Babel bak-6

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Why them?’

  ‘Max had a bee in his bonnet about the scientists. He thought they were dragging us willy-nilly towards a world where everything would be predetermined by technology, free will abolished. Especially here, where all their research is driven by money… And they make lots of that,’ he added with a snarl.

  ‘So he made enemies. Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Richard Haygill for a start. Professor of Medical Genetics and Director of the Centre of Advanced Biotechnology. Max once described him as a latter-day Dr Mengele…’ he smiled at the memory, ‘… in public, in the University Senate, before the Senate was abolished.’

  ‘That was rather strong, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. And what made it even stronger was that Max’s parents both died at Auschwitz. Mengele might even have murdered them, for all we know. And Max was dead serious, it wasn’t just a bit of abusive hyperbole. Haygill blew his top, naturally, threatened to sue, but let it go in the end.’

  ‘Was this very recent?’

  ‘About a year ago, I think. I’m not aware of anything very recent. Since then our Great Leader has abolished the Senate and put in his own man to control the campus magazine, and generally adopted a policy of pretending that pests like Max and myself don’t exist. And by and large he’s been pretty successful, I must say. We rot away in this slum, deprived of funds and students and gratefully accept the package, when it’s finally offered to us by some smooth little human resource consultant shit with a BMW. probably sound very bitter to you.’

  Brock smiled. ‘You do rather.’

  ‘Ah well.’ Pettifer waved his hand airily. ‘We all find our own forms of consolation. I might go and replenish mine now, I think, unless I can be of any further assistance.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. Do you know where I could find Max’s student, Briony Kidd?’

  ‘She shares a room just down the corridor. It’s not far, I’ll show you. She’s usually there.’

  Pettifer led him down the deserted corridor and tapped on a door marked ‘Postgraduates’, then stepped in. Four workspaces had been crammed into the little room, two down each side, but only one was occupied. Brock recognised the slight figure dressed all in black, the gamine looks, the large dark-ringed eyes made more dramatic now by tears and the red rims of crying. She hurriedly grabbed a tissue from a box on the little table in front of her and wiped her nose.

  ‘All right, love?’ Pettifer said breezily, not appearing to notice her distress. ‘Got a visitor for you. ’Bye now,’ and he left, closing the door behind him.

  Brock felt immediately uncomfortable, waiting to speak while the woman drew more tissues and rubbed vigorously at her eyes and nose.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Briony,’ he said when she finally turned in her seat to half face him. ‘I’m sorry to intrude. I wanted to speak to you about Professor Springer, but I could come back.’

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m just very upset about it, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course. It was very shocking.’

  ‘I should have got used to the idea of it, but I was just…’ She looked at a sheaf of paper in front of her. ‘I was just…’ Her shoulders began to shake beneath the thick black sweater, and she began to sob.

  Brock wondered if perhaps this was the only person who was really upset by Springer’s death. Everyone else seemed rather enthralled by it. As he stood waiting, he wished again that Kathy were here. He wondered what another student would make of it if they walked in now and saw him, a big bear of a man standing over the weeping girl.

  ‘I was reading his comments, you see,’ she blurted out suddenly. ‘What he’d written on my text. He only gave it back to me yesterday morning. With what happened, I hadn’t looked at it until now.’ She sobbed and wiped. ‘Seeing his words… so normal, as if nothing has happened.’

  ‘Of course. Look, would it be better if we went and got a cup of coffee somewhere? A bit of fresh air, you know…’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s all right. I’m OK. What did you want to ask me?’ There was a green Bic cigarette lighter beside her papers, and she turned it over and over in her fingers as she spoke.

  ‘The same thing I’m asking anyone else I can find who was in contact with Professor Springer recently. Is there anything you can tell me to help us find whoever did this? Can you think of any reason why someone would do it? Did he tell you of any threats to his life?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. The only thing… the thing that keeps coming back to me was something he said in his tutorial yesterday, about how it was up to “us” now. It was like Martin Luther King’s last speech, do you remember, “I have a dream”? About how his people would reach the Promised Land, but he wouldn’t be with them, as if he knew that he would soon be murdered. That was how Max sounded, although at the time I didn’t realise. But afterwards, last night, his words came back, it was up to us now, my generation, as if he knew he wouldn’t be with us much longer. I guessed he was sort of rehearsing what he was going to say later, in his lecture.’

  ‘But nothing specific, then or earlier, about a threatening phone call, or note?’

  ‘No.’ Briony shook her head firmly and turned back to her papers, putting down the lighter and running her fingers over the pages as if wanting to feel the substance of Max Springer in his scribbled notes.

  ‘The lecture yesterday, was it a regular thing? Only I got the impression from others I spoke to that he didn’t do much lecturing.’

  ‘No, that’s right. He didn’t give any undergraduate courses any more. They wanted him to teach business ethics to commerce students, but he refused. He said he didn’t come here to teach budding entrepreneurs how to cheat their customers without getting caught.’ She smiled wanly.

  ‘Yesterday’s lecture was a one-off, a public lecture open to everyone. The title was “The Tyranny of Faith and Science”.’

