Babel

by Barry Maitland

  ‘So you must have been as close to what he was working on as anyone, I suppose? Did he talk about that? Things he was writing about?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do you remember if he said anything about a “protocol”?’

  ‘A what?’

  Kathy checked in her notebook to get the term right. ‘Something called a “BRCA4 protocol”?’

  Briony picked up a pencil and wrote it down on the tail end of a shopping list. ‘I think I do remember him using the word “protocol” once or twice.’

  ‘Can you remember what he said about it?’

  ‘Not exactly . . .’ Briony screwed up her nose, thinking. ‘He was being scathing about scientists, I think, “with their evil protocols”, that sort of thing. I don’t remember a specific number like that.’ A light dawned in her eyes. ‘This is something CAB-Tech is doing, isn’t it? Yes, I do remember he referred to a specific project they were involved in. And it had a code number, like this. I didn’t take it in at the time.’

  ‘OK.’ Kathy nodded and went to put her notebook away, but Briony gripped her wrist and said fiercely, ‘You are investigating them, aren’t you? I knew you would. It’s them, isn’t it? They’re responsible for what happened to Max.’

  Then her eyes skipped up over Kathy’s shoulder and she got quickly to her feet. ‘Nargis!’ she cried, and Kathy turned and saw the other girl standing in the doorway watching them.

  ‘Sergeant Kolla wants to speak to you again. Are you up to it?’

  Nargis came silently to the table and sat down. ‘I was praying,’ she said softly. ‘For Abu.’

  Kathy said nothing, thinking of the grief she might cause when she showed her the photograph, and wondering whether to let it go. But she knew she had to ask.

  ‘I’m really sorry to intrude again, Nargis, especially with this. I just need you to identify something for me, a snapshot of you and Abu.’ She took one of the copies from her bag and placed it on the table. But the girl wasn’t distressed, only puzzled. ‘That looks like one of mine. How did you get it?’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it is. It was last spring, wasn’t it, Briony? In the pool at Thamesmead.’

  ‘Who took it?’ Kathy said gently.

  ‘Why, it was Briony. Wasn’t it? With Abu’s camera.’

  Briony shrugged. ‘I remember the day we went to the pool. George and Kasim came too, didn’t they?’

  ‘So it was Abu’s film. Do you know where the other pictures are?’

  ‘Abu gave them to me. They’re in my room in Chandler’s Yard. Why?’

  ‘It was just a loose end we had to tie up.’

  ‘I suppose somebody else might have taken pictures that day. George or Fran maybe. I can’t remember.’

  Nargis stared sadly at the image. Kathy said, ‘Keep it if you like,’ and got to her feet before the girl could ask her again how she’d come by it.

  When she returned to Queen Anne’s Gate Kathy retrieved the inventory that had been made of things in Max Springer’s room. She eventually found what she was looking for in a long list of items under the general heading ‘Files and papers’. Number 1076 was listed as ‘File marked “BRCA4 Protocol”: empty’.

  They had arranged a schedule of interviews with CAB-Tech staff through the Monday, booking interview facilities in a modern divisional police station just across the river from the UCLE campus. Brock kept Darr and Haygill until last, hoping that some discrepancies would emerge in the statements of the others, but his hopes faded as they went on. Of course, yes, they knew Abu very well, as a colleague and friend; they saw him every day, prayed with him, shared their meals with him; he was universally liked as a quiet, sincere, loyal and competent workmate. And no, he had given no indication that he was planning any violence to anyone; he had never spoken in anger against Professor Springer; he had never spoken about firearms. The whole thing was incomprehensible.

  After several hours of this, Bren sighed with frustration. ‘The same story every time.’

  ‘Psittacism, Bren,’ Brock grunted. ‘Pure psittacism.’

  ‘What’s that on a clear day, chief?’

  ‘Repetition of words and ideas parrot-fashion. Did you notice how the same phrases kept coming up? They’ve been taking classes.’

