“I am listening, citizen,” she said, her expression neutral. “Assume I approve your terms unless I tell you otherwise.”
I nodded, surprised that I’d got as far as I had without opposition. “I also want a guarantee of no surveillance. I need a completely free hand. No worries that my every word and movement are being recorded. And no moronic computer voices telling me what to do all the time.”
No reaction.
“I also want transport – one of those Chariots will do – and I want us to be able to move around without bulldogs escorting us. Or on our tails.”
Still no response. There had to be a catch somewhere.
“And I want a nostrum for each of us, fully programmed, each one accessible to all our voices.”
Raphael glanced to her right and nodded at the waiter. “Is that all, citizen? Dinner is about to be served.”
I shrugged. “That’s all for the time being.”
“Very well,” she said, stepping away. “I’ll expect your plan of action after we’ve eaten.”
I followed her out, kicking myself for not having demanded a Chariot-load of gold bars as well.
Any remaining doubts I’d had about who ran the place were blown away when I saw the seating arrangement. Raphael was placed at the centre of the long table, a fellow administrator on each side and the dons towards the ends; the latter definitely below the salt, which was contained in ornate, solid-silver shakers. We’d been led downstairs and into what was once the Divinity School, a six-hundred-year old Gothic hall with a glorious vaulted, arched and bossed ceiling. While we were taking our seats, Verzeni remarked that divinity had ceased to be a subject studied at the university after the drugs wars; apparently no one was interested in theological matters any more. That would explain why no one said grace, not that I was complaining.
“I don’t suppose you’ve been to Oxford before, have you, Citizen Dalrymple?” Professor Yamaguchi said. He was sitting to my left, with Katharine on my right, while Administrator Dawkley was following what was said from the other side of the table.
I considered keeping quiet about my visit with the old man, then decided to see if I could provoke an unguarded response. “I have, actually,” I replied, watching the Japanese’s face. It remained unreadable. “Back in 2000. My father was a professor at Edinburgh University before the last election. He delivered a memorial lecture on ancient rhetoric at Christ Church.”
It only lasted a second or two but Yamaguchi suddenly looked less sure of himself. I glanced across at Dawkley and registered a similar uncertainty on his bloodless features. Then the moment passed and the administrator handed me a basket of rolls.
“Try one of these, citizen. We’ve been working on a new modification of wheat. The taste is remarkable.”
I took a bite and nodded in agreement. “Modification?” I said, remembering the civil disorder caused by that word in the early years of the century, especially when it was collocated with another. “That wouldn’t be genetic modification, would it?”
Dawkley laughed, a strident noise that might have meant more to a horse. “We’re well past that stage, I can assure you,” he said disdainfully. He turned to his colleague and paid me no more attention.
The food was superb, courses of the best soup, freshwater fish, lamb, cheese and fruit that I’d had since I’d been in Glasgow a couple of years back; it certainly bore no resemblance to the primary-school slop I’d been served with on my last visit to Oxford. There was also a succession of excellent wines. I didn’t ask, but I had the feeling that New Oxford probably ran to a Department of Oenology and Viticulture; the torrid summers of recent years would have made the production of top-quality wines feasible as long as there was enough water. From what I’d seen from the helijet, the university-state had no shortage of rivers and lakes.
“Do I get the feeling we’re being fattened up?” Katharine asked as the port decanter appeared in front of Raphael, not that the chief administrator poured herself any.
“There’s a quid pro quo,” I replied. “Any minute now I’m going to have to tell them how I’m going to solve the case.”
She smiled and sat back in her chair. “Sounds like a fair exchange to me.”
Then Raphael tapped a spoon against her glass of water and called on me to address the company.
I swallowed the last of my claret and got to my feet, concentrating on not pushing my chair over the edge of the platform. Looking round at the glorious high windows and the fine old stonework, I found it hard to believe I was in the middle of a city that had put its faith in ultra-smart computers and the surveillance dome on the top of the Camera. That was as good a place as any to start.