  ‘That sounds challenging. I shouldn’t think the scientists would like that, or the Islamic students.’

  She looked at him, puzzled for a moment, then nodded. ‘They boycotted it. The theme of the lecture was to be that…’ She pointed to one of a number of printed quotations, which she had stuck to the pinboard above her workspace.

  ‘ Where unanimity exists, some form of coercion is at work, whether of the tyrant or of logic. ’

  ‘Hannah Arendt wrote that. I’m studying her for my Ph. D.’

  Brock looked at some of the other quotes on the wall. Another said, ‘ The poor man’s conscience is clear; yet he is ashamed… He is not disapproved, censured, or reproached; he is only not seen… To be wholly overlooked, and to know it, are intolerable. ’

  ‘Arendt again?’

  ‘She quoted it in one of her books, but it was originally said by John Adams, the second American President, the one after George Washington. It was one of Max’s favourite quotations. He said that every politician should have that pinned up over their desk.’

  ‘About the lecture, were there many people there?’

  ‘Not many,’ she said, defensive. ‘There were a dozen, twenty maybe, waiting, when we heard that something had happened outside.’

  ‘What about on your way into the theatre? Did you notice anyone then? Any strangers you didn’t recognise? Maybe wearing a dark anorak, jeans, light coloured trainers.’

  ‘That’s what they were asking us after it happened, but I didn’t see anyone like that.’ She stared glumly at the pinboard.

  ‘And did Max mention Islam at all in his tutorials?’

  ‘Yes. He drew parallels between scientific methods, Nazism and fundamentalist religions, like Islam. He said he was going to discuss this in his lecture. He said it would be a revelation to some people.’

  ‘Sounds as if he intended to upset a few people.’

  She shrugged. ‘It was a favourite theme of his. He was fearless in expressing his opinions.’

  ‘OK, well I won’t disturb you any longer just now, Briony. If yo
u do think of anything, here’s my phone number.’

  Briony seemed preoccupied with some thought and didn’t reply. Brock turned to go. As he reached the door she suddenly spoke again.

  ‘I just remembered. At our last tutorial he said something else a bit odd. He used a phrase, “the people of the book”, and said something about it being a lottery which people of the book would shut him up first, something like that.’

  ‘People of the book? What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t think he meant they were going to take away his library card or something. I asked him what he meant, but he wouldn’t explain. He would do that, say something mysterious and leave you to think about it.’

  ‘You didn’t take it to mean that someone might want to kill him?’

  ‘Not at the time, no. But now… well, I don’t know.’

  On the way back to his office in Queen Anne’s Gate, an annexe of New Scotland Yard a couple of blocks away from the Victoria Street headquarters building, Brock phoned the laboratory liaison officer, Sergeant Leon Desai, and arranged for him to meet him there.

  ‘Anything for us yet, Leon?’ Brock asked when they met.

  ‘They should be ready for a screening of the enhanced video film later this afternoon, Brock. And firearms has made a preliminary assessment of the cartridge, but verbal only at this stage, being a bit careful.’ He said it approvingly, being himself a stickler for accuracy.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘7.62 millimetre, probably of Warsaw Pact origin, maybe to go with something like the Russian Tokarev automatic pistol. Doesn’t mean to say that’s what we’re looking for, of course. Could have been fired from something else.’

  ‘Availability in London?’

  ‘Yes, there’s quite a bit of old Soviet stuff floating around. The Tokarev and its ammunition was also sold to a number of countries outside the Warsaw Pact.’

  He handed Brock a list. Brock’s frown deepened as he scanned it. ‘Syria, Somalia, Libya, People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen…’

  He put the paper down and reached into his pocket, handing Leon the green pamphlet from Springer’s desk. ‘What do you make of that?’

  Leon read, then said, ‘It’s the Qur’an.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. You’re not a Muslim are you, Leon?’

  Leon gave him a sharp look to see if the question was serious.

  ‘No, I’m not actually, but my family used to be. They were originally Muslims from Gujarat in India who went out to Kenya, where they began to get lazy about their faith. They lost it altogether when we were kicked out of Kenya. Many of the East African Gujarati went up north to Bradford, where there already was a community of Gujarati from India who’d built their own mosques and schools, but we settled in London and never took up with Muslims here. But I was brought up on the Qur’an when I was a kid.’

  It was the longest speech Brock had ever heard from Leon, normally so economical with words, on any subject other than forensics.

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of the Qur’an handy, would you?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘Actually I’m beginning to think we may need the help of an expert on this. Does the phrase “people of the book” mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a phrase that’s used in the Qur’an.’

  Brock rubbed at the side of his beard thoughtfully. ‘This is beginning to get worrying, Leon.’ He handed him the other packet with the pieces of envelope. ‘See if the lab can get anything from these. Especially the postmark. It’s smudged, see? I could only get the date.’

  ‘Is this what the green note came in?’

  ‘That’s one of the things I’d like you to find out, if you can. They were in different places, but this was the only envelope I could find. We’re doing a proper search now.’

  As he turned to go, Leon said, keeping his voice neutral, ‘Heard from Kathy at all, Brock? Is she OK?’

