House of Dust by Paul Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

from the wheelchair and gave me a cold stare. It was the bearded professor called Raskolnikov.
    I introduced myself when Billy declined to answer.
    â€œAnd what is your purpose, Mr Quint Dalrymple?” the Russian asked, strong evidence of Russian vowels in his delivery.
    â€œ Citizen Quint Dalrymple,” my former school and university friend corrected. “That’s the term we use to designate non-auxiliaries.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œCitizen Dalrymple is an investigator,” Billy said sourly, his eyes staying off me. “He works for the Public Order Directorate. When he feels like it.”
    â€œReally?” The professor’s heavy features became slightly more animated. “And what do you investigate?”
    I looked at him. “Murders, mainly.”
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œTell 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.
    â€œThat is none of your business, my friend,” the professor said and turned on his heel.
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œQuint? Davie.” His voice was clipped. “Where are you?”
    â€œAbout to get into bed. What is it?”
    â€œSomething weird,” he said breathlessly.
    â€œOh shit.”
    â€œAye. You know that administrator woman from Oxford?”
    â€œRaphael? Not personally, but I saw her at the reception tonight.”
    â€œWell, 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