Babel

6

T he smell comes from the bucket in the corner of the room, that and the all-pervading reek of cold concrete. Her right wrist is handcuffed to the bed frame and she has begun to give up hope. He is bending over her, silent, and she realises that something she has said has made him angry. She watches his doped smile fade and black fury flare in his eyes. He bends down and grabs her left arm and leg, lifting her up and throwing her bodily across the bed. Her right arm jerks taut and twists on the handcuff, and she screams as she feels the muscles in her shoulder tear.

Kathy sat up, gasping for breath, fumbling for the bedside light switch. ‘He’s dead,’ she said out loud. Dead, but he keeps coming back to her, night after night, at about the same time, when the effect of the sleeping pill begins to wear off. She reached for a small notebook and pencil and wrote the date, 23 January, the time, 2:36 a.m., and the words, ‘Silvermeadow, again’.

Later that morning she sat in a pool of unexpected sunshine in the conservatory at the back of Suzanne’s house, leafing through the Sunday papers. She poured herself another cup of coffee and opened one of the news review sections. They were all full of the Springer murder, as if everyone recognised in it some special public significance or dramatic quality that made it irresistible. In retrospect it had been absurd for Brock to try to hide it from her, for it dominated every news report, and Brock himself could be seen on TV, his voice punctuating radio reports. She felt remote, watching their activity as from a great distance, no longer a viable member of the team. That at least was clear to her, and probably to the rest of them by now. She had no choice but to move on.

She was alone, Suzanne having taken her grandchildren off to her sister’s for Sunday lunch, and Kathy was glad of the solitude. She’d been grateful for the distraction of the children and the company of Suzanne, but she knew she must soon leave. She had spent Saturday morning in the travel agency watching, and occasionally trying to help, Suzanne’s friend, and had been amazed at her patience. Customers changing their travel plans for the umpteenth time, airlines in confusion over their special fares, hotels double-booking, computers crashing, none of it ruffled Tina. And Kathy had come to realise how sheltered she had been working in a big organisation with specialists to back up on everything. Tina had to do it all herself, looking after her staff, getting the computers fixed, negotiating with her bastard of a landlord, working out the cash flow, getting the weekly ad in the local paper. On Monday Kathy was to help her with the next quarter’s VAT returns, but more importantly she was to meet a rep for a tour operator who would tell her about their tour guides and put her in touch with a London agency that specialised in travel jobs.

She turned the page of the newspaper. Despite the number of column inches, the actual information contained in the reports was thin, and she could imagine the pressure on the Met press office to give more. The editorials and commentaries went on about freedom of speech, or violence on campuses, or the inadequacies of gun controls, but in the absence of hard facts about either motive or culprit, they were diffuse and unsatisfying. The most informative article, she thought, was an obituary of the victim printed in the Observer. Max Springer was born in 1933 into a prosperous German-Jewish merchant family in Hamburg. In 1939, following the Kristallnacht riots, he was sent to stay with distant relatives in England. He never saw his family again, all of whom perished in the concentration camps. From 1952 to 1956 he studied philosophy at the University of London under Sir Karl Popper, then Professor of Logic and Scientific Method, and went on to the University of Chicago as a doctoral student and then lecturer, where he came under the influence of the philosopher Hannah Arendt. It was there also that he met and married the classical pianist Charlotte Pickering. In 1965 he returned to England to a lecturer position at Oxford, there working under Sir Isaiah Berlin, who was Chichele Professor of Social and Political Theory. In 1978 Springer published his book The Poverty of Science, in which he questioned the assumptions underlying the principles of scientific logic and method. This work established his reputation as a radical and independent thinker, and he was elected to the Wyatt Chair of Modern Philosophy at Oxford. As an extension of his studies of scientific method, Springer investigated what he termed ‘blinkered thinking systems’ and became interested in fundamentalist religious and political modes of thought. This theoretical interest was transformed by ‘the electric shock of reality’ as he later described it, during a visit to the Middle East in 1982, when he personally witnessed the atrocities committed at the Shatila Palestinian refugee camp in Beirut. He subsequently gave help to Palestinian relief organisations, especially for the support of orphaned children, and wrote of his experiences in his 1985 work The Origins of Fundamentalism, which aroused much controversy, especially among apologists of the state of Israel, much as his mentor Hannah Arendt had provoked outrage by her work Eichmann in Jerusalem, debate about which was at its height when Springer worked with her in Chicago in 1963. In 1990 Charlotte Pickering, Max Springer’s wife of thirty-two years, died, and in the following year he published an autobiography A Man in Dark Times, which was marked by passages of extreme pessimism. Upon its publication, stating that he wished to renew his life with fresh challenges, he resigned his chair at Oxford and accepted the position of Professor of Philosophy at the recently established University of Central London East. However, and despite a hopeful beginning, this move failed to fulfil its initial promise. His book Totalitarian Science (1996), which took up his earlier themes questioning current scientific thinking, was poorly received, and was widely condemned for the way it drew parallels between what he saw as the authoritarianism of science on the one hand and of fundamentalist religion on the other. In recent years he was perceived to be out of step with current movements in philosophy, and with the policies of his own university, which he publicly criticised. While Max Springer’s life may have appeared to have lost its relevance, his death has transformed that assessment, by demonstrating in the most dramatic and tragic way the significance of the principles for which he stood. He died a martyr to those principles, steadfast in his opposition to extremism, totalitarianism and authoritarianism of all kinds.

