“Don’t worry about Katharine,” Davie said. “I wouldn’t take her on willingly.”
I nodded but I was still nagged by doubt. Even if Katharine had gone off on her own, what was the long shot? Could it have something to do with Grendel Number Three? She was the one who’d picked his photograph out.
Then we came out of the northern passage into the courtyard beyond and my mind switched back to the Encaenia. The spaces between the walkways had been fenced off. They were already packed with crowds of people, many of them noticeably foreign: black women in brightly coloured full-length dresses, groups of Chinese in sober suits, Arab men – their heads covered – wearing white robes.
“Who are these people?” I asked Connington.
He was striding towards the Hebdomadal Council building, still anxious about being late. “They are representatives of the sponsor companies,” he said in a clipped voice. “Their senior executives are about to have honorary degrees conferred on them. Hurry up, will you?”
The proctor led us through the arch and out on to Broad Street. It had been closed to Chariots and bicycles, and thousands of students in their best subfusc were crammed against steel barriers. All were wearing mortar boards. I noticed that their gowns, most of which only reached down to their groins, bore large coloured logos on the right breast. Even coming from a backwater like Enlightenment Edinburgh I could recognise some of the company names: they were major transnationals such as MacroNet, Conch, Chinair and Mango.
I caught up with Doctor Connington. “Are all the students funded by big corporations?”
He glanced at me. “Not all,” he said. “There are several hundred who pay their own way. Mostly the children of wealthy families.”
“Glad to see the university hasn’t lost all its traditions,” I said, shaking my head.
Glancing up at the screens and banners emblazoned with company names on all the surrounding walls, I came to the conclusion that there was even less room for free thought in New Oxford than I’d imagined. The presence of numerous bulldogs in bullet-proof vests and helmets at the windows beneath the rain shields reinforced that thought. As did the sudden recollection of what Elias Burton had told me about the House of Dust. How many free-thinkers were in the underground caverns beneath Wolsey’s and Henry VIII’s Christ Church?
“Come on,” Connington said, walking quickly up Parks Road.
On our left was the ugly façade of the New Bodleian. I remembered that Raphael said she’d been there when I contacted her on my nostrum. I still couldn’t work out how she’d got to her rooms in Queen so quickly.
“In here,” the proctor said, crossing the road.
There was a three-storeyed college building set back from the pavement, its impressive fan-vaulted gateway filled with bulldogs carrying vicious-looking prods. The red flashes on the hafts suggested that they packed a blood-boiling electric pulse.
I felt in my suit pockets for my old man’s guidebook and realised that I hadn’t brought it with me. “What is this establishment?” I asked Trout, Connington having dashed into the place ahead of us.
“Wad,” he answered reluctantly. “It’s used exclusively for sponsors, donors and their guests.”
“Good name,” Davie grunted.
“Aye,” I said. “I remember now. It used to be called Wadham.”
The bulldogs let us pass and we went through the gate into a symmetrical quadrangle with a tower on four levels directly in front of us. The lawn was filled with people in academic robes, scouts in white jackets circulating with trays of coffee. I glanced up and made out the armoured heads of several spotters behind the castellations on the roofs. No chances were being taken with the safety of New Oxford’s cash bulls and cows. On the other hand, the chief administrator was willing to put herself up as a target, even though the Hebdomadal Council hung on her every word. That had been puzzling me a lot.
Then the throng of people parted and I caught a glimpse of Raphael. She was wearing an intricately detailed dark blue robe with a heavy gold chain on her shoulders, not to mention a mortar board with a long gold tassel. None of that made as much of an impression on me as the pair of individuals she was talking to.
Billy Geddes, my former friend and financial genius, was in his wheelchair and behind him, hands in his pockets, was Edinburgh’s senior guardian. Both of them were in dark suits and full-length academic gowns. Surely no one had been crazy enough to offer either of them an honorary doctorate.