“Administrators, doctors,” I said, looking to soften them up by using their titles – I’ve never known that tactic to fail. “Ted Pym was found in Dead Man’s Walk. That is, in the immediate vicinity of colleges and close to the High Street.” I shot a glance at Connington. “And yet the camera covering the pathway was out of action.” I looked around the table. “What conclusions can we draw from that?”
Raskolnikov snorted. “That we need to repair it immediately.”
That provoked a chorus of mild laughter.
“Not quite what I was thinking,” I said. “Any other ideas?”
“The killer knew there was surveillance there.” Raphael’s voice was low and unwavering. “He took steps to deal with it.”
I nodded, looking at the notes I’d made in the Viewing Room. “Exactly. The victim was cycling down the High Street towards Cowley, as recorded by the camera on the corner of Longwall Street. So he must have been intercepted immediately afterwards, before he reached the lane that leads to Dead Man’s Walk. Unfortunately the camera there also suffered a fault that night and transmitted no pictures. Could the killer have tampered with it too?”
Dawkley shook his head. “I don’t think so. Unlike the low-level box on the path, that equipment is located six metres above ground level and is fully protected. Anyway, there was no sign of any tampering on either unit.”
“Is that right?” I said. “Surely, in New Oxford, of all places, the technology exists to disable cameras electronically.” I ran my eyes round the administrators’ expressionless faces. Their silence made my point for me. “Getting back to Dead Man’s Walk. Was the killer also making some kind of point by leaving the body there?”
Verzeni sat up straight. “Of course,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”
I’d only been referring to the obvious symbolism of the walk’s name, but the Italian was a lot more excited than that seemed to merit.
“Dead Man’s Walk,” he said, nodding repeatedly. “Of course. It is believed that the Jews of medieval Oxford took their dead along that path outside the city walls to their burial ground.”
I looked at him quizzically. “Where does that get us, doctor?”
He pursed his lips. “Think of the arms. They were placed in the shape of a cross above his head.”
“Are there Christians and Jews in New Oxford?” I asked, remembering what I’d heard about the lack of religious interest.
Raphael leaned forward on her elbows. “Not in the university. Religious affiliation is banned; we expect our students to be far beyond that atavistic stage of human development before they commence their courses. There may be some vestigial sects in the suburbs.” She looked up at me. “Are you suggesting the killing was religiously inspired? How would that square with the events that occurred in the Council’s atheist Edinburgh?”
I shrugged. “No idea.” The angle didn’t excite me.
“What about the modus operandi?” Raskolnikov was glaring up at me from the far end of the table.
“I was coming to that,” I said, putting him even further below the salt cellar. “I’d say the killer was highly trained. He left no incriminating traces.” I glanced at Raphael. “On the other hand, Ted Pym was slaughtered with extreme savagery, which doesn’t sit easily
with the idea of a skilled assassin. He was also killed with a knife, a weapon very different to whatever was used to sever and cauterise the arm of George Faulds, though similar to that used to remove his finger – and note that no fingers were removed here.” I suddenly remembered the unidentified drug that had given the Leith Lancer amnesia, among other things. Raphael hadn’t mentioned it on the helijet and there was no reference in the post-mortem report to any unusual substances in Pym’s system. I decided to sit on that for the time being.
“So do you now think there may be no connection between the two cases?” Raphael asked, her eyes fixed on mine.
I held her gaze then looked down at my notes. “It’s too early to say, administrator. I need to work on the murderer’s motivation here. Was Ted Pym simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was he chosen deliberately? More to the point, if the two assaults are connected, why are there so many differences? Not only in the mutilations and the weapons, but in the traces at the scenes.” I looked back up at Raphael. “Why were the footprints obscured here but left untouched in the gang house in Leith? There was no attempt there at – so to speak – a cover-up.”
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 fir
st 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?”
House of Dust Page 20