The following morning, while Kathy was adding up strings of Tina’s VAT figures on a calculator, her mobile rang. A female voice said, ‘Hello? Is that DS Kolla?’ Kathy’s heart gave an involuntary thump of panic. It was almost a month since anyone had addressed her by her rank. She didn’t recognise the voice, and she tried to remember who at Headquarters had her mobile phone number.

‘My name’s Clare Hancock. We’ve met a couple of times and you gave me your number. I’m a crime reporter for the Herald.’

Kathy could place her now, an intelligent, deceptively mild-looking woman, whom Kathy had once seen reduce a Chief Superintendent to a trembling jelly at a press conference with a few very well-researched questions. But that wasn’t her problem. With relief she got ready to deliver the magic phrase, ‘I’m not working on that case’.

‘I wondered if we could meet. It’s about the Springer case, as you might expect. I have some information I think you’d be interested in. Frankly, I want to trade. Are you at UCLE? Where would suit you? It is rather urgent.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Clare. I’ve got nothing to do with that case.’

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the voice doubtful, as if not sure to believe Kathy. ‘Really? I understood that Brock has you with him on all his big cases now.’

‘Not this one. I’m on leave, as it happens. I’m not even in London.’

‘Oh, dear. Bad timing. I’ll bet you’re kicking yourself.’

‘You’d better ring him instead. Do you have his number?’

‘I don’t want to do that. Brock gave me a hard time once, when I was new to the job. Grumpy old bastard he was. I’m hoping I can work with you, Kathy. Can’t you drop everything and get back here? You won’t be sorry. Brock will thank you for it, believe me.’

Kathy felt a jab of resentment. The rep from the tour operator was due in any minute and she didn’t want anything to do with this.

‘I take it you’ve seen our coverage this morning?’ the reporter said suddenly.

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, go out and buy a copy. The Yard’s busting a gut about it. They’ve been hammering my editor all morning, wanting to know where we got our information. Well, what I’ve got for you may be better than that. Have a look, go on, and ring me back in half an hour.’

Kathy had no intention of playing this game, whatever it was. She reluctantly wrote down the phone number. ‘If I don’t get back to you, Clare, speak to Brock, or to Bren Gurney.’

‘You’ll ring me, Kathy. I know you will.’

Kathy looked up from her pad and saw Tina greeting someone at the door of the travel agency, then waving Kathy over to join them. I don’t think so, Clare, she thought.

All the same, as she chatted to Tina and the tour operator rep, she couldn’t help wondering what could be so compelling on the front page of the Herald that morning. After half an hour the other woman said she had to go. It appeared that Kathy’s lack of proficiency in another language would be a handicap, and she should probably get to work on her schoolgirl French as soon as possible. On the other hand her police experience would be a plus, coping with difficult people and situations, knowledge of first aid and so on. They’d rung the contact at the London agency and made an appointment for Kathy for the next day, but afterwards she felt deflated, feeling for the first time the insecurity of looking for work, and the fear that this way of escape might be more difficult than she’d assumed. She excused herself from the shop and went round the corner to a newsagent’s and bought the paper. The headline read, ‘FATWA DEATH OF SPRINGER: SENSATIONAL NEW POLICE THEORY’.

She skimmed the lead article: new information suggesting prior death threats from Islamic fundamentalists, speculation from experts on possible terrorist groups, guarded comments from university sources, terse ‘no comments’ from the British Council of Muslims in Bradford and the Islamic Research Centre in London. Inside an editorial invoked the Rushdie affair and called for calm until more facts were known.