“Well, well, look who’s here.” Billy’s tone was characteristically mordant. “The great Quintilian Dalrymple. I hear you still haven’t caught Hamilton’s killer.” He laughed raucously. “Stick to the donkey jacket, Quint. The gown doesn’t suit you.”
“And yours suits you?” I said, giving him the eye. “What the hell are you two doing here?” I turned my gaze on Slick.
The senior guardian was tightening his bow tie. His gown was an unpleasant shade of yellow that made his face look even more sallow. “Edinburgh has many links with New Oxford, citizen,” he said, giving me a superior look. “Why should high-ranking representatives of the city not attend an Encaenia?”
I glanced back at Billy. “Since when did Edinburgh use demoted auxiliaries as representatives?” I demanded.
My former friend let out a manic cackle. “Since you were sent down here, pal.”
“Where’s the public order guardian?” I asked, looking around to see if the Mist’s ambition to board a helijet had been fulfilled.
“Looking after things in Edinburgh,” Slick said with a smile that didn’t put me at ease.
Raphael had been talking to Dawkley, who was looking bilious in a green and white striped gown, and the proctor. She now turned her attention to me. “All is clear,” she said, drawing me to one side. “The Camera has detected no trace of the target.”
“He’s got an anti-surveillance device, chief administrator,” I reminded her. I looked back at the pair of Edinburgh natives. “You didn’t tell me they were invited.”
“Is that relevant to the case?” Raphael asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “Probably not.” I told her about Katharine.
“Really, citizen,” she said dismissively, “I cannot concern myself with your—” She broke off and stared at me. “Do you think the target might have taken her?”
“I don’t know. It’s a possibility.” I beckoned Connington over. “Any sign of Katharine?”
He shook his head. “I just spoke to the Camera. She still hasn’t showed up on any of the monitors.”
“Shit.” I shook my head. “All right, let’s get this over with.” I caught Raphael’s eye. “But I’m telling you, if the main man doesn’t put in an appearance at this parade, I’m dropping everything to find Katharine.”
Raphael looked at me and finally nodded. “Very well.” She turned to Connington. “Proceed.”
In a few seconds, with military precision, we did.
Raphael insisted that I walk just behind and to the right of her, at the very head of the procession. That brought home to me even more forcefully what Katharine had said. It was as if I were bait, or even an alternative target – but why? If a Mark Two Grendel was after her, why would he lock on to me instead? Number Three’s face flashed before me, the eyes blank and the jaw set hard. I clenched my fists in frustration, still unable to fathom what was going on.
We walked at a slow pace out of the college and turned left on to Parks Road. I glanced round and saw the column snaking out of the gateway like a garish train exiting a tunnel. Davie was walking to the side, his hand on the grip of his auxiliary knife. God knows what good he thought that would do us against a Grendel. Then another familiar face caught my eye. Andrew Duart, the Glasgow first secretary. I wasn’t surprised to see him. He’d been turning up everywhere I went in the investigation recently, not that I could think of a way to tie him to the killings. He was resplendent in a crimson gown and deep in conversation with Professor Yamaguchi and Doctor Verzeni. I c
ouldn’t see Hel Hyslop though. Perhaps she’d passed the Grendel recruitment test. That thought made me even more tense.
The crowd on the corner was clapping and cheering. Raphael took the acclaim with what she thought was an appropriate degree of froideur, her chin held high and her eyes fixed on the columns of the Council block ahead. I moved my eyes from side to side, scanning the crowd for the Grendel’s neutral features. I saw nothing except the smiles and waves of the students. They really did seem to be enjoying themselves. I got the impression they weren’t given many days off.
“Nearly there,” Raphael said as we came out of the passage and into the courtyard. To our right the Mendoza Memorial Theatre rose up, as proclaimed by a large digital panel. Who was Mendoza? I wondered. I had the feeling there used to be a large Colombian drugs operation run by a family of that name. The former Sheldonian’s curved wall and the blind arcade beneath the narrow domed tower gave the building a Renaissance feel, despite the multitude of screens bearing company logos.
