House of Dust

by Paul Johnston

  “There’s an angled trapdoor,” he said, grunting as he applied pressure to it. “Christ, there’s something bloody heavy on it.” He drew himself back then drove upwards. “Shit!” he yelled with a great effusion of breath.

  Natural light flooded into the stairwell. Davie disappeared rapidly out of the hole and the sun shone in even more brightly.

  “What have you got?” I shouted as I started up the ladder.

  “Fuck!” His voice was hoarse. “Fucking hell!”

  I poked my head out into the open air and realised why he was cursing. The trap opened just below the top of the slated roof. At the northern end of the building there was a semicircular gable and Davie was leaning against it, his arms round the motionless figure of a middle-aged guardsman.

  “Take his legs,” Davie gasped.

  I did and we fought to get the auxiliary down the ladder, finally laying him out on the landing.

  “That was bloody close.” Davie panted. “The guardsman’s legs were over the trapdoor. When I forced it, he went flying. I managed to grab him before he dropped.”

  I was on my knees beside the spotter. His eyes were open and unfocused and his skin was cold. “Another one for the medics,” I said, glancing up to the square of blue above us. “Let’s hope the effort you put in to catch him was worth it.”

  We spent another hour in the Skin Zone then headed for the street. The three inert bodies had been removed to the infirmary and hooked up to whatever machines Sophia could muster. Apparently they were all alive and in a similar state to Dead Dod, their functions reduced to the level of complete catatonia. The toxicologists were no nearer identifying the compound that had brought that about, nor was the Medical Directorate clear about how it had been administered: no needle marks had been found on Faulds or the latest victims.

  “What next?” Davie said when we were back in the Land-Rover. On the other side of the road tourists were hanging around outside the hotel, attracted by the stream of ambulances and guard vehicles. Perhaps some of them were waiting for their turn in the brothel. If so, they were going to be disappointed: the premises had been closed while the SOCS went over them with a nit comb.

  “What next indeed?” I said, trying to gather my thoughts. “To tell you the truth, I’m surprised we haven’t been pulled off the investigation by now, big man.”

  “Maybe the Mist hasn’t got as much influence as she thinks.”

  “Maybe not.” I looked at my notes. “We haven’t got much to impress the Council with ourselves.”

  “I don’t know,” Davie said. “We’ve found the shooter’s location.”

  I gave him a sceptical glance. “Have we? The shooter didn’t leave anything behind: no shell casing, no scrapes on the parapets. I’ll bet you there are no identifiable fingerprints either.”

  “Come on, Quint. We found three comatose people in there.”

  I was rubbing the stubble on my cheek. “But no staff members who saw anyone they couldn’t account for, no clients your people haven’t questioned; their statements have all been compared with the prostitutes they visited, haven’t they?”

  He nodded slowly. “What if the shooter was dressed up in a guard uniform?”

  “Like may have been the case at Ramsay Garden?” I shrugged. “We spoke to the local commander. She was able to account for the movements of all her personnel. The only person on the upper floors was the spotter.” I screwed up my eyes. “It’s hard to see what happened up there, right enough. Let’s say the sniper managed to get into the Skin Zone without being spotted.”

  “Aye, it’s possible,” Davie put in. “The place is a rabbit warren. There are doors on different levels round the back where it gives on to the steps leading down to Market Street.”

  “Doors that are supposedly alarmed,” I said, looking at my notes.

  Davie stared at me grimly. “It looks like this individual has the skills to handle most obstacles.”

  “Mmm.” I gulped water from the guard flask in the glove compartment. “And the local knowledge. Anyway, let’s say he – or she, I suppose – has made it to the top floor. Why does he knock out the Arab and the hooker?”

  “He was looking for a secure place to make his shot.”

  “Yeah, he could have fired from that window, though there were no marks on the stone.”

  “Maybe he’s such a good shot that he doesn’t need to rest his weapon on anything.”

  “That’s a comforting thought, guardsman.”

  He grinned weakly and started rooting around in the glove compartment. His face lit up when he found an oatmeal ration biscuit.