OK, Kathy thought. So what? It was intriguing, shocking perhaps, but did Clare Hancock really expect her to drop everything for this? Then it occurred to her that MI5 would want to get their hands on something like this, and might well be trying to take it away from Brock at this moment. And again, if Kathy wouldn’t talk to her, the reporter might go to them instead. For Brock’s sake then, she realised she’d have to ring the woman back.

They had spent the weekend working through the Special Branch leads that Wayne O’Brien had fed them, rating his suggestions according to his private scale of adjectives, this one being ‘cool’, that one ‘ripe’, another one ‘the real McCoy’. This steady but so far unproductive progress was thrown into disarray by the Herald story. Now resources were being thrown at the case from all sides, SO13 had joined in, the Diplomatic Protection Group, SO16, was demanding participation, as was SO10, Covert Operations, and, as expected, MI5 was circling hungrily in the background. Action, not discretion, was the order of the day, and Brock found himself at the centre of a turmoil of activity.

And in the middle of all this, he had found himself entangled in an absurd industrial relations fiasco. They had decided to interview PC Talbot once more, with O’Brien present, to see if they could tease any new information out of the young constable’s memory of his interview with Professor Springer. But when Brock had phoned Shadwell Road police station and spoken to the inspector he had been met with the stiff information that PC Talbot was currently under suspension, pending review of his conduct in not keeping his superiors properly informed of the approach of a member of the public at serious risk, namely Professor Max Springer and his appeal for help. Brock smelt some frantic retrospective fireproofing on the inspector’s part and tore into him, demanding that the constable be reinstated immediately and sent up to Queen Anne’s Gate. After some token protest, Brock having asked him how he thought his action would appear to a hostile press and to the Metropolitan Police at large, the inspector relented. Ten minutes later he phoned back with the news that PC Talbot was being advised by his union, the Police Federation, to stay at home, speak to no one and leave future negotiations to them.

And so Brock was in a car with O’Brien, stuck in traffic on their way to the East End, when Kathy phoned and said she’d like to meet him to talk to him about something important and in private. It was a hell of a time to try to talk to him about her future, he thought, but he tried to sound calm and reassuring and told her to take the Blackwall Tunnel and meet him at Shadwell Road.

When she got to the police station, Kathy found that Brock was locked away in conference in the back room, and the desk sergeant told her he couldn’t be disturbed. She showed him her warrant card and he reluctantly agreed to inquire. While he was away a young man in a leather jacket and jeans who had been lounging against the far end of the counter came over and introduced himself as a Special Branch officer.

‘Call me Wayne.’ He gave her a friendly grin.

‘Kathy.’

‘I’m waiting for him too,’ Wayne said. ‘Some stuff-up with the local boys.’

The sergeant reappeared and said that DCI Brock had asked if she would give him another ten minutes, discussions having reached a critical stage. Wayne suggested they get a cup of coffee across the road, and they went out together.

Kathy hadn’t been in Shadwell Road before, and as she looked more closely at the shops and people she became increasingly fascinated. What she had at first assumed to be an ordinary high street meandering through an old area of the East End, now seemed more like a bit of the Indian subcontinent, not transplanted so much as grafted onto the root stock. The brick building over there, with an unpretentious attempt at a classical portico on its gable, which might have been a modest old non-conformist church, was in fact a mosque. The girl behind the coffee shop counter was wearing a headscarf and track pants, and the CD she was playing was, according to Wayne, Billy Sagoo’s Bollywood Flashback, which Kathy liked but he said was only OK, and he preferred the likes of ADF. He was entertaining in an unforced sort of way, and he told her something of the Springer case and why they were here, Springer’s visit to Shadwell Road and the present predicament with PC Talbot. ‘A right cock-up.’

On their way back Kathy stopped to examine a rash of exotic-looking fly-posters on a section of brick wall, when Wayne suddenly cried out, ‘Oh, Christ Almighty!’ doubled up and dropped to his knees. Kathy thought he’d had a heart attack, then realised that he was tugging at the loose corner of one of the posters. Beneath it, partly obscured by it, was another poster, green, printed with a black symbol of a raised fist and some writing in an unfamiliar script.

‘You little beauty!’ Wayne murmured, then got to his feet, eyes shining with excitement. ‘Your guvnor’s going to love this.’

