House of Dust (49 page)

The academic stared at me. “Appearances are deceptive, citizen. Any philosopher will tell you that. But I am no turncoat.” He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Besides, did I not tell you about the House of Dust?”

“You're a cold-blooded, murdering bastard,” I said, glaring at him. “You were playing games all along, weren't you? Like all your bastard, lying colleagues.”

He nodded. “Indeed.” He smiled again. “Who am I? Frederick Wood-Lewis is my name. I am the senior proctor of this university.”

Pete Pym groaned. “We're well and truly shafted now. This evil old vulture's behind all the worst things that have happened here.”

Wood-Lewis gave Pym a look that managed at the same time to be both vacant and malevolent. I realised that the old don was wearing clothes that were a lot less ragged than his usual get-up. His tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers must have come straight from Nox Outfitters on the High Street. “The senior proctor?” I said. “What about Connington?”

“Doctor Connington is the junior proctor,” Burton said. “He handled both roles while I was working undercover.” That explained Haskins' use of Connington's correct title; unfortunately I'd been too distracted to follow it up.

“Where's Katharine?” I demanded. “Where's the Grendel?”

The bogus don's expression hardened. “They are still on the run. We thought we had the assassin, but he managed to fight his way out of the rendering chamber.” He shook his head. “His immune system withstood the new gas compound, for all the assurances of Dawkley's people.”

“What about Katharine?” I shouted. “Where is she?”

Wood-Lewis's eyes were locked on mine. “He carried her out of there. He killed seven bulldogs on the way.”

“Good,” Davie said.

“Where's he taken her?” I asked, standing as close to the bars as I dared. “For Christ's sake, Burton, Wood-Lewis, whatever your fucking name is – where are they?”

“Don't worry, citizen, we have them on the sensors.” The senior proctor looked at me thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can help.”

“How?”

Wood-Lewis glanced to his left and nodded to a bulldog in a stained leather apron. “The electrical charge is now off, citizen. If you agree to my proposal, I will open the barrier. If not, I will leave you in the capable hands of Jowett here.”

I took a deep breath. I was about to be manipulated by the authorities of New Oxford again, but it was the only way I could help Katharine.

“What's your proposal?” I said in a low voice.

“Quint?” Davie was at my side. “You're not going to help this scumbag? He's responsible for—”

I put my hand on his forearm to silence him.

“My proposal,” Wood-Lewis said when he was sure that Davie was under control, “is that we allow the Mark Two Grendel to exit through the escape tunnel where he and his prey are currently holed up.”

“They're in the tunnel leading from the House of Dust to the canal?” I asked.

He nodded. “We have them under surveillance. Although the Grendel is beyond our systems, your companion is not.” He gave me another tight smile. “She can lead us to him.”

Davie stepped up and put his hands on the bars without a second's hesitation. “How do you know he hasn't just dumped Katharine there?”

“Until a few seconds ago she was showing in mid-air on our system,” Wood-Lewis replied. “Obviously he was carrying her.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “Why don't you just block the ends of the tunnel and leave the Grendel and Katharine to rot? You don't care about her.”

“True,” he countered. “But the chief administrator and Dawkley want the Mark Two Grendel in one piece so that tests can be carried out and refinements made. We also want no more damage inflicted on the House of Dust. The only way to achieve those ends is to let him out of the tunnel unhindered and draw him to a location where we can snare him.”

“Pretty risky strategy, isn't it?” I said, looking at him suspiciously. I knew there was more going on than he'd admitted, but this was Katharine's only chance. “All right,” I said, glancing at Pete Pym. “But I want your assurance that you'll let this citizen go back to Cowley unharmed.”

Wood-Lewis nodded after a credible amount of reluctance.

“And I want you to tell me what the hell's been going on,” I said.

The senior proctor smiled. “Have no fear, citizen. You'll be told everything you need to know and more.” He raised a finger to the bulldog and the bars slid aside. “That would be only fair,” he continued, meeting my gaze. “In exchange for you giving us the Grendel.”

I stared back at him and laughed. I stopped when I realised he was completely serious.