  “But if the shot came from the room, why was the spotter on the roof taken out?”

  Davie chewed hard and swallowed. “He must have seen him earlier and decided to deal with him.”

  I shook my head. “Not necessarily. The shooter might have a solid gold source of local information.”

  “What do you mean?” Davie demanded, his mouth full.

  “I mean he might have known there was a spotter up top. I mean he might be monitoring guard communications.”

  Davie’s mouth opened even more. “Bloody hell. Sounds a bit far-fetched, Quint.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I reckon it was him – and this suggests that the shooter is male – who made the call to the command centre after Hamilton went down, not the spotter. I think he drugged the guardsman before he took the shot – whether from the window or the rooftop doesn’t really matter. And he knew enough about guard reporting procedure to convince the command centre operative.” I opened my hands. “Ergo he might well have been listening in.”

  Davie still looked dubious. “You’d need pretty sophisticated gear to do that. We don’t have anything like that in the guard.”

  I looked at him seriously. “Edinburgh’s not exactly at the cutting edge of scientific endeavour, guardsman. But I can think of one city that is.”

  The look of enlightenment that spread over his face suggested that Davie didn’t need me to tell him that the name began with the letter “O”.

  A few moments later my mobile rang.

  “Quint, it’s Sophia. Something urgent.”

  “Oh aye?”

  “I’ve sent the bullet I extracted from Lewis Hamilton to the ballistics man. He’s ready to report and I’m going over there now.”

  “I’ll join you at the range. Out.”

  Davie already had the engine running. “The range? Don’t tell me. We’re summoned to an audience with Trigger Finger.”

  I nodded, the grin immediately wiped from my face by the hundred-and-eighty-degree turn he put the Land-Rover into. Trigger Finger, a.k.a. Nasmyth 99, was one of the few remaining colourful personalities in the City Guard. I’d never had anything to do with him because of my aversion to firearms, but he was notorious for being as camp as the tented city on the Meadows where auxiliaries used to be trained.

  “I hate that guy,” Davie said, shaking his head. “He gets right up my—”

  “Spare me, guardsman,” I said, watching as the solid grey walls of the university’s Old College flashed past on the right. The original Council regarded it as the Enlightenment’s spiritual home since so many of the guardians had been professors; recently there’s been more of an emphasis on animal cunning, Sophia excepted. “You can wait in the vehicle, if you prefer.”

  “No chance,” he growled, giving an elderly citizen on a bicycle the benefit of his horn. “I want to be in on everything to do with this case.”

  I glanced at the burly figure at the wheel and realised how much Lewis Hamilton’s death had affected him. Until the aftermath of the investigation in Glasgow in 2026 Davie had been the public order guardian’s blue-eyed boy. It would be too much to say that Lewis had been grooming Davie to succeed him – the old martinet probably thought he was immortal – but the two of them definitely had an understanding. If I hadn’t cultivated a taste for free-thinking and insubordination in him, Davie might well have been as bone-headed a
guard commander as the rest of his colleagues.

  “Fair enough,” I said in a low voice. “We’ll get the bastard who killed Lewis, don’t worry.”

  He nodded, his expression determined.

  I was bloody glad my feet weren’t in the shooter’s boots.

  Edinburgh’s only firing range had been set up during the drugs wars on a piece of land just inside the city line that forms the fortified inner ring of defences. The place had been a shopping centre called Cameron Toll before independence. In the months after the last election, mobs of desperate citizens ransacked the stores and burned the complex down. The large expanse of asphalt that had accommodated the cars that people used to own was now covered by a series of long, dun-coloured sheds, all of them flying the City Guard pennant. In the centre was a low stone-built edifice surrounded by a double line of razor wire and guarded by a squad of armed gorillas. That was the armoury, Trigger Finger’s lair.

  There were a couple of guardians’ Land-Rovers by the fence. One of them I assumed was Sophia’s. Who else was attending the ballistics report? It wasn’t long before I found out. After our ID was checked, Davie and I were admitted to the yard outside the weapons store. The steel-panelled door opened as we approached.

