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

headed for the castle, I went through what I’d set up. The Oxford administrator and her entourage were staying in Ramsay Garden at the eastern end of the esplanade. I’d sent Davie round there to make sure that nothing was touched, and to put a marker down; it would be harder for the Mist or any other meddler to throw us off the case if he was on the scene early.
    We came out of the darkened citizen area and into the central zone, the castle ahead of us lit up like a fireship that had run aground on a rocky promontory. The young guardswoman steered the vehicle across the deserted junction at Tollcross towards Lauriston Place, missing a heavy bollard by no more than an inch.
    I gasped. “And people complain about my driving.”
    A tight smile appeared on the auxiliary’s lips but she didn’t speak.
    My mobile buzzed.
    â€œYes, Davie.”
    â€œHow did you know it was? . . . oh forget it.” Edinburgh mobiles, as basic as they come, don’t display the caller’s number but I knew it would be him. “The scene-of-crime squad’s on site.”
    â€œOkay, hold them back till I arrive.” I glanced at the driver. “When will that be, guardswoman?”
    â€œIn four minutes,” she replied.
    â€œShit,” I said, gripping the arm-rest with my spare hand. “Any time now, Davie. Have you informed the Medical Directorate?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œLined up all the sentries who were on duty?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œAny of your senior officers present?”
    â€œOh aye.”
    â€œOh bugger.” I’d been hoping to get a free run at the outset of what sounded like a seriously unusual case.
    Davie signed off and I braced myself with both hands as we roared past the infirmary. Which brought my mind back to the object of the enquiry with a jolt. Why the hell had some sick bastard amputated an arm and left it in Administrator Raphael’s bath?
    The guardswoman pulled up at the checkpoint on the esplanade and waved for it to be raised.
    â€œNo worries,” I said, my door already open. “It’s been a lot of fun but I’ll walk from here, thanks.”
    An even broader smile split her freckled face. “Have a good night, citizen.”
    â€œThat’ll be right,” I said, slamming the door. “Remind me never to get in your dodgem again.”
    Davie emerged from a door nearby. “Quick, Quint,” he said. “The Mist’s trying to take over.”
    â€œUh-huh. What does she know about apotemnophilia?”
    â€œEh?”
    â€œLimb removal,” I explained. “Often for sexual gratification.”
    â€œYou’re jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?”
    â€œMaybe.” I glanced up at the harled white wall in front of me. The topsy-turvy complex of houses and flats known as Ramsay Garden had been started in the eighteenth century and it looked like something out of a Middle European fairy tale. There were projecting towers, patches of red ashlar and carved animals all over the place. It had originally been built to attract university professors to the Old Town. Something similar to that was going on now: the Council uses the accommodation for visiting VIPs and the delegation of Oxford experts had been put up in it.
    Davie nodded to the guard personnel inside the heavy studded door and they let me through. Scene-of-crime personnel in white overalls had congregated in the hallway.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked.
    â€œSecond floor,” Davie replied. “The woman’s flat has a view of the castle.”
    I looked round at him. “You weren’t responsible for security here, I hope?”
    Davie shook his head emphatically. “No chance. Only at the reception.”
    â€œJust as well.”
    We reached the second floor and walked down, or rather through, a luxurious thick pile carpet – maroon, of course. At the far end there was a gaggle of figures