I glanced at the chief administrator. She didn’t look nervous but her voice had wavered slightly. Up in the old Bodleian, bulldogs stared down like statues, the muzzles of their snub-barrelled rifles just visible. I felt my heart begin to pound. Although there were hundreds of people in the enclosed areas, we made perfect targets on the wide walkway. This was as good a place to take us out as the shooter would find.
“We made it,” Raphael said, dabbing her forehead under the mortar board with a blue handkerchief. She gave me a thin smile. “Thank you for escorting me, citizen.”
I watched as she walked to the internal door that led to the auditorium. Immediately she started greeting the gowned benefactors and sponsors. It struck me again that they were from all over the world. A swarthy Mediterranean male was followed by a Japanese woman in a tight dress. Each of the guests acknowledged Raphael with overstated respect.
Davie appeared at my side. “What next?”
“You know the plan,” I said. “There’s a seat for you inside that door. I’ve got to go and hold Raphael’s hand again.”
“Mind she doesn’t crush yours,” he said as he moved away.
I watched as Billy Geddes manoeuvred himself up a ramp, refusing the help offered by a female bulldog with words that made her head flick back in shock. I’d found out the hard way that he had a major aversion to being treated as an invalid.
I walked into the hall. There must have been well over a thousand people in there, the seats close together and on several galleries. Above us the magnificent ceiling was covered in a great painted sky replete with classical figures and clouds. Raphael and her fellow administrators were seated on a multi-layered platform straight ahead, the professors beneath them and the honoured guests, including Duart and Slick, in a segregated area to the left.
Conscious of my ridiculous garb and of the fact that – apart from the bulldogs all round the walls – I was now the only person standing, I moved up the central aisle to my seat behind Raphael. From that raised position I had an excellent view of the audience, which was why I’d placed myself there during the planning. I started running my eyes over the ranks of people, searching for the figure I’d seen in the tunnel yesterday.
Then there was a blast from the organ and everyone followed the chief administrator’s lead and got to their feet. Dawkley was immediately below me. It was as I raised my head above his that I saw the rapid flashes of flame on ground level straight ahead of me.
The shooter had been way ahead of me from the start.
Chapter Twenty
For a couple of seconds nothing happened. There was no sound of gunfire audible above the racket from the organ, and by the time I reacted two of the figures in the rows below me had crumpled over. Then the man in charge of the music must have realised something had happened. The swell of notes collapsed into a discordant blare and was replaced by a steadily increasing wave of screaming along with the rush of feet as people stampeded for the doors. I tried to keep my eyes on the spot where the flashes had come from, but it was hopeless, so I looked down and took in the huddle of gowns that was forming around the two motionless bodies.
Stepping over the legs of one of the three bulldogs who had forced Raphael to the floor and positioned themselves over her, I made it to the multicoloured silk cocoon and pushed my way through.
Dawkley was on his knees by one of the bodies, his hands covered in blood and his head bowed. “Oh no,” he was moaning. “Oh no.”
I examined the victim. Judging by the suit trousers it was a male, but it was difficult to identify him. The entire upper torso was a lake of blood and the chest looked like it had exploded. The face was covered in blood and other body matter. “Who is it?” I asked the science administrator, trying to remember which of the senior academics had been wearing a grey hood over his gown.
“Yamaguchi,” the science administrator said in a leaden voice. “It’s Professor Yamaguchi.”
The hubbub in the hall was beginning to die down as most of the audience managed to get out of the theatre. I tried to locate Davie, but couldn’t make him out behind the solid line of bulldogs that had formed across the auditorium.
Raphael appeared, pushing people out of the way. She stood staring at Yamaguchi, her face impassive. Then she tapped Dawkley on the shoulder and gave him a stern look.