  “Hurry up, Dalrymple,” the Mist said, her cheeks blotched with red. “We’re waiting.”

  Davie and I exchanged glances and went inside.

  “Hello, Quint,” Sophia said, her voice clipped. She favoured Davie with a frosty nod. “Raeburn 124 has been trying to rush things.” She looked at the Mist with no attempt to hide her contempt. “I told her that driving a guardian vehicle before the Council has approved elevation to the rank is contrary to regulations. Not to say disrespectful.”

  I nodded. “I agree.” I went over to Sophia. “What did the post-mortem show?”

  She held the Mist at bay with her eyes. “Lewis Hamilton died of heart failure. The impact of the bullet caused massive shock.”

  “What about the wound?”

  Sophia’s face was stern. “I’ve never seen a bullet like this one. It’s large but the trauma is much less than I would have expected, even though the shell didn’t exit the body. That’s why I want to hear the expert’s report.”

  A barred door at the rear of the entrance hall banged open.

  “Are we all ready?” A short, thin auxiliary in a white lab coat that hugged the contours of his body walked in, swinging his hips. “At last?”

  “Ready, Nasmyth 99,” Sophia said with a faint smile that seemed to gratify him enormously.

  “Oh good.” The ballistics genius turned his hazel eyes on to me. His beard was fair and scant. “And who’s your friend, guardian?”

  “Dalrymple,” I said. “Special investigator.”

  “The famous Quintilian,” he said, offering me a surprisingly strong hand. “Delighted. I’ll call you Quint, shall I? You can call me Trigger.” He looked past me towards Davie. “I know this big laddie already.” He turned to me. “He doesn’t like me, you know.”

  The stage whisper didn’t impress the Mist. “Stop mincing about, Nasmyth 99,” she ordered. “Remember that your superior officer was shot earlier today,” she said, demonstrating the senior auxiliary’s ability for hypocrisy. “Proceed with your report.”

  Trigger ushered us to the door, his lips repeatedly mouthing a word that ended in “itch”.

  His inner sanctum was a gun-lover’s wet dream. Every bit of wall space was hung with firearms, ranging from heavy, Border Guard-issue assault rifles to dull black machine-pistols to the single-shot pen guns occasionally given to undercover operatives. Glass cases at the far end were filled with stacks of numerous types of ammunition. There was even an antique anti-tank gun suspended from the ceiling, the draught from our entry making it swing to and fro like a bird of prey on the wing. The place had an acrid smell, a mixture of gunpowder, hot metal and lubricating oil. In the centre of the room was a high bench covered in tools and stands, a burner with a tall flame at the end.

  “Well, boys and girls, gather round. This is what you’ve come to see,” said Trigger, climbing on to a stool and pointing at a flat-pointed shell he’d mounted on a metal plate. “And I’m here to tell you that I’ve never seen a little beauty like this before.”

  I looked at the metal object through a glass that he’d set up over it. “Not exactly little, is it, guardsman?”

  “Trigger,” he said, his voice even higher. “No nasty ranks here, please. No, Quint, you’re right. An inch and a half in length, three-quarters of an inch in diameter. And it weighs nearly an ounce.”

  “What?” Davie was incredulous. He knew more about firearms than I did. “No wonder it took the guardian out.”

  Sophia was bending forward too. “It’s an odd colour too, isn’t it?”

  Trigger nodded. “Burnished gold, you might say. Very attractive. Very hot at the time of impact as well, I’d hazard.”

  “Any markings on it?” the Mist asked, her eyes fixed on the slug.

  “Not a one,” the expert replied. “The only feature I can see is a bevelled edge round the base.”

  “What kind of weapon would have fired this?” Davie asked.

  “Good question,” Trigger replied, giving the big man an approving look that didn’t go down well. “The simple answer is I have no idea. Possibly a gas-powered rifle, possibly even a long-barrelled target pistol.”

  “We reckon the shooter was three hundred yards from the guardian,” I said.

  “My dear,” said the auxiliary with an exaggerated gasp. “I am impressed.”

