Babel

3

D espite the start of a fine drizzle, the crowds on the lower concourse had swollen as more students arrived for evening lectures and heard the news, and Brock had difficulty working his way through to the police line, where he joined up with Bren.

‘That student, Briony Kidd, is she still around?’

‘Haven’t seen her for a while, chief. But we’ve just got word from the security people. They’ve set the tapes up for us to see, when you’re ready.’

They moved off through the crowds, back the way Brock had come, for the security office was located close to the entrance to the Central Administration Building, a piece of defensive planning, Brock felt, that accorded well with the President’s reference to his New Model Army and the military cut of his suit. The head of security looked ex-army too, deferential to Brock’s rank, but guarded. His name was Truck, and Brock immediately thought of him as Regimental Sergeant-Major Truck. He showed them to seats in front of the biggest TV screen he’d been able to find, and switched on the VCR. The tape had already been wound to the moment just before Max Springer had appeared at the foot of the steps, and had been taken by the camera on the corner of the lower concourse, looking up the full length of the flight.

‘He was on his way to give a lecture, Brock,’ Bren explained, ‘Lecture theatre U3 on the upper concourse.’

‘Really? I was told he didn’t give lectures.’

‘Well, he definitely planned to give this one. I spoke to three of the students who were in the lecture theatre waiting for him to arrive. It was due to start at four o’clock, so he must have been running a few minutes late.’

They started the tape, the time at the foot of the screen showing 16:02. ‘There! That’s him. The sports jacket.’

Truck froze the image and they peered at the figure which had appeared in the bottom left of the screen, short, stockily built, shoulders stooped, head thrust forward, a bald patch in the middle of a shaggy mop of white hair, briefcase stuffed under the left arm.

‘Right. No sign of the killer? No. OK, let’s go on.’

The figure lurched into motion again, the gait slow and deliberate climbing the steps with a suggestion of a weak hip or leg. They watched in silence as more agile figures streamed past the old man in both directions, ignoring him. Then Bren shouted, ‘There!’ and pointed at someone at top right, emerging at the head of the stairs, a figure wearing a hood. ‘He must have been waiting for him up there in that doorway.’

‘Can we close in on them?’ Brock asked.

Truck shook his head. ‘Not on this, sir.’

They advanced the film slowly, watching the hooded figure come down the steps, hands in the pockets of his parka, head down. He seemed light on his feet and attracted no attention from the people who passed. The room was completely silent as the viewers watched the gap between the figure and the old man close. When they were only a few steps apart, both suddenly reacted. The old man abruptly stopped, as if fearing collision with the figure approaching directly in front of him, while the other raised his hooded head, but didn’t stop.

‘Springer is looking directly at him,’ Brock said. ‘He’s seen the mask.’

‘Yeah. And that bloke there’ Bren pointed to a youth in a bomber jacket some yards behind and to the right, ‘that’s our witness who said he saw the killer speak. He’s right where he said he was.’

Now the hooded figure was pulling his hands from his pockets, and they could see the right hand holding something, not a gun, surely, but something bulky, irregular, misshapen and light in colour.

‘What the hell is that?’

Both police officers were down on their knees in front of the screen now, trying to make it out. Then Brock said, ‘It’s a bag, Bren, a plastic bag.’

‘To hide the gun?’

‘Or to catch the cartridges as they eject. Let’s see if he keeps it inside the bag when he fires.’

They slowly advanced the film, frame by frame, as the killer moved into a weird, slow motion ballet down to the old man and embraced him as the witness had described. There was a brief burst of white smoke against the dark of the gunman’s coat, then the old man, who had been motionless throughout the approach, began to crumple, his briefcase slipping out of his grasp.

‘Exit wound,’ Bren said, pointing to the old man’s back.

‘Looks like it. What about the gun?’

The killer had now pivoted away and he was presenting his right side to the camera, the plastic bag clearly visible. They watched the two figures separate and take their different courses, Max Springer to tumble back down the steps, the other running diagonally away from him and the watching student towards the lower concourse.

Brock and Bren returned to their seats. Truck ran the film through for them a couple more times, and found a magnifying glass for them to study some of the frames more closely. They got an impression of light coloured trainer shoes, but little else.

‘No,’ Brock said finally, ‘I can’t make out whether he’s speaking to Springer. We’ll have to see what the lab can do with it. But at least we know he still had the bag in his hand when he reached the bottom of the stairs.’

‘So that means it could have been an automatic.’

‘Yes, or a rifle with a sawn-off barrel and stock. Either way we’ve been looking for the shells in the wrong place. If they were inside the bag, which would have had a hole in it after the firing, and if he still had it in his hand as he escaped, there’s a chance they may have dropped out as he ran. We should be looking on the entry concourse and out into the streets.’

He turned to the security man. ‘Does any of this mean anything to you, Mr Truck? Nothing strike you about the killer?’

Truck was shaking his head. ‘Unbelievable. Like something on the telly. Hard to believe it’s for real. No, it could be anybody. Nimble, though.’

‘Yes, I thought a student, but your boss, Professor Young, thinks it’s more likely to be one of those local kids you get coming on campus and causing trouble. What do you think?’

‘Phor…’ Truck rubbed his nose, obviously not taking to that idea. ‘I don’t know. There’s never been any violence before, only mischief. This isn’t their style. I mean, it seemed… professional, don’t you reckon? Deliberate, thought out.’

‘You haven’t been aware of Professor Springer being in any arguments with anybody?’

‘The only trouble I know about Professor Springer was with the cleaners. He keeps his room in a bit of a state, and the girls had trouble sorting the rubbish from the rest. He accused them of throwing out precious papers so they refused to go into his room any more. I wouldn’t like to cross Doris myself, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her in the hood.’ He grinned, then coughed and pulled himself together. ‘I’ll check with my lads, sir. See if they know of anything.’

‘Thanks. And I’d like one of my people to sit down with you and go through all the incidents you’ve had here recently. Now, perhaps you’d take us to this untidy room of Professor Springer and let us take a look.’

But they were still there, waiting for Truck to unload the tape for them to send to the electronics laboratory for enhancement, when Bren’s mobile rang. He listened for a minute, then drew Brock aside. ‘Something interesting, chief. When they entered a report on CRIS just now, the computer came back with a reference on Springer. Apparently a Max Springer registered a complaint a couple of weeks ago. Offences Against the Person, section sixteen.

Said he was being threatened with death.’

‘Really? Where did he make the complaint?’

‘The local nick, Shadwell Road station, not far away.’

They took the tape from Truck and made their way to the university entrance where they’d left their car, stopping on the way to direct a search for the cartridge cases on the lower concourse, and phoning the Shadwell Road police station to expect them.

The main entrance to UCLE was beside a station of the Docklands Light Railway, the DLR, whose elevated track formed a demarcation between the new development of the university and the old buildings of the city beyond. As they walked under the concrete viaduct, Brock was struck by the abrupt dislocation between the two sides, the steel panelled university turning its back on the disordered jumble of old warehouses, workshops, derelict looking shops and tiny pubs that jostled up to it. They found their car and headed north and west into the city traffic as the drizzle turned to steady rain.

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.