  ‘Not too bad, I think, Leon. Taking it easy, I hope.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t know how I could contact her, do you?’

  ‘Anything urgent?’

  ‘No, no. Just thought I’d get in touch. See how she’s doing.’

  ‘I think I’d leave it for now. Give her a bit of breathing space. All right?’

  Leon nodded and left.

  5

  T he officer from the Islamic Desk of Special Branch had dark curly hair and a cheerful grin. He was wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans and had an easy, relaxed manner and an unobtrusive way about him that would suit him well, Brock thought, to the role of intelligence gatherer, which the Special Branch played. They shook hands.

  ‘Sergeant O’Brien, sir.’

  ‘You don’t bother with ranks and sirs over there, do you? Neither do we. What do they call you?’

  ‘Wayne.’

  ‘I’m Brock.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’ve heard about you, Brock. And I’ve heard about this place, too. Always wanted to visit the infamous rabbit warren. There’s even a rumour that you keep your own pub in this place, did you know that?’

  ‘You’re not serious? A pub, in an office of the Metropolitan Police?’

  ‘Yeah, likely, eh?’ He gave a cheeky grin. ‘Good story though. Adds to the myth, right? And I brought my copy of the Qur’an, like you asked.’

  ‘Good. Tell you what, let’s go downstairs and meet Bren Gurney. I’ve ordered some sandwiches. Come across him before?’

  ‘Did he play rugby for the Met?’

  ‘He did. Wing three-quarter. Put on a bit of weight since then. Follow me.’

  Brock led the way through the confusing maze of corridors and flights of stairs which connected the rooms of what had once been separate terrace houses, then the converted offices of a publishing company, gradually working his way down into the basement. They passed under an arch, turned a corner and suddenly found themselves in the snug of an ancient public house.

  ‘Struth!’ The Special Branch officer stared around him at the ornate frosted glass, the tiny mahogany bar, and the huge stuffed salmon mounted in a glass case on the wall. ‘It’s true then! Wicked.’

  ‘Keep it to yourself, though, won’t you Wayne? Welcome to The Bride of Denmark.’ He lifted a flap in the counter and squeezed behind the bar, stooping to inspect the shelves beneath. ‘What’s your poison, old son? Whisky, beer? No draught beer, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  Bren came through the arch at that moment, bearing a tray of sandwiches, which he placed on a small table. They settled themselves around it with bottles of beer.

  ‘Well, now, Wayne,’ Brock began. ‘This may be a waste of your time, but we’d appreciate a bit of advice on one of our current cases.’

  ‘The murder down at UCLE?’ O’Brien asked hopefully. ‘I’ve seen it on TV and in the papers, of course. Choice one by the sound of it.’

  ‘That’s the one. A couple of things have come up that make us wonder if there might be some Islamic connection. Recently the victim reported that he’d received a threatening phone call which he connected with a radio interview he’d made speaking out against extremists and fundamentalists. Apparently the caller threatened to kill him within two weeks of the end of Ramadan if he didn’t pipe down. Then in his room we found this…’

  He showed O’Brien a colour photocopy of the green handbill.

  He read it over, cocking his head to one side. ‘The Qur’an. Let’s have a look…’ He pulled a well-worn hardback book from the bag he’d had slung over his shoulder and thumbed through to chapter seventy-eight.

  ‘Of course, we don’t know the context, how it came to be in the victim’s room, but it sounds threatening, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, here we go, about the Day of Judgement.’

  He handed the book to Brock who read the passage, then pointed to the words that followed. ‘“We have recorded everything in a Book.” The victim apparently said something about “the
people of the book”. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ O’Brien took the volume back and turned to the index at the back. ‘Here we go… Chapter four… “People of the Book! Exceed not the limits in the matter of your religion, and say not of Allah anything but the truth.” The book it’s referring to is the Bible, and the people of the Book are the Jews and Christians who follow it.’

  ‘I see.’ Brock frowned in thought. ‘The victim, Max Springer, professor of philosophy at UCLE, had strong opinions about fundamentalists, apparently, though not only Muslims. He doesn’t seem to have had a particularly high profile in recent years, and everyone seems very surprised that he should have been murdered, let alone in such a public and conspicuous way. He was sixty-six, at the end of his career, highly regarded for his past work, especially overseas, but not very active now. So one theory might be, if an extremist group was responsible, that it was intended as a provocative act, to strike down a figurehead. Something like that.’

  O’Brien took this in, munching on his sandwich. ‘He was shot, wasn’t he? Anything on the gun?’

  ‘We haven’t found it yet,’ Bren said. ‘But we did find one of the two cartridge cases, and both bullets, one still in the body and reasonably intact. So far the best information we have is 7.62 millimetre, of East European make.’

  ‘No hint of any drugs in this? He wasn’t making a fuss about student drug use, dealers on campus, anything like that?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  ‘I was thinking of a possible Turkish connection. Since the Turkish mafia moved into London they’ve cornered a big slice of the drug market, of course. I just thought, if he’d upset someone, the style of killing fits. Giving a public warning to people to keep their heads down. But I suppose the same would apply with your religious extremists. Nobody’s claimed responsibility, then?’