Babel

by Barry Maitland

  Despite the rain, Shadwell Road looked bright and cheerful, its pavements busy with people doing some evening shopping in the stores that lined its length. Beneath the umbrellas Brock noticed women in headscarves and saris, men in skullcaps and baggy pants, a Nigerian in his distinctive wide-shouldered coat, a group of Sikhs in turbans. Window posters on the shopfronts advertised cheap flights, £350 to Dhaka, £340 to Karachi, and forthcoming entertainments by Raha and Malkit Singh. Shop signs were mostly in English and one or more other languages, Urdu, Gujarati, Arabic, Hindi. They parked outside Manzoor’s Saree Centre (‘fabulous fashions and fabrics for all the family’) next door to the police station, a converted shop in the middle of a row of small traders. Its front window was filled with posters advertising its own specials—four Wanted for Murders, five Missing Persons, a couple of Serious Sexual Assaults, one Terrorism: Postal Bombs Alert and one Prostitution. They went inside.

  Their advance phone call had had some effect. The uniformed duty inspector and desk sergeant were standing together behind the counter looking as if they’d just brushed their hair and scrubbed their fingernails.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ the inspector said stiffly. ‘May we help you?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Brock said, and introduced them both. ‘We phoned.’

  ‘Of course. Would you care to come this way, sir?’ He lifted the counter flap and indicated a door leading through to the back of the shop, like a tailor inviting a special customer through for a fitting. They went into a small windowless interview room with a few chairs arranged around a table, some recording equipment on a side table. An extract fan rattled into life as the lights were switched on.

  ‘The PC who interviewed your murder victim is out on the beat at the moment, sir, but we’ve radioed him and he’s on his way. Should be here shortly. May I fetch you gentlemen something while we’re waiting? A cup of tea? A bite to eat?’

  Brock felt suddenly hungry. ‘Anywhere round here to get a sandwich?’

  ‘The pub across the way does a very decent sandwich. Or we could get in some take-away—Tandoori, Balti, Bangladeshi, Halal. You can get most anything here. All on our doorstep.’

  ‘The sandwich sounds fine. And a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’

  They placed their orders and the inspector left them to read the file copy of PC Greg Talbot’s report of the complaint made by Professor Max Springer against person or persons unknown. Ten minutes later, as they were eating their supper, there was a knock on the door and the inspector showed in the young constable. He entered cautiously, as if he’d been warned he might be in trouble. As he came through the door he bumped awkwardly against the jamb with the load of kit strapped to his belt—the process pouch, quick-cuffs, first aid kit, Asp extendable baton, radio, torch, and the CS spray canister in its spring-loaded holster.

  ‘PC Talbot, sir,’ the inspector said, and the constable came to attention in front of them, eyes fixed on the wall behind Brock’s head.

  ‘Greg, isn’t it?’ Brock said. ‘Take a seat, Greg. Don’t mind us eating, will you. Fancy a sandwich yourself ?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir,’ the man said stiffly. ‘I’ll be having my dinner shortly.’ Then added, ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brock checked his watch. ‘You’re just coming off your shift now, aren’t you? But on Sunday the second you were on the morning shift, that right?’

  ‘Sir. We were a bit short handed that day, after the New Year celebrations, and I was on front desk. The gentleman came in midmorning, eleven o’clock. I couldn’t speak to him immediately ’cos I was dealing with another person.’ He glanced over at his Inspector and added, ‘Mr Manzoor next door, sir. Complaining about his daughter again.’

  The inspector nodded and Greg Talbot turned back to face Brock and Bren.

  ‘Please relax, Greg,’ Brock said gently, seeing how rigid the lad was. He looked too young to be in uniform, Brock thought, his face more that of a cheeky schoolboy than the stolid mask of a cop. Or maybe it’s me, Brock thought, getting too old. ‘We just want to get your impressions of the man. You’ve been briefed about his murder today, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can I ask, sir, am I in strife?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. I’ve read your report. It all seems quite reasonable.’

