; Doctor Verzeni, a youngish man with dark curly hair and what sounded like an Italian accent; and, last but not least, a gloomy, bearded figure by the name of Professor Raskolnikov. I wanted to have a word with the latter, but now wasn’t the time – the Mist had quickly ushered the administrator and her entourage out of the entrance hall.

  I followed them down to the sunken reception room which used to be the old school’s assembly hall. In the 1970s it had been converted into a debating chamber for the devolved Scottish assembly that failed to materialise after the mishandled referendum. When Scotland’s short-lived fling with national government finally took off in the late 1990s, the executive turned its back on the pre-prepared chamber and spent millions on a custom-built heap at the bottom of the Royal Mile. The original building remained unused until the Council decided it needed to reinstitute the Corrections Department. That process involved tearing out all the benches and microphones and creating an open space for auxiliaries to play with their papers and filing cabinets. Tonight those had been shoved to the side and the long room with its original coffered ceiling and the balcony that ran all the way round the pit looked resplendent – despite the preponderance of maroon paint and wall charts detailing the achievements of the department and its advisers over the last year.

  A throng of guardians and senior auxiliaries soon gathered around the group from Oxford. Waiters and waitresses were circulating with glasses of whisky on trays and platters of smoked salmon. The staff were clad in what were apparently convict uniforms from all over the world: white suits with arrows on them, blue denim shirts and trousers, heavy tunics with badges in some Far Eastern language. As I was shaking my head at those examples of Public Order Directorate wit, I caught sight of an array of metal objects at the edge of the hall. On closer inspection they turned out to be prison equipment: leg-irons, handcuffs, straitjackets – there was even a ball and chain.

  “Don’t worry, Quint. That gear isn’t going to be used in the New Bridewell.”

  I turned to find the medical guardian by my side. “How can you be so sure, Sophia?” I bent down. “Well, well, look who’s here. Shouldn’t you be in bed, Maisie?”

  The little girl stared at me seriously then stuck her tongue out.

  “Maisie,” Sophia said softly. “That’s not nice.” She smoothed the red hair back from her daughter’s forehead and straightened up. “Stop that, Quint. You’re no help at all.”

  I put my own tongue away and smiled as Maisie burst out laughing. “Sorry, couldn’t resist it,” I said. “She’s a sweet kid.”

  “I know.” Sophia suddenly looked flustered.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I don’t know if I should have brought her along to this event,” she replied, tugging at a crease in her sash. “She’s only fourteen months. The noise might scare her.”

  I watched as Maisie tottered towards the ball and chain. “She seems to be coping.” I glanced at Sophia. “Are you? I mean, with looking after her as well as performing the duties of a guardian.” Sophia was a single mother, the first guardian to give birth in office.

  She pursed her lips to show me that she thought the question was out of order, then nodded. “I get help from the Welfare Directorate. We manage. She’s pretty easy, though now she’s started to walk . . .” She leaned across and gently took her daughter’s arm.

  A hand bell was rung from the centre of the balcony and everyone looked up. The chattering dwindled away.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced a pompous male auxiliary in a kilt, “pray silence for the senior guardian of Enlightenment Edinburgh.”

  I grabbed a glass of single malt from a passing convict, watching as Sophia closed her eyes for a moment and twitched her head. It was good to see that inter-Council rivalry was still alive and well. When the guardians went through a phase of being more user-friendly a few years back, the City Regulations were changed to permit the senior guardian – effectively the president – only one month in the job; it rotated between the fifteen guardians, to remove the opportunity for empire-building. More recently, mainly because of the increase in crime, the senior guardian is elected by his or her colleagues for a term lasting one year. The former welfare guardian had been in power for six months and it was said that he was keen on an extension. This would require a change in the regulations and there were rumours that Council members were being offered sweeteners: hyper-expensive suits from independent Milan, watches from the Swiss colony of Mallorca, the kind of goods their rank was supposed to despise. But how the hell would the city coffers run to bribes like that?

  The head honcho stepped to the rail, gold chain round his neck. “Honoured Oxonian guests . . .” He paused to allow a burst of applause to be led enthusiastically by Hamilton’s deputy. “Guardians, senior auxiliaries and other invited representatives.”

  I suppose I was one of the last group, not that I was representing anyone except the Demoted Auxiliaries’ Malt Whisky Appreciation Society.

  “The day after tomorrow the magnificent New Bridewell facility will be inaugurated.” The senior guardian stopped again and let the Mist smack her palms again. “This will mark the realisation of the first part of the Council’s ambitious incarceration policy. We believe that the imprisonment of criminals is an essential component in the drive towards the eradication of crime.”