  Sophia stepped closer to him. “Nasmyth 99, I am extremely interested in finding out how this shell produced the wound it did. Can you give me any idea of that?”

  “Low to medium velocity, given the shape and weight.” He stroked his wispy beard. “Wide-ish entry wound, no exit wound,” he muttered, then looked up. “I can’t understand how there was no exit wound, though. This shell could go through a brick wall.” He shook his head in frustration “No, guardian, I can’t help you.”

  Sophia’s shoulders dropped. “Then I’m wasting my time.”

  “You are, guardian.” Then Trigger raised his hand, his face suddenly more animated. “Unless you give me authorisation to take the shell apart. I’ve already photographed it extensively.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Sophia said impatiently.

  The Mist moved closer. “One moment. Perhaps we should obtain clearance from the Council.” There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

  Sophia looked at her icily. “Unlike you, Raeburn 124, I am a guardian. I have all the authority I need.”

  I managed to stop myself applauding.

  “I go ahead?” Trigger asked, picking up a high-powered cutting tool.

  “You go ahead,” Sophia confirmed.

  That turned out to be a decision she regretted for the rest of her life.

  Chapter Seven

  There was a sharp crack and a blindingly intense eruption of light from the lab table when Trigger applied his instrument. I felt myself jerk back and collide with Davie’s solid frame. Hands grabbed my shoulders and stopped me hitting the floor. As the vision began to seep back into my eyes, I became aware of a high-pitched keening nearby.

  “Be quiet, Nasmyth 99.” The Mist’s voice was firm. “Injury report – now!” She may not have come up through the ranks of the City Guard but she’d obviously learned the relevant emergency procedure. Now I thought of it, the same controlled tones had been audible after Hamilton went down.

  “Hume 253,” Davie said. “No injuries.”

  The screaming coming from the ballistic expert was hoarser now.

  “My eyes,” he wailed. “I can’t see! My eyes!”

  Blinking, I watched as the acting public order guardian stood over Trigger’s prone form and drew her forearm slowly across his face. Her tunic sleeve was quickly soaked with blood.

  “How many fingers?” Raeburn 124 asked, giving the auxiliary a reverse V-
sign.

  “Two,” he gasped. “Two.” His tremulous tone had suddenly disappeared. He ran his hand across his face and smiled slackly. “I can see after all.”

  The Mist stepped away, shaking her head. “Citizen Dalrymple?” she said, opening her eyes wide at me.

  “No damage,” I replied, brushing a sheen of tiny glass fragments from my jacket. Then I heard a low moan to my right. Christ. Sophia. We’d forgotten about the most senior person in the room.

  “Quint?” she said unsteadily, one hand extended. “Is that you?”

  I pushed the bent metal frame of a stool out of the way and kneeled down beside her. She was in a terrible state, her tweed jacket in shreds and her features criss-crossed by dotted trails of blood. There was a thick coating of dust and debris on her short white-blonde hair and she was holding her right hand over part of her face.

  “If anything happens, see . . . see that Maisie’s looked after, Quint,” Sophia said, catching her breath between the words. She took her lower lip between her teeth for a few moments, then she withdrew her hand. “What’s in my cheek?” she asked calmly.

  I looked at the ruptured skin and gave an involuntary grunt.

  “Maisie . . .” she repeated, the final vowel tailing off as her eyes fluttered.

  I dragged my eyes off the vicious-looking shard of metal that was protruding from her face about an inch beneath her right eye. “Get an ambulance,” I croaked.

  “It’s on its way, Quint,” Davie said, pocketing his mobile.

  He pulled me gently away and we watched as Raeburn 124 did what she could to make the now unconscious Sophia comfortable. But all I could see was the little girl and her impish, smiling face.

  “What the hell happened, Trigger?” I demanded. Sophia had been carried away by a team of medical auxiliaries. They’d decided against removing the object from her cheek on the spot. There was no way of telling how far it had penetrated towards the eye above. They’d stabilised her and left before I could ask for a prognosis; unsurprisingly, the guardian was being treated with a lot more solicitude than the average citizen gets.