  ‘But he was right, wasn’t he? It happened just like he predicted.’

  ‘The date, you mean? Yes, that is interesting . . .’ Brock ran his finger down the report. ‘He said that he had had a threatening phone call from a man who didn’t identify himself, but said that “if he didn’t stop broadcasting his views immediately, he would suffer the consequences soon, and no later than the twentieth of January”, which is today. Those were his actual words, were they?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The policeman sounded defensive.

  ‘I mean, precisely, Greg? “Broadcasting”, for instance? That was his word?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have used that word myself. I asked him what he meant, and he said he’d been making his opinions known publicly. He’d been interviewed on the radio, apparently. Radio East London. Some time towards the end of last year.’

  ‘And did you inquire as to the nature of his opinions?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought he might be a nutter. Maybe a racist. But he said he’d been speaking out against extremists of all persuasions.’

  ‘Extremists.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And fundamentalists. His words.’

  ‘Hm. And he was quite specific about the date? Not “about the twentieth” or “within three weeks” or something like that?’ Brock noticed the lad blink involuntarily. There was the briefest hesitation before he replied.

  ‘The twentieth, sir. Exactly.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Brock gave him a sympathetic smile, but held his eyes, saying nothing until the constable abruptly said, ‘We worked that out, you see, sir. That’s how he could be so specific.’

  ‘Worked it out?’

  ‘He claimed the caller had said, “within two weeks of the end of Ramadan”, and we worked out that was the twentieth. I didn’t put all that in the report,’ Talbot said speaking faster now. ‘Would have taken too long, and anyway, around here you don’t think twice about Ramadan . . .’

  Brock nodded understandingly. Ever since the Stephen Lawrence case and the McPherson report that followed it, condemning endemic racism in the Metropolitan Police, a tidal wave of political correctness had swept over the force. Greg Talbot had omitted the words ‘fundamentalist’ and ‘Ramadan’ from his report because they had a flavour that he would prefer to keep out of his account. He would have done this automatically, as part of a self-correcting editorial process, presenting the facts in a more neutral way, just to be on the safe side. But it did change things, by God it did. He felt Bren stir at his side.

  ‘Greg, what I’m going to ask you to do is to write out for me as full a description as you can possibly recall, of everything that you and Professor Springer said, word for word.’

  Talbot hesitated, no doubt seeing this as an invitation to weave the rope that he would be hanged by. ‘I’m not sure, sir . . .’ he said hesitantly, and Brock saw the lad’s brain working, perhaps trying to remember where he could get the phone number of the Police Federation for help.

  Brock felt momentarily helpless. He was too old, too highly ranked, altogether too heavy for this. Clearly the lad felt threatened by him. Bren on his own wouldn’t have been much better, either, just another, younger version of the same. Kathy could have done it, got the kid on side, talking informally, sympathetically. He felt a little stab of pain and loss at the thought of her. She would probably see the case mentioned in the papers, on TV, and she might be tempted to return too soon. He’d have to phone Suzanne later and warn her.

  ‘Greg, this will only be for my personal use, to further our investigation into the Springer murder, I can assure you of that. I will keep the original, and no copies will be made. As I said, I have no criticism of the way you handled this, and I take it your
supervisors feel the same way?’ He glanced at the inspector, who looked uncomfortable, as if wanting to keep his options open, depending on how this turned out, but he gave a nod all the same.

  ‘He just didn’t seem kosher, sir!’ Talbot blurted out. ‘He looked sort of weird, with his hair sticking out all over the place, and he was so bleedin’ calm. He stood there for twenty minutes listening to Mr Manzoor going on about his daughter and how we weren’t doing enough and he was going to go back to the justice to issue a new warrant, and all the time Springer just stood there, listening and nodding, and by the end Manzoor was talking more to him, appealing to him, like he was the magistrate! Then when finally Manzoor left, Springer told me what he’d come for, that someone had threatened to kill him, in the same, calm way, as if he was talking about someone else altogether.’