  ‘And we can guess who the teacher was.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s have him in, shall we?’

  Dr Darr didn’t repeat the exact phrases of the others, but the ideas were much the same. Abu simply wasn’t an unpredictable or highly emotional type, and it was impossible to imagine him doing anything so terrible. From there Darr went on to gently challenge his questioners. What would Abu have to gain? Were the police absolutely confident about their evidence? Could it not be a case of tragically mistaken identity? Or even, a deliberate attempt to discredit CAB-Tech through Abu, by a rival organisation perhaps? He couldn’t suggest any specific names, but theirs was a cut-throat research area, and it was well known that certain American companies could act ruthlessly when their commercial interests were at stake.

  Richard Haygill was accompanied by a solicitor from a firm that represented the university, and appeared even more tired and drawn than the first time they’d met. He sat down and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Brock asked him if he was all right, and if they could get him anything, and he apologised.

  ‘Sorry, I had to fly out to the Gulf again over the weekend and I’m a bit behind in my sleep. This business has been incredibly disruptive, you understand. It’s been very hard for us to focus on our work.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine that your overseas partners would find it a little disturbing.’

  Haygill raised his eyes. ‘More than a little, Chief Inspector, I can assure you. The sooner we can put it behind us the better. Incidentally, may I ask something? I felt very bad that we weren’t represented at Abu’s interment. I understand that there was a young woman there, and that there was some kind of incident. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine now.’

  ‘Good. Is she a relative?’

  ‘I understand she was a friend of Mr Khadra’s.’

  ‘Really. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend, you see, and I wondered if I should get in touch with her, express our regrets.’

  ‘If you wanted to send a note to me, Professor, I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  ‘Oh . . . thank you. I wrote to the address we had for his family in the Lebanon, but I haven’t heard anything.’ He sighed. ‘It’s so hard to know what to say.’

  Brock began the formal interview. ‘Professor Haygill, there is strong forensic evidence to suggest that Abu Khadra was the man who murdered Max Springer, but we are puzzled by his motive. Why would he have done such a thing? Have you any idea?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But you must surely have wondered about this. What possibilities did you come up with?’

  Haygill hunched forward slightly, frowning through his glasses at Brock. ‘I don’t think I quite understand. Are you asking me to speculate?’ He turned to the solicitor at his side, who gave a small shake of his head.

  ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate,’ the solicitor advised.

  ‘I think it’s inevitable,’ Brock retorted, ‘if not with me then with a wider public. People will speculate, Professor, and I’m asking for your informed help.’

  Still Haygill didn’t offer anything, and Brock went on.

  ‘Well, let me put this to you, just as an example. Max Springer was an extremely hostile critic of you and your work. On one occasion I believe he compared you to the Nazi Dr Mengele, am I right?’

  Haygill took a deep breath and made a weary gesture with his hand. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a pretty drastic kind of criticism, isn’t it? Especially coming from a man who lost his parents in the concentration camps.’

  ‘It was a preposterous, outrageous remark for which he was censured by the Chair of the University Senate.’

  ‘But you didn’t
pursue it, Professor? You didn’t consider suing him?’

  ‘I did consider it, but on reflection I felt that would only give his absurd opinions the public exposure he craved. He wanted me to sue him. He wanted a forum and publicity to present his idiotic ideas. He didn’t care that he would have lost. So I declined to give him that opportunity.’

  ‘But it must have been extremely frustrating and upsetting to you and the members of your team at the Centre of Advanced Biotechnology?’

  Haygill regarded Brock impassively, then wiped a hand quickly over his sandy hair and replied, ‘I think we regarded it with the contempt it deserved.’

  ‘You regarded him with contempt?’

  But Haygill wasn’t going to be caught like that. ‘I regarded his statement with contempt. I had no particular personal feelings for Max Springer, except to wish that he would calm down and have a bit of commonsense.’