A lift took us up to the surface in a few seconds. The senior proctor's nostrum told him that the Grendel and Katharine were still in the tunnel, about fifty yards from the exit to the towpath. Presumably the assassin was waiting to see if any bulldogs approached. Wood-Lewis had ordered all his forces to keep their distance until we could see where the Grendel was headed.

“So you played me for a jackass and put me on to the House of Death,” I said as we came up into a clear plastic box in the middle of a wide quadrangle. “Making sure that you didn't make it too obvious in case I felt the hook. Why bother?”

Wood-Lewis pressed a box on the screen and watched as the shaft cover rose up. “Surely that's obvious, citizen. We wanted you to lure the Grendel into our most secure area.” He twitched his lips. “We imagined – mistakenly as it transpired – that we could neutralise him there.”

I was staring at him in bewilderment. “You wanted
me
to lure him into the House of Dust? Why would he allow himself to be lured by me?” Then flashes of light began to appear in the deepest recesses of my mind. I stepped away from the others, my hand at my brow. I was only vaguely aware of the great tower that was lying horizontally on the ground, its top over what used to be a pond.

The Edinburgh connection – that's what this whole case revolved around. The mutilation of George Faulds and Lewis Hamilton's death had been the beginning of it and I'd allowed myself to overlook the significance of those events for too long. The Edinburgh connection: that had to be it. The Grendel had addressed me by my correct title several times. Not only that, he'd addressed Davie by his first name and his old rank. And he'd used yards as a measurement rather than metres. Christ, that was it.

“This Mark Two Grendel,” I said, turning back towards Wood-Lewis. “Number Three, as he's been designated – he was originally from Edinburgh, wasn't he?”

The senior proctor nodded. “You've finally got it, citizen. From a recent review of the transcripts we made when he and his companions underwent the initial indoctrination sessions – we use powerful drugs to ascertain as much as we can – we discovered that you knew him.” He glanced at Davie. “As did you, commander.”

Davie and I were staring at each other. That explained the vague sense of familiarity I got from the photograph, as well as his use of our names and titles. But I still didn't recognise the solid features and empty black eyes.

“Quint,” Davie said in an undertone. “Remember the wound on Dead Dod's finger? I always thought it was made by an auxiliary knife.”

I watched as Wood-Lewis nodded, a smile spreading across his thin lips. “And remember the knowledge of guard procedures at Ramsay Garden,” I said slowly. “As well as the location of the youth's body near the port in Leith.” I moved closer to Wood-Lewis, causing the bulldog who was escorting him to step between us. “You said this guy had people with him when he became a Grendel?” I asked, looking round the bodyguard's solid frame.

The old academic nodded, the smile even broader.

“Jesus, Davie,” I said, shaking my head. “You know who he is, don't you?”

Davie's mouth was open, his expression fraught. “Auxiliary, knowledge of the port area, tendency to extreme violence . . .” His eyes opened wide. “No, it can't be.”

“Yes, it can,” I said, biting my lip. “This Grendel is Jamieson 369.” I watched as Wood-Lewis nodded triumphantly. “The former commander of the Fisheries Guard back home, known throughout the City Guard as Dirty Harry.”

Davie's mouth was hanging open.

“Excellent,” the senior proctor said.

“Oh no it isn't,” I countered. Dirty Harry was the last person I wanted to be holding Katharine prisoner, especially if his innate ferocity had been chemically and psychologically enhanced by the lunatics in New Oxford.

“What do you think, citizen?” Wood-Lewis asked. “Can you trap him and talk him into surrendering? Can you terminate his career?”

I was watching a dodo flop across the grass of the quadrangle, its beady eyes regarding us haughtily as it picked its way around the base of the chimney. “The answer to both questions is no,” I said, glancing back at him. “How did you produce that bloody bird, for Christ's sake? Genetic engineering?”

Wood-Lewis shook his head. “No, no. That's not one of Dawkley's interests. It's mechanically contrived.”

“What?” Davie said, screwing his eyes up at the extinct creature.