I turned to the other victim. He was lying spread-eagled over his seat, arms extended and chest blasted apart in the same way as his colleague’s. This time I could see enough of the blood-spattered features to make an instant identification. It was Doctor Verzeni. I thought back to the visit we’d made to the Department of Metallurgy, and the advanced weapon and ammunition that he’d shown us. It looked very much like the Italian had been taken out by the products of his own research.
My mobile went off.
“Quint, come over to the entrance hall. I’ve got something.”
The connection was cut. Davie really was excited – he’d forgotten to sign off.
I was let through the line of bulldogs by Trout. He was wearing the expression of a man whose girlfriend had just kicked him in the groin. I soon found out why.
“Jesus,” I gasped, looking at the body on the floor of the hall. “What happened to him?”
“I’d say he took a single blow to the centre of the face.” Davie was standing over Perch’s sprawled body, keeping his eyes off features that had been completely crushed. “He’s dead.” Then he grabbed my sleeve. “Look over here, Quint.” He pointed to a low, clear plastic enclosure on the floor tiles a few feet away. “I saw the shooter heading this way. He—”
“You saw him?” I interrupted. “What did he look like?”
Davie’s teeth closed over his lower lip. “Difficult to say. I saw the discharge flashes from his weapon first and then everything went crazy in there. He was big all right, like the—” He broke off and glanced around. “Like the specimens we’re after,” he said in a low voice. “He got out of the main chamber at speed. He was in a dark suit and I think he was wearing a wig – medium-length brown hair. But I didn’t see his face.”
“Bloody hell, Davie,” I complained. “Did anyone else spot him?”
“None of the bulldogs at the door did. They were all too busy looking at the mayhem in front of them. The proctor’s people are outside looking for witnesses; the crowd’s probably halfway to the Poison Fields by now.” Davie turned to the plastic surround again. “Anyway, I saw him heading in this direction. I reckon he went down in the lift.”
I slapped my hand against my thigh. Of course; the plastic barrier was over a concealed lift shaft like the ones in the university departments. “Let’s get after him,” I said, stripping off my gown and bow tie.
Davie strode over. “How?” he said, waving his control card. “I don’t seem to have the access code.”
My card didn’t do anything either. I looked around for a touch panel without success.
“Here, citizen.” Raphael was standing behind me. She’d
removed the nostrum from round her neck and was holding it out to me. “I have the code programmed in.”
I waved the device over the floor and a small square area was outlined in red light on the tiles. If the assassin had gone down here he must have known the code. I tossed the nostrum back to the chief administrator. “Thanks. There’s only room for two. Davie and I are going after the shooter.”
For a moment it looked like she was going to argue, then she nodded. “Very well. But you’re on your own. There’s no surveillance system in the mole runs.”
“In the what?” I said, grabbing Davie’s arm as the floor jerked downwards.
Raphael didn’t answer. Her face was solemn, one cheek scratched from the enforced dive she’d taken to the floor.
Then she and her entourage disappeared from sight, replaced by a smooth metallic shaft. By the time the lift glided to a halt I’d already concluded that this strategic decision was on a par with that of Captain Scott not to take dogs to the South Pole.
Too late.
“Bugger me,” Davie said, peering out of the reinforced plastic box we found ourselves in. “What is this?”
“I see what Raphael meant by mole runs,” I said, taking in the horizontal shafts that led away in four directions, the roofs of the circular metal tunnels lit by strips of green light. This explained how she got to Queen so quickly yesterday. So much for utopian New Oxford. The subs lived in squalor while the administrators spent a fortune on high-speed private transport.
“Why didn’t they tell us about this underground network?” Davie said, looking at the maze of different coloured lines that had appeared on a screen at waist height.
I was shaking my head. “There are a lot of things they haven’t told us about, big man. The trick is to work out why.” I turned to him. “But that’s for later. Let’s see if we can track this killing machine down.”
Davie ran his fingers over the screen and brought up a menu.
“Try ‘Last Car’,” I said, pointing at one of the options.
House of Dust Page 34