  I looked around the crowd, most of whom were paying avid attention, and wondered how many of them remembered the original Council’s proud boast that crime had been eradicated from Edinburgh. Admittedly it took them over ten years of fighting the drugs gangs to achieve that end – and, like all boasts, it didn’t tell the whole story. Still, for a few years, there was very little serious crime in the city. The guardians had even been able to close the last prison on Cramond Island. And now we were in for another dose of incarceration. Call me a pessimist, but I had to see that as a mark of the Council’s failure. So we had work, welfare, housing, education and sustenance for all. But we also had a climate of disaffection among citizens that the reintroduction of imprisonment was hardl
y going to alleviate.

  The senior guardian, real name Lachlan Lessels, was young, earnest and bespectacled. He ran through the objectives of the prison: discipline, compassion and reintegration into society. Why was it I got the feeling that the first of those was going to be the main feature of the New Bridewell? Then he turned his reedy voice to praising the expertise of the Oxford academics and their great experience in carceral matters. This propensity for skilful arse-licking had got him the nickname of Slick. Before I could consider what that implied about the university city, he invited Administrator Raphael to address the multitude.

  As the imperious woman left her gown-clad colleagues and approached the edge of the balcony, stopping on the way to shake the senior guardian’s hand, I looked around the crowd again. Hamilton was in the pit with the rest of us, his jaw jutting out aggressively, while his deputy was up on the higher level with the nobs. Beyond him I caught sight of a crumpled figure in a wheelchair. Billy Geddes. I might have known the city’s financial genius would be on the case.

  “Many thanks, senior guardian,” the administrator said, her voice ringing out across the chamber. She was obviously well versed in holding the floor. “I’ll be brief. The Hebdomadal Council – New Oxford’s ruling body – is delighted to have been able to provide expert guidance in the implementation of the incarceration policy so courageously embarked upon by the Council of City Guardians in Edinburgh.”

  If that was her idea of brief, I was glad I didn’t have to attend many meetings chaired by her.

  “We believe that control and authority must be applied rigorously in twenty-first-century society,” Raphael continued. “And we believe that education is the root of progress and the cement of social cohesion.” She looked round her listeners. “To that end we are pleased to offer places at the University of New Oxford for fifty of Edinburgh’s most promising students.”

  There was a pause as the crowd tried to ascertain whether that surprise announcement was to the taste of the Council. When the senior guardian applauded vigorously, the noise level increased several-fold.

  Sophia gathered up her daughter and turned towards the exit. “Too much,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the racket, Slick’s performance or the administrator’s offer.

  I mouthed goodbye at Maisie. Again the little lass stared at me, then her face broke into a wide smile. It seemed I’d made at least one friend during the evening.

  Fortunately the speeches didn’t last much longer. I went in search of whisky, food and entertainment. I found the first two easily enough then looked around for the third. Billy Geddes was deep in conversation with one of the Oxford academics so I headed over.

  “Evening, Billy,” I said, butting in.

  The man in the gown stood up from the wheelchair and gave me a cold stare. It was the bearded professor called Raskolnikov.

  I introduced myself when Billy declined to answer.

  “And what is your purpose, Mr Quint Dalrymple?” the Russian asked, strong evidence of Russian vowels in his delivery.

  “Citizen Quint Dalrymple,” my former school and university friend corrected. “That’s the term we use to designate non-auxiliaries.”

  “That’s right, Citizen Geddes,” I said, grinning at him maliciously. “Or have they made you an auxiliary again?” Billy and I had a lot of history, much of it revolving around my frequent discoveries of his involvement in secret scams. One such discovery had led to his demotion. The absence of a barracks badge on his suit showed that the Council had refrained from reinstating him – so far.

  “Citizen Dalrymple is an investigator,” Billy said sourly, his eyes staying off me. “He works for the Public Order Directorate. When he feels like it.”

  “Really?” The professor’s heavy features became slightly more animated. “And what do you investigate?”

  I looked at him. “Murders, mainly.”

  “How interesting. You must tell me about them.”

  I didn’t like the way he was licking his chapped lips so I cut to what I wanted to know. “Tell me, is Raskolnikov your real name, professor? Or is it some kind of nom de guerre?”

  His eyes flashed. “Very good, citizen. You’ve obviously read Crime and Punishment.”

  I nodded. “But Raskolnikov was the criminal. It seems a strange name for an expert on incarceration.” I caught sight of something glinting on his wrist and looked closer.

  The Russian laughed, not very humorously. “The criminal in question achieved redemption,” he said in a firm voice.

