I traced on my map the proximity and route between Bol Ye’an and the offices of Ul Qoma University used by Prince of Wales Archaeology Department. “Hey.” It was amilitsya officer, his hand on the butt of his weapon. He had a partner a pace behind.
“What are you doing?” They peered at me. “Hey.” The officer at the rear pointed at my visitor’s sign.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m interested in archaeology.”
“The fuck you are. Who are you?” Finger click for papers. The few unseeing Besź pedestrians crossed without probably being conscious that they did so to the other side of the street. There is little more unsettling than nearby foreign trouble. It was late, but there were some Ul Qomans close enough to hear the exchange, and they did not pretend not to listen. Some stopped to watch.
“I’m …” I gave them my papers.
“Tye Adder Borlo.”
“More or less.”
“Police?” They stared all confused at me.
“I’m here assisting the militsya with an international investigation. I suggest you contact Senior Detective Dhatt of the Murder Team”
“Fuck.” They conferred out of my hearing. One radioed something through. It was too dark to take a shot of Bol Ye’an on my cheap cell phone camera. The smell of some heavy-scented street food reached me. This was increasingly the prime candidate for the smell of Ul Qoma.
“Alright, Inspector Borlú.” One of them returned my documents.
“Sorry about that,” his colleague said.
“It’s quite alright.” They looked annoyed, and waited. “I’m on my way back to the hotel anyway, officers.”
“We’ll escort you, Inspector.” They would not be deterred.
When Dhatt came to pick me up the next morning, he said nothing beyond pleasantries when he came into the dining hall to find me trying “Traditional Ul Qoman Tea,” which was flavoured with sweet cream and some unpleasant spice. He asked how the room was. Only when I had finally got into his car and he lurched away from the kerb faster and more violently than even his officer the previous day had done did he say to me finally, “I wish you hadn’t done that last night.”
THE STAFF AND STUDENTS of the Prince of Wales University Ul Qoman Archaeology program were mostly at Bol Ye’an. I arrived at the site for the second time in less than twelve hours.
“I didn’t make us appointments,” Dhatt said. “I spoke to Professor Rochambeaux, the head of the project. He knows we’re coming again, but the rest of them I thought we’d take by chance.”
Unlike for my distance viewing of the night, up close the walls blocked off the site from watchers. Militsya were stationed at points outside, security guards within. Dhatt’s badge got us immediately into the little complex of makeshift offices. I had a list of the staff and students. We went first to Bernard Rochambeaux’s office. He was a wiry man about fifteen years my senior, who spoke Illitan with a strong Quebecois accent.
“We’re all devastated,” he told us. “I didn’t know the girl, you understand? Only to see in the common room. By reputation.” His office was in a portacabin, folders and books on the temporary shelves, photographs of himself in various dig sites. Outside we heard young people walking past and talking. “Any help we can give you, of course. I don’t know many of the students myself, not well. I have three PhD students at the moment. One is in Canada, the other two being, I think, over there.” He indicated the direction of the main dig. “Them I know.”
“What about Rodriguez?” He looked at me and signalled confusion. “Yolanda? One of your students? Have you seen her?”
“She’s not one of my three, Inspector. I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you. Have we … Is she missing?”
“She is. What do you know about her?”
“Oh my God. She’s missing? I don’t know anything about her. Mahalia Geary I knew by reputation of course, but we had literally never exchanged words other than at a welcome-new-students party a few months ago.”
“A lot longer than that,” Dhatt said. Rochambeaux stared at him.
“There you go—it’s impossible to keep track of time. Is it really? I can tell you about her all the things you already know. Her supervisor’s the one who can really help you. Have you met Isabelle?”
He had his secretary print a list of staff and students. I did not tell him we had one already. When Dhatt did not offer it to me I took it. Judging by the names, and in accordance with law, two of the archaeologists detailed were Ul Qoman.
“He’s got an alibi for Geary,” Dhatt said when we left. “He’s one of the very few who does. Most of them, you know, it was late in the night, no one can vouch, so alibi-wise at least they’re all fucked. He was on a conference call to a colleague in an uncongenial time zone roundabout the time she was killed. We checked it.”
We were looking for Isabelle Nancy’s office when someone called my name. A trim man in his early sixties, grey beard, glasses, hurrying between temporary rooms towards us. “Is it Inspector Borlú?” He glanced at Dhatt, but seeing the Ul Qoman insignia looked back at me. “I heard you might be coming. I’m glad to coincide with you. I’m David Bowden.”
“Professor Bowden.” I shook his hand. “I’m enjoying your book.”
He was visibly taken aback. He shook his head. “I take it you mean my first one. No one ever means the second one.” He dropped my hand. “That’ll get you arrested, Inspector.” Dhatt was looking at me in surprise.
“Where’s your office, Professor? I’m Senior Detective Dhatt. I’d like to talk to you.”
“I don’t have one, SD Dhatt. I’m only in here a day a week. And it’s not professor . Plain doctor. Or David is fine.”
“How long will you be here this morning, Doctor?” I said. “Could we grab a word with you?”
“I … of course, if you’d like, Inspector, but as I say, I’ve no office. Normally I meet students at my flat.” He gave me a card and when Dhatt raised an eyebrow he gave Dhatt one too. “My number’s on that. I’ll wait around if you’d like; we can probably find a place to talk.”
“Did you not come in to see us, then?” I said.
“No, this is chance. I wouldn’t normally be in today at all, but my supervisee didn’t turn up yesterday and I thought I might find her here.”
“Your supervisee?” Dhatt said.
“Yes, they only trust me with the one.” He smiled. “Hence no office.”
“Who is it you’re looking for?”
“Her name’s Yolanda, SD. Yolanda Rodriguez.”
He was horrified when we told him that she was unreachable. He stammered for something to say.
“She’s gone? After what happened to Mahalia, now Yolanda? Oh my God, Officers, do you—”
“We’re looking into it,” Dhatt said. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Bowden looked stricken. We had similar reactions from his colleagues. One by one we went through the four academics we could find on-site, including Thau’ti, the senior of the two Ul Qomans, a young taciturn man. Only Isabelle Nancy, a tall well-dressed woman with two pairs of glasses of different prescriptions on chains around her neck, was aware that Yolanda had disappeared.
“It’s good to meet you, Inspector, Senior Detective.” She shook our hands. I had read her statement. She claimed she had been at home when Mahalia was murdered but could not prove it. “Anything I can do to help,” she kept saying.
“Tell us about Mahalia. I get the sense she was well-known here, if not by your boss.”
“Not so much anymore,” Nancy said. “At one point maybe. Did Rochambeaux say he didn’t know her? That’s a bit… disingenuous. She’d ruffled some feathers.”
“At the conference,” I said. “Back in Besźel.”
“That’s right. Down south. He was there. Most of us were. I was, David, Marcus, Asina. Anyway she’d been raising eyebrows at more than one session, asking questions about dissensi , about Breach, that sort of thing. Nothing explicitly illegitimate, but a bit vulgar , you could say, the sort of thing you’d expect from Hollywood or something, not the nuts-and-bolts stuff of Ul Qoman or pre-Cleavage or even Besź research. You could see the bigwigs who’d come along to open proceedings and dedicate ceremonies and whatnot were getting a bit leery. Then finally she out and starts raving about Orciny. So David’s mortified, of course; the university’s embarrassed; she nearly gets chucked out—there were some Besź representatives there who made a big hoo-ha about it.”