They hurried into the police station to find Brock emerging, grim-faced, from the back room with a group of men, both uniformed and plain clothes. He nodded to Kathy, then noticed Wayne’s excitement.

‘Got something to cheer us up, Wayne? We certainly need it.’ The other men in the party shuffled their feet, lowering their eyes.

‘I think so, Brock. Something choice, I think. Fancy a bit of the old fresh air?’

‘Can yours wait a bit longer, Kathy?’

Kathy said yes, then watched from the doorway of the police station as Wayne led Brock down the street towards the posters. This time he seemed to show no sign of special interest in them, though their pace slowed as they went past, and Brock took a long look. His eyes too were bright when they returned. He spoke to the station Sergeant and Inspector, asking them to take a discreet walk with Wayne, then turned to Kathy.

‘Right, then, Kathy. Your turn. How are you, anyway?’ He peered at her in the dim light of the corridor and she caught a small frown pass over his face. ‘You’re looking good.’

He was lying, but she ignored it and said, as brightly as she could, ‘Oh, I’m just fine.’ The truth was that the interior of the seedy police station, the voices and smells and worn furniture familiar from dozens like it, had made her heart sink. ‘Suzanne’s treating me like an honoured guest.’

‘Good, good. So what can I do for you?’ They went into the interview room and sat down, Brock bracing himself for whatever revelation was coming. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good, he thought, but he was startled as she began to tell him about the reporter, and the conversation which she had just had with her.

‘You see they’ve got this problem, Brock. They’ve gone full-tilt for this religious assassination story, and they’ve got their campaign all planned. All these actors and novelists and people are lined up to sign a petition about free speech and religious intolerance, and the paper thinks it will run for weeks.’

‘I’m sure they’re right,’ Brock said gloomily. ‘What’s their problem?’

‘She thinks there’s a possibility that they may be completely wrong about this, and she’s worried they may end up looking irresponsible and stupid.’

‘ She’s worried?’

‘It’s her story. She thinks she’ll be in the firing line if it all goes wrong.’

‘So she knows where the story came from, then? She knows who told them we were working on this in the first place? I’d very much like to know who that was.’

‘She won’t tell us that. She was adamant about it.’

‘So what has she got to offer?’

‘She says that the paper has something else, something that seems to contradict the fatwa theory.’

‘Hell’s teeth, Kathy! If they’ve got something they’ve got to give it to us.’

‘Yes, well, she thinks the paper will deny they have it if we press them. Apparently it’s a bit embarrassing to them in some way. Only Clare thinks that if she can do a deal with us, they may agree to it.’

‘What sort of a deal?’

‘She lets us have this other piece of evidence, and then, if it turns out to be solid, and the fatwa looks like a false trail, we give them early warning, so they can ease out of their corner with whatever dignity they can, and with a lead on the new story.’

‘Let me get this straight, Kathy. They want us to reward them for not withholding crucial evidence in a major murder investigation?’

Kathy smiled. ‘I knew you’d like it. She wants us to do this, not they. They don’t know about this at the moment. She wants your promise and mine that we’ll play ball, and then she’ll approach her boss.’

Brock rubbed his beard thoughtfully. She smiled to herself at the familiar gesture, the bear ruminating.

‘Let me think about it,’ he said. ‘If young Wayne out there has really found what I think he has, then the fatwa line is looking increasingly solid. We may not need Ms Hancock’s special deal.’

He got to his feet and opened the door, calling the others in. The inspector and the sergeant both shook their heads. Neither remembered seeing the green poster before, or knew who might have put it there. There were so many fly-posters, no one took much notice. And no, they couldn’t point to any particular religious groups or individuals who’d been giving trouble lately.

‘What about PC Talbot? Might he know? He seemed to know his way around here pretty well.’

With great reluctance they agreed that he might know, except that he wasn’t talking to anyone.

Brock dismissed them and turned to Kathy. She caught the calculating look in his eye and guessed what was coming before he opened his mouth. ‘Why me?’ she asked.

‘Because I’ve met him, and I think he might respond to you. He’s a good lad who’s been shafted by senior officers who should have been looking after him instead of their own backs. I promised him it wouldn’t happen, but it did, and now he doesn’t trust me either. It’s important, Kathy. You can see that.’

It suddenly occurred to Kathy that Brock was testing her, trying to see if she was ready to go back to work. She felt the flutter of panic in her chest, and was surprised at how calm her voice sounded when she replied. ‘Is it really worth trying to push him if he’s got the Federation telling him not to cooperate?’