  ‘So you didn’t really believe him?’

  Talbot lowered his head. ‘When he said he was a teacher at the university, I thought one of his students was having a lark, winding him up, pretending to be a terrorist or something. Well, he didn’t seem like the sort of man anyone would want to kill, a polite old bloke like that. And when he said how he was a widower and lived on his own, and had no close family, I thought the poor old bugger had probably had a miserable Christmas and New Year and just wanted to talk to someone. So I talked to him, and I told him his best plan was to get on to BT and get them to intercept his incoming calls, but if he got any evidence, like a threatening note or something, he should come back and we’d make out a formal report and take some sort of action. But he insisted on making a proper statement then, and that I got it recorded on file. That way, he said, if it happened again, the next person he spoke to would take it seriously. I mean, it wasn’t as if he was frightened or anything. He’d have been more bothered if he’d been reporting a lost budgie.’

  ‘I understand. We could hardly put an armed guard on everyone who thinks someone’s out to get them, could we? Then something like this happens, and you think, “if only”. No fault of yours, son. Just the luck of the game. But now we have to find the killer, and I do want that detailed report. We owe the old man that, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ PC Talbot met Brock’s eyes again and added quietly, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ They got to their feet, and Brock shook hands with the inspector and then said to the constable, ‘See us to the door will you, son?’

  Outside on the pavement, with the lad on his own, Brock gave Talbot his card and said quietly, ‘Call me direct if anything else occurs to you, Greg. And if they try to put any blame on you, get in touch, OK? I’ll sort it out.’

  The rain had stopped, and as they stood in front of the postered window one of the broadsheets caught Brock’s eye. One of the Missing Persons, a picture of an attractive young South Asian woman, and the name, Nargis Manzoor.

  ‘The same Manzoor?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. She’s been missing now for over three months. Mr Manzoor doesn’t think we’re doing enough to find her. He got a warrant issued last year for us to carry out a search.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘She’s only seventeen. He claimed he had grounds to believe that she had been taken out of the possession of her parent for the purpose of extra-marital sex, against his will. Section nineteen of the Sexual Offences Act, sir.’

  Brock smiled. ‘You’ve been swotting up for your exams, eh?’

  Talbot grinned back. ‘Believe me, sir, after three months of Mr Manzoor going at us day and night, we all know the Sexual Offences Act 1956 backwards. The thing that gets me is that the abduction doesn’t need to be against her will, only against his. And that’s pretty much what happened in this case, we reckon. They’d been fighting, her and her dad, and we reckon she’d had enough and ran away, but he won’t have it.’

  At that moment a small, dapper looking man in a dark suit and tie stepped out of the adjoining shop. Seeing them he called out, ‘Ah, PC Talbot. Been looking for her, have you? I do hope so.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Manzoor. As always.’

  Brock left them to it. As he got into the car Bren was finishing a conversation on his phone. On the point of giving up for the night, the searchers at the university had found a cartridge case, dropped in the area where students parked their motorbikes.

  4

  The following morning, Friday, 21 January, while Kathy was reading about the case in a Hastings café, Brock returned to the UCLE campus. After inspecting the area under the DLR viaduct where the student motorbikes were parked, he got Truck the security chief to open up Max Springer’s room for him. It was located at the back of the university site, furthest from the waterfront in one of a cluster of old buildings which had been incorporated by the university as a temporary relief for its expanding accommodation needs. Previously workshops and small offices, the old buildings had had just enough money spent on them to satisfy the building inspector and were crammed against the DLR track, whose passing trains made their windows rattle.

  Brock and Truck climbed an uneven staircase to a dark landing from which a corridor wound away. A notice board carried class lists and a few curling posters of Christmas parties and items for sale.

  ‘This is the professor’s room,’ Truck said, opening one of the doors and reaching inside for the light switch.