  ‘But your staff are younger people, less mature than you, less able to take a detached, scientific view of Springer’s remarks, perhaps. They must have been outraged, surely?’

  ‘Well, you can ask them. But my impression was that they took little notice.’

  ‘Come on, Professor! I’m told they practically caused an international incident over some Christmas e-mail! If they took offence at something like that, they’d hardly accept Springer’s taunts calmly.’

  ‘That was completely different. They saw that as an attack on their religious convictions.’

  ‘Hm.’ Brock consulted his notes. ‘On another occasion I believe Springer described your role in CAB-Tech as “Svengali-like”.’

  ‘Really?’ Haygill looked mildly surprised. ‘I haven’t heard that one. But no abusive remark attributed to Max would especially astonish me.’

  ‘That particular remark has a specific meaning, though, doesn’t it? It suggests that you hold a dominating influence over the people under you at CAB-Tech. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Nonsense. We operate on teamwork and cooperation between team members, just as in a hundred other scientific establishments around the world.’

  ‘But your team is unusual, isn’t it, in the way you’ve recruited a group of Middle Eastern staff with a common religious outlook and strong personal loyalty to you.’

  ‘You find it questionable that our staff should include some Islamic scientists?’ Haygill said coldly, straightening in his seat. ‘Maybe you should examine your own attitudes, Chief Inspector. Maybe there’s some prejudice lurking in there that we should know about.’

  The solicitor leaned over to make a comment, but Haygill shook his head impatiently. ‘I’d like to hear where they’re going with this.’ He glared at Brock. ‘You’re implying that Abu was so upset by Springer’s insults, and so loyal to me, that he went off and shot the man dead? Is that it?’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Brock asked mildly.

  ‘It’s laughable.’

  ‘I understand Abu felt that he owed you a great deal for advancing his career, and looked up to you almost as a father.’

  Haygill looked doubtful. ‘I think that’s putting it far too strongly.’

  ‘So you don’t see much merit in the idea that he did it for you?’

  ‘As a theory, I think it’s feeble.’

  ‘Well . . . would it be stronger, as a theory, if you’d encouraged him to do it?’

  Haygill swivelled away in his seat and laughed, shaking his head.

  ‘Perhaps half-joking, a few hints that things would be a lot easier if someone could make Springer shut his mouth. That kind of thing?’

  ‘No.’ Haygill swung back and leaned forward across the table at Brock to make the point. ‘Not half-jokingly or in any other way. I did not encourage him or anyone else to do anything to Max Springer.’

  ‘Very well.’ Brock scanned his papers as if running out of questions.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Er, not quite. Does CAB-Tech do business with the Bank of Credit and Commerce Dubai?’

  Haygill looked stunned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many accounts are there?’

  ‘Why on earth are you asking?’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘There are several individual research project accounts, a reserve deposit account, a general working account . . . Probably eight or nine in all.’

  ‘What about you personally?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, do you have a personal account with the bank?’

  ‘Yes, but what has this got to do—’

  ‘We would like your authorisation to examine all of the accounts for the period of, say, the last twelve months.’

  Haygill said, ‘Absolutely not! They are commercially sensitive . . .’ His face had gone pink, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘This is absolutely outrageous!’ He turned to his lawyer who took up the objections.

  ‘There is no question of my client agreeing to such an examination, Chief Inspector. We would maintain most vigorously that his business and personal financial records are excluded material under the terms of the 1984 Act.’

  Brock shrugged and went on. ‘Do you or does anyone else associated with CAB-Tech, either here or overseas, to your knowledge own a hand-gun of any kind?’

  ‘No! Certainly not!’

  ‘What is the BRCA4 Protocol, Professor Haygill?’

  Once again the scientist looked stunned, as if physically struck by some blow from a totally unexpected quarter. He shook his head, ‘I . . . I don’t understand what all this . . .’

  ‘What is the BRCA4 Protocol, Professor Haygill?’