  “Tell me,” I said, “what’s that?” I pointed towards the object that had caught my eye. It was some kind of metallic plate, under an inch in diameter, and it seemed to be implanted into the skin.

  “That is none of your business, my friend,” the professor said and turned on his heel.

  “Oh very good, Quint,” Billy said. “Very good – putting the knife into one of the city’s most important guests.”

  Before I could answer he’d wheeled round and shoved himself away.

  I was on my own so I grabbed another whisky. What else can you do?

  The reception finished about eleven. I wandered off, hoping I could get a lift from Davie. He was still tied up with the security rosters and it was a warm night, so I walked back to my flat. The bars and cafes along Princes Street were still packed with tourists, the dire music they were playing interspersed with raucous shouts which provoked no interest from the guard personnel on duty: tourists can behave as they please.

  I stopped for a quick one in hotel bar where they knew me, and by the time I got home the curfew had kicked in. I stumbled upstairs in the dark – the curfew means no electricity in citizen areas – and lit a candle. I’d just dropped my trousers when my mobile rang. After a struggle to find it, I hit the button.

  “Quint? Davie.” His voice was clipped. “Where are you?”

  “About to get into bed. What is it?”

  “Something weird,” he said breathlessly.

  “Oh shit.”

  “Aye. You know that administrator woman from Oxford?”

  “Raphael? Not personally, but I saw her at the reception tonight.”

  “Well, a sentry heard a scream from her rooms.” He was enunciating carefully now. “When he went to investigate he found a severed arm in the bath.”

  That sobered me up.

  Chapter Three

  I ran down the stairs in the dark, my fingertips keeping contact with the rough paint on the walls, and jumped into the guard Land-Rover that Davie had sent round. As the female auxiliary floored the accelerator and headed for the castle, I went through what I’d set up. The Oxford administrator and her entourage were staying in Ramsay Garden at the eastern end of the esplanade. I’d sent Davie round there to make sure that nothing was touched, and to put a marker down; it would be harder for the Mist or any other meddler to throw us off the case if he was on the scene early.

  We came out of the darkened citizen area and into the central zone, the castle ahead of us lit up like a fireship that had run aground on a rocky promontory. The young guardswoman steered the vehicle across the deserted junction at Tollcross towards Lauriston Place, missing a heavy bollard by no more than an inch.

  I gasped. “And people complain about my driving.”

  A tight smile appeared on the auxiliary’s lips but she didn’t speak.

  My mobile buzzed.

  “Yes, Davie.”

  “How did you know it was? . . . oh forget it.” Edinburgh mobiles, as basic as they come, don’t display the caller’s number but I knew it would be him. “The scene-of-crime squad’s on site.”

  “Okay, hold them back till I arrive.” I glanced at the driver. “When will that be, guardswoman?”

  “In four minutes,” she replied.

  “Shit,” I said, gripping the arm-rest with my spare hand. “Any time now, Davie. Have you informed the Medical Directorate?”

  “Aye.”

  “Lined up all the sen
tries who were on duty?”

  “Aye.”

  “Any of your senior officers present?”

  “Oh aye.”

  “Oh bugger.” I’d been hoping to get a free run at the outset of what sounded like a seriously unusual case.

  Davie signed off and I braced myself with both hands as we roared past the infirmary. Which brought my mind back to the object of the enquiry with a jolt. Why the hell had some sick bastard amputated an arm and left it in Administrator Raphael’s bath?

  The guardswoman pulled up at the checkpoint on the esplanade and waved for it to be raised.

  “No worries,” I said, my door already open. “It’s been a lot of fun but I’ll walk from here, thanks.”

  An even broader smile split her freckled face. “Have a good night, citizen.”

  “That’ll be right,” I said, slamming the door. “Remind me never to get in your dodgem again.”

  Davie emerged from a door nearby. “Quick, Quint,” he said. “The Mist’s trying to take over.”

  “Uh-huh. What does she know about apotemnophilia?”

  “Eh?”

  “Limb removal,” I explained. “Often for sexual gratification.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” I glanced up at the harled white wall in front of me. The topsy-turvy complex of houses and flats known as Ramsay Garden had been started in the eighteenth century and it looked like something out of a Middle European fairy tale. There were projecting towers, patches of red ashlar and carved animals all over the place. It had originally been built to attract university professors to the Old Town. Something similar to that was going on now: the Council uses the accommodation for visiting VIPs and the delegation of Oxford experts had been put up in it.

  Davie nodded to the guard personnel inside the heavy studded door and they let me through. Scene-of-crime personnel in white overalls had congregated in the hallway.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Second floor,” Davie replied. “The woman’s flat has a view of the castle.”