“He means it's a robot,” I said. “That's all we need.”

Except it wasn't. What we really needed were a couple of Davie's crack guard units, but we were on our own in this city with its stinking honeycomb of underground passages and death chambers.

As we were led to the gate I remembered that Christ Church used to be referred to as the House. My old man had told me that was a translation of the Latin
Aedes Christi
– the House of Christ. Now it had been turned into the House of Dust. There was a lot more than Evelyn Waugh's handful of that substance beneath our feet; here Hamlet's precious quintessence of dust was heaped in great mounds and used as an industrial resource.

It was hell, an inferno, the end of the world.

And Katharine was still down there.

“He'll be waiting till it's completely dark,” I said to Raphael. “Then he'll use his equipment to take out your street surveillance units so he can obscure Katharine from the Camera; like he did with Ted Pym on the way to Dead Man's Walk and Raskolnikov at the Botanic Garden.”

She nodded, her eyes directed out of the window in the Hebdomadal Council chamber towards the lights that had just come on in Broad Street. “Very likely.”

“Unless he's already killed her, of course.”

She looked round at me. “Surely you don't want to take the risk of storming the tunnel? Your friend would not survive such a move.”

I shook my head. “You know he'll be coming for you, don't you?”

She motioned agreement again. “I know,” she said. “I don't know why he didn't fire at me during the Encaenia.”

“He wanted Yamaguchi and Verzeni first.” I was watching her face. It remained as impassive as ever. “They were involved in the Grendel project so they had to die like Raskolnikov. You're responsible for everything in this murderous state – that has to be why he's been gunning for you.” I moved closer. “What happened to his friends? Dirty Harry deserted from Edinburgh back in 2025 with a full Fisheries Guard vessel crew.”

“Didn't the senior proctor tell you?” the chief administrator asked. “They all died during the fitting-out process.”

“The fitting-out process?” I repeated. Wood-Lewis had offered to brief me on the Grendels when we got to the building, but I refused; a blast of repulsion at what we'd seen in the House of Dust had made me tell him where to go. “What the hell is the fitting-out process?”

Before Raphael could answer, her nostrum chirruped and, at the same time, there was the noise of numerous feet at the far end of the room.

“He's moving, chief administrator,” Wood-Lewis called from the front of a group that included Dawkley and Connington. For a change the junior proctor wasn't wearing his gown. Trout lurked at the rear.

“So I see,” Raphael said coolly.

“You really must accompany us to the secure area beneath the Camera,” Dawkley said, his eyes restless. “He may well look here first.”

Wood-Lewis stepped forward. “We cannot stop him with conventional arms,” he said in a low voice. “I suggest that Citizen Dalrymple tries to distract him while we surround the area with the supermax lasers Dawkley's people have been working on.” The sardonic way he was looking at the science administrator showed how little faith he had in that weapon. “Let's hope they make the Grendel see sense and surrender.”

“I thought you said
I
was supposed to terminate his career,” I said. “How the fuck do you expect me to do that?” I glanced round. “Where's Davie?” He'd gone off with a pair of bulldogs an hour earlier to check the weaponry options, while Pete Pym had been sent back to Cowley.

“On his way,” Dawkley said. “With a supermax.”

“You've given him one of your precious lasers?” I said. “Why?”

“It's only a small one,” the science administrator said. “Perhaps the Grendel's guard will drop and the commander will manage to train the beam on him.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps.” I gave them a pessimistic glare. “Or perhaps he'll use it on the fuckers who set up the House of Dust.” I looked round their pallid faces. “Which means all of you.”

That gave them pause for thought.

After a few minutes Wood-Lewis and Dawkley began to look even more concerned.

“The surveillance unit outside Worc has gone down,” the senior proctor said, pointing to the large panel that had lowered from the ceiling. “He's getting nearer.”

“Patience,” Raphael said, her expression unperturbed. “You've set up full blast protection on Crim Fac, I presume.”

Wood-Lewis nodded. “His explosive charges can effect only limited damage. Of course, we don't yet know if the faculty's a target.”