‘He knows all the locals and their stories. Like the Kashmiri next door whose daughter’s run away. He was telling me all about it. That’s the sort of person we need.’

‘What approach do you suggest?’

‘He’s an honest, decent bobby. Make him see that it’s his duty to help us. And impress on him that we haven’t time to muck about.’

Greg Talbot’s home was a little rented flat about a mile from the police station. Kathy rang the doorbell and waited. Eventually it was opened a couple of inches to reveal a young woman’s face. It looked as if she’d been crying.

‘Mrs Talbot?’ Kathy said brightly, trying not to sound like a dodgy salesperson.

‘Are you from the Federation?’

‘No, I’m a detective, working on an important murder investigation

…’

First lie. The door began to shut.

‘We’re not speaking to anyone,’ the woman said, sounding faint.

Kathy put her hand up to the edge of the door and slipped it in, so that the woman would be obliged to crush her fingers if she slammed it. ‘Please, I know the background to this. I just need ten minutes with Greg. It is very important.’

‘I don’t want him to speak to you.’

Another voice, a man’s, sounded behind her. ‘Who is it, Shirl?’

‘A copper. Don’t talk to her.’

The door opened tentatively and PC Talbot peered out at Kathy, who explained who she was.

‘The Federation have told me not to talk to anyone.’

‘I know, but something’s come up that you may be able to help us with. No one else can, Greg. It’s really important.’

He hesitated, then finally stepped back and let her cross the threshold. His wife, who was in a dressing gown, glared at her, and Kathy had the impression that there had been a quarrel. In the background a baby began to cry, and the woman turned and marched away.

‘Shirley’s just come off her shift,’ Talbot explained. ‘She’s a nurse.’ He led Kathy through into a cramped living room where they sat down.

‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m really sorry about what’s happened. My boss, DCI Brock, is very angry. He knew nothing about it.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He sounded very tired. ‘I’m thinking of jacking it in, anyway. Shirley wants me to, and I reckon she’s right. Her young brother is earning twice what I am, and he gets home regular at six each night, and he doesn’t ’ave to put up with people wanting to poke him one, or trying to stick a syringe in ’is face.’

‘Yes, I understand. I’m looking to get out myself.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes. And I have nothing to complain about my boss. That must have been the worst thing for you, was it? Not having a boss who’d back you up.’

‘Yeah, that didn’t help. So why are you quitting?’

Quitting. She wished he hadn’t used that word. ‘I had a rough time on my last case. It wasn’t the first time it’s happened. I think I’ve had enough.’

He nodded sympathetically. ‘Yeah. We had a sergeant that happened to. Great bloke. Got attacked one night by three guys. He reckoned that was the end for him. Just couldn’t stomach it any more.’

And that was what they’d say, she presumed. Couldn’t stomach it any more. Lost her bottle.

‘What exactly do you want from me?’

Kathy took the photocopy of the green handbill from her pocket and handed it to the constable. ‘This was found in Springer’s room. We think it may have been intended as a threat. We haven’t been able to trace where it came from until we noticed one like it on a wall in Shadwell Road, not far from the police station. No one at the station knows who might have put it there. We wondered if you might.’

Talbot handed it back with barely a glance. ‘None of them know? The sergeant? The inspector?’

‘Right.’

He smiled bitterly. ‘No, well, they don’t get out much. Not on the beat, talking to people.’

‘Do you know, Greg?’

‘Yeah, I know who made this.’ He sat back as if he might say no more, then said, ‘They’re a crew calling themselves Islamic Action. Sounds impressive, but it’s really just three young lads who are pissed off with everything. Maybe I should join them. The leader is Ahmed Nathaniel Sharif. He gets real annoyed when you call him by his middle name. Left school two or three years ago. Quite bright really, but hasn’t got a job. People don’t like his attitude and the way he looks. He’s got dreadlocks and a feeble attempt at a beard.’

‘Arab?’

‘No, Paki, I suppose. Or Bengali. English anyway. He lives somewhere on the council estate east of Shadwell Road. The mosque will know. That’s the Twaqulia Mosque, just up the road from the police station. Speak to the imam, Mr Hashimi.’

Kathy wrote it all down, checking the spelling. ‘Thanks, Greg. I appreciate that. Brock said you know the local characters, like the Kashmiri with the runaway daughter.’

