Free House of Dust by Paul Johnston Page A

morning conference with the city’s number one slimebag.
    â€œIt’s rather cold,” the senior guardian said. “Let’s take advantage of my vehicle.” A machine was just about all I could imagine him taking advantage of. Despite a wandering eye and a prurient tongue, Lachlan Lessels was as close to asexual as it gets.
    I joined him in the back of the cab and glanced at my steamed-up watch. “I’m a bit pushed for time, guardian,” I said.
    â€œYou can spare me a few moments, Dalrymple,” he said, licking his finger and removing a spot from his green corduroy trousers. He looked round at me. “Let me make myself very clear.” His voice was reedy but the tone was sharp. “I and certain carefully chosen colleagues have worked hard to build up Edinburgh’s relations with New Oxford over the last year. The Hebdomadal Council has been extremely co-operative and extremely generous.”
    The way he stressed the last word made it clear what was driving the Council’s relationship with the southern city. Money is underneath everything in Edinburgh – money and sewers. It’s just that there are more of the latter than the former here. What did New Oxford expect to get out of Edinburgh?
    â€œThis appalling business with the severed arm must be resolved with maximum speed and minimum disruption, do you understand?” The senior guardian shook his head. “It’s pure insanity. I want the madman who did this caught today, do you hear? Today!”
    He was doing a reasonable impression of a moonstruck specimen himself.
    â€œThere’s very little to go on,” I pointed out. “We’re trying to—”
    â€œI know exactly what you’re doing,” he interrupted. “I’ve spoken to Administrator Raphael and to the public order guardian – not that he was much use.” He turned on me again. “No excuses, Dalrymple. Find the lunatic today.” His lips formed into an ugly rictus. “If you fail, you’ll be among the first prisoners in the New Bridewell. Point taken?”
    He’d screwed up. Being a lifelong atheist I don’t go in for articles of faith, but there’s one I always observe: never let a member of the Council get the better of you.
    â€œPoint taken, senior guardian,” I said with fake deference. “But there’s something I have to bring to your attention.”
    â€œAnd what is that?” he demanded.
    â€œWell,” I replied, looking past him towards the hills of Fife which had just been illuminated by a shaft of milky sunlight. “I know how the individual with the arm gained access to Ramsay Garden without attracting the sentries’ attention.”
    His eyes bulged. “Really? How?”
    â€œBy wearing a guard uniform.”
    That put an extra layer of grease on his forehead.

Chapter Four

    The upshot of my conversation with the senior guardian was an emergency meeting in Lewis Hamilton’s office. Slick himself was unable to attend as the Oxford delegation was waiting for him, but he made it very clear that the sentries were to be dragged over all available coals. He also specified that the Mist was to attend the meeting – to maintain some degree of objectivity, as he put it. To act as his listening device was what he meant.
    Hamilton stood behind his desk, the pens and pencils arrayed with military precision as usual, and glowered at his deputy. “Well, Raeburn 124, make yourself useful. Ask my secretary to send in coffee.”
    It was a cheap shot but she took it, only the slight colouring of her heavy cheeks showing what she thought of her superior’s management style.
    â€œWhat the hell do you think you’re up to, Dalrymple?” the public order guardian demanded as the Mist went to the door. “How dare you accuse my directorate of involvement in this crime?”
    â€œCalm down, Lewis,” I said, glancing at