  It looked rather as if a volcano disgorging books, papers and other odd objects instead of lava had erupted in the middle of the tiny room.

  ‘Someone’s trashed the place,’ Brock said.

  Truck laughed. ‘No, no. This is the way he kept it. Doris brought me over here to show me, when she and the prof were having their dispute.’

  Standing just inside the doorway, hardly able to advance further into the room, Brock began to see a kind of pattern in the chaotic jumble. It seemed to focus on a chair, itself piled with papers, at a desk mounded with stuff, as if this were the mouth of the volcano, its source from which the debris was scattered around, and Brock guessed that, random as it appeared, the old man seated there probably knew where most things were, and could reach out a hand to find a specific book from where he had last tossed it. He could imagine how Doris’ efforts to create order would completely upset this random filing system.

  ‘See the desk?’ Truck said at his shoulder, whispering as if in awe at the sight. ‘When so much junk had gathered there, instead of sorting it out and putting it away, he would take that big roll of brown paper over there, see, and spread it right over the top, and pin it down at the ends with drawing pins, and start again.’ Truck sucked in his breath at the sheer outrageousness of the concept. ‘Then, when he’d piled up so many layers that the whole thing became unstable, he’d grab hold of one end and sweep the whole lot crashing to the floor, over there.’ He pointed to a great mound of debris. ‘And you wonder they have mice in here! He said he didn’t mind a few mice around. Said it raised the average IQ of the university.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Had quite a sense of humour then, did he?’

  ‘Well, to tell the truth, he wasn’t really noted for his belly laughs. More a sort of acid wit, bitter like.’

  ‘I’d better try to have a look round,’ Brock said. ‘You don’t have to stay, Mr Truck, if you want to get on.’

  ‘Fair enough. Just lock the door when you’re finished.’

  Brock pulled on a pair of latex gloves and advanced gingerly through the mess, heading for the desk. Its surface was piled with newspapers, books, hand-written notes, official memos and circulars from the university administration, pens and pencils, correction fluid, a coffee mug with some dried sediment at the bottom. A small portable typewriter was half buried in the mess. There was no computer in the room.

  A DLR train passed with a loud whine and a rumble, the lower half of its carriages visible through the top of the grimy little window. Brock shifted the pile of files from the seat in front of the desk and sat down, trying to put himself in the mind of the acid-tongued, under-employed, half-famous, wild-haired, chaotically untidy
old man who had spent his days here. PC Talbot had been right—a very unlikely victim of anything but a random mugging, and whatever had happened on the university steps it wasn’t that. He stared at the framed pictures around the walls, mementos of Springer’s past; a print map of mediaeval Oxford, a child’s crayon drawing of an apartment block and a palm tree, a photograph of a much younger Springer in the company of a group of elderly men.

  Brock’s foot bumped a metal wastepaper bin beneath the desk, and he stooped to examine its contents. He was bent forward, eyes level with the desk top, when he noticed a piece of green paper tucked under the front edge of the typewriter. He tugged it out and unfolded it. Beneath a simplified drawing of a raised clenched fist were some printed words.

  ‘Surely, hell lies in wait, a resort for the rebellious . . . They feared not the reckoning and utterly rejected Our Signs.’

  Sura 78: 22–31

  Brock sat back, rubbing his beard with his knuckles as he considered this. The paper had been folded as if to go into a small envelope, and he began another search of the desk top, then the bin. Near the bottom of the bin, mixed up with a chocolate biscuit wrapping and a crumpled invitation to attend a union meeting, were the parts of an envelope that had been torn in half. The address had been hand printed in simple bold capitals, and as Brock deciphered the postmark date, ten days previous, he was thankful for the absence of cleaners to remove Springer’s rubbish. He slipped the green paper and the envelope into separate evidence pouches and put them in his pocket, then considered the room again. It would have to be searched properly, and it would take a couple of people the best part of a day to do it. He got to his feet, turned towards the door and saw a man standing there, leaning against the jamb watching him.