‘Mr Manzoor? Yeah, well, I didn’t tell him the worst part.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Old man Manzoor reckons his daughter’s humiliated him in the eyes of his family, and people say he’s sworn to kill her when he finds her, and the bloke she’s with. He and his two brothers are out most nights after they close up shop, cruising the East End looking for her. They think she’s still around there somewhere. That’s the main reason we’re still keeping an eye open for her, to get to her before her dad does something stupid.’

‘Nasty. You know this young Sharif lad then, do you, Greg? Has he been in trouble?’

‘About six months ago he attacked The Three Crowns-that’s the pub on Shadwell Road, just across the way from the police station.’

‘Attacked it?’

‘Yeah. Marched in one Saturday lunchtime and announced that the pub was an offence in the eyes of God, or something, and started to smash the place up. The landlord and a few of the customers managed to restrain him after a bit, but not before there’d been a good bit of damage, both to the pub and to him.’

‘What did he get?’

‘Twelve months good behaviour. He wanted to be a martyr, see, and go to jail, but the magistrate wouldn’t oblige.’

‘So he can be violent?’

‘You mean, shoot Springer?’ PC Talbot rubbed his nose doubtfully. ‘I never thought of him as bad, really, but he fills his head with these crazy religious ideas. Maybe it makes him feel important, part of something.’

‘Greg, I think you should speak to my boss about this yourself. He tells me your inspector and sergeant have agreed to cancel your suspension and give you a private apology.’

Greg nodded unhappily. ‘Yeah, I know. But the Federation want a public statement printed in The Job. Apparently there’ve been other cases like this, and they want to make an issue of it.’

Kathy felt sympathetic. Through no fault of his own, circumstances had conspired to make life difficult for PC Talbot. ‘Yes, it’s hard. I suppose that’s up to you in the end. But meantime, we need your help. Will you come back with me and speak to Brock?’

He stared gloomily down at his feet, then said, ‘I’ll talk to Shirley.’

Kathy waited by the front door to see what the answer would be. She heard Shirley’s voice, angry, and wasn’t optimistic, but eventually Talbot appeared, pulling on a coat, and they went out to the car.

He directed her to a lane running behind Shadwell Road, from which they turned into a yard behind the police station. Another vehicle was there, a van from which men were unloading folding screens. Kathy spotted Leon Desai among them, and guessed they were a forensic team, preparing to retrieve the green poster from the wall. Wayne O’Brien was with them, talking to Leon, and she said hello to them as she and Greg Talbot passed, avoiding Leon’s attempts to catch her eye.

After they’d gone inside, the Special Branch man, who had been watching Kathy meditatively, turned to Leon and said, ‘What do you reckon on her, then? Know her, do you?’

‘Yes, I know her,’ Leon replied, but didn’t offer more.

‘Well, I reckon she’s dead gorgeous. I go for that arctic blonde look, and just a hint of haggard, like she had a heavy night last night, know what I mean?’

Leon turned away with a discouraging frown. ‘No, can’t say that I do.’

But Wayne wasn’t going to be put off. ‘Come on, old son. You must know something about her. Is she hitched?’

‘She’s not married, no,’ Leon said, his disapproval beginning to sound pompous.

‘Going steady?’

Leon hesitated before replying. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he said softly.

‘How come?’

‘Just believe me, OK? Leave her alone.’

But Wayne loved a challenge, and he hadn’t got where he was by taking things on trust.

Inside the police station Brock shepherded the reluctant PC Talbot towards the interview room, ordering coffee and cakes from the reluctant desk sergeant. He turned to Kathy with a beam of satisfaction.

‘I knew you could do it, Kathy. Well done. I’m just sorry I had to involve you. You on your way back to Suzanne now? Give her my best.’

He was in a hurry and she was being dismissed, she realised.

‘I’ve got one or two things to do in town,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably stay at my place tonight. What about the reporter, Clare Hancock?’

‘Do nothing. If she contacts you, tell her I’m thinking it over. Say it may be a day or two before we can give her an answer.’

‘Is that a good idea? Suppose she takes her material to someone else?’

‘I think she’s already worked out that we’re her best hope. At the moment it’s still our case.’

He gave her a reassuring nod and turned away. Kathy dug her hands in the deep pockets of her coat, feeling suddenly dispensable and at a loss.

‘Hi there!’

She turned to face Wayne O’Brien, a big infectious grin on his face. ‘It’s my lunchtime. How about you? Fancy another expedition into the Hindu Kush?’

She smiled back, grateful. ‘Don’t they need you here?’

‘They can spare me for an hour. Come on.’