  Haygill pulled himself together, spread his fingers wide on the table and stared at them as if counting to check they were all there.

  ‘Chief Inspector Brock,’ his solicitor said, ‘I would like to speak in private with . . .’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ Haygill said. ‘The BRCA4 Protocol is a proposal for a research project originating from our laboratories. One of dozens.’

  ‘Could you describe it to me?’

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t.’

  ‘You have some kind of proposal document, describing it?’

  Haygill frowned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I would like to have it examined by our staff.’

  ‘No. It is commercially sensitive.’

  ‘Secret?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Then how did Max Springer know about it?’

  ‘Springer?’ Haygill looked horrified. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There was evidence in his room at the university that he had information on it.’

  ‘I’m astonished . . . How could he?’

  Into Brock’s mind came an image of Springer’s room when they had first opened its door, and the impression of it having been ransacked, countered by the security guard’s assurance that it always looked like that.

  ‘If he had, it would have been very sensitive, would it? Commercially?’

  ‘Well...it’s only a proposal for a feasibility study at this stage . . .’

  ‘So not especially valuable commercially?’

  Haygill shrugged doubtfully.

  ‘How about ethically? Would it have been ethically sensitive, in the hands of an opponent like Max Springer? Something that could have been used to embarrass you if produced in a public lecture, for example.’

  Haygill lowered his eyes to his spread fingers and didn’t answer. Looking at him, Brock knew he didn’t need to. Reggie Grice had been right—despite all the differences in their power and influence, Haygill was vulnerable to the kind of trouble that the wayward Springer could stir up, and he knew it. There was something here, something Haygill had kept hidden, which he now felt that he could almost smell.

  ‘Thank you, Professor Haygill.’

  ‘What? Is that all?’

  ‘For the moment. Are you planning any more trips abroad?’

  ‘Er . . . The next is scheduled for the end of the month, but as things stand, it may be necessary—’

  ‘Don’t make any arrang
ements without consulting us first, will you? Here’s my contact details.’

  Brock handed Haygill a card and got to his feet.

  Leon Desai left his coat with the cloakroom attendant and strolled through a pair of large panelled doors into a bar lounge, trying to appear confident and relaxed, as if he came to places like this all the time. It wasn’t at all to his taste. A cross between an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club and a Turkish brothel, Wayne O’Brien had said, and he could see what he meant. The furniture was too amply stuffed, the carpet pile too thick, the port and burgundy colour scheme too livid, so that the effect was bombastic. The theme of the decorations was horsy, in keeping with the club’s name, with large Stubbs reproductions of thoroughbred champions framed around the walls, and bronze horse heads mounted on pedestals. Leon found it all both contemptible and thoroughly intimidating, especially in view of O’Brien’s estimate of the amount of money that passed through here each night.

  The place seemed quiet, a few people embedded in the plump furniture around the room. The opulent mahogany bar that formed one end of the lounge was deserted, and Leon walked to it and eased himself onto a leather barstool. The doors in the far wall opened as a couple passed through, and he glimpsed more people in the gaming room beyond.

  The barman returned with a silver tray of empty glasses. ‘Good evening, sir. What can we do for you?’ He was as smooth and glossy as the brandy balloons glistening against the mirror at his back.

  ‘My name’s Desai. I’m a friend of—’

  ‘Mr O’Brien, sir. Why yes, of course. I’m Rupert. How are we this evening?’

  Actually he wasn’t feeling too bad now. Earlier he had been petrified with what he took to be a form of stage fright, his mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, his stomach aching. But now that things had begun, he felt much better. ‘Fine, just fine. I might have a glass of champagne.’

  As he poured it Rupert leaned forward a little and said, confidentially, ‘The gentleman you’re interested in is behind you, Mr Desai, in the far corner, talking to a blonde lady. They’ve been there for twenty minutes.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Leon glanced at the mirror behind the bar and just managed to make out two figures in the distance.