‘Yes. And got hefty sentences.’
‘So that might have been what got Anton Tarasov killed – and who knows how Yilmaz might have been involved. If he was working with Belenki but managed not to get caught, one of Belenki’s associates could have been out to get him too. Well, that’s great work, Steve. Complicates things, of course, but gives us a new line. A more convincing one than the Turks, to be honest. They’ve never looked like killers to me.’
Paula Powell chipped in. ‘Their alibis are pretty solid. I know it’s only their wives’ word, but their stories tallied – what they ate, what time the kids went to bed, what they watched on TV. I didn’t think they were lying.’
‘Boxer, see if you can get any more on Belenki, will you? And any link you can find between Tarasov and Yilmaz.’
‘It’s an odd coincidence, isn’t it?’ one of the DCs asked. ’Tarasov’s son being at the same college here as Yilmaz?’
‘Not necessarily. If Yilmaz and Tarasov knew they were in danger and Yilmaz managed to get himself sent over here, he could have suggested to Tarasov that this would be a good safe place to send his son to. May even have said he’d keep an eye on him.’
‘Do you think he’s in danger too then, sir?’
‘I think I need to talk to him. Find out if he thinks he is.’
He paused, trying to slot this new information into place.
‘Let’s get back to the murder itself. Did anyone see anything around the library? What did we get off the witness statements?’
Paula Powell brandished a thick handful of papers. ‘Nobody saw anything. If these guys were hiding out in the library, no-one saw them. The boys obviously don’t like the women only night at the Union – several complained about being chivvied out on the dot when the library closed because the woman on duty was obviously eager to be off. It really riles them, poor little lads.’
‘OK. I’ll take a look at them myself. There may be something we can follow up. Get back to me over that phone call to the porter will you, Steve? Simon and Paula, bring in Amiel’s phone contacts.’
His mobile rang and he checked the caller ID. Gina Gray.
‘I ought to take this,’ he said. ‘I think we’re done here.’
Outside the room, he made contact.
‘Mrs Gray?’
‘DCI Scott.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m sending a photo to your phone. I’ve just taken it. Another message on the classroom board. If you asked me, I’d say it was written by a Turk. I need to clean my board but I think you should see it. Any news on Laurent?’’
‘No phone calls and no credit card activity since Friday.’
‘Serious then. No crumb of comfort for Mme Amiel?’
‘We haven’t found a body.’
‘Oh that’s all right then. Nothing to worry about.’
‘We’ve got some leads.’
‘I’m sending the photo. Let me know when you get it. Oh – and I’ve captured the board pen, for fingerprints.’
A minute later the photo came through. Scott looked at his screen in puzzlement and read,
IF THE MAN WASN’T BEING A DRUG ADDICT,
HE WASN’T DISSAPPEARING
He sighed and called her back.
13
WEDNESDAY: Semantic Fields
I start the day with the weekly staff meeting. I called a quick meeting as soon as we got the news about Ekrem, just so we all knew what there was to know, and we’ve mulled over scenarios and speculated over Laurent’s disappearance at odd moments over coffee. Iris Cooper, who obsesses over exam results, thinks we should write to the exam board explaining the trauma the students have suffered – including those in other classes; Tessa Lavender thinks Yukiko is badly affected and worries that she’s not eating; I’m worried about Ceren, who still seems pale and tearful; Malcolm Burns thinks the other Turks have got demotivated; Jenny Marsh is frantic to get back into the library because she’s working part-time for a PhD in Sociolinguistics.
This is our regular meeting, however, and we have department matters to discuss. I go down to the office to photocopy papers and look in on Seminar Room 5, where we’re having the meeting, to drop them off. I’m irritated to see that the board hasn’t been cleaned, and then I read what’s on it:
IF THE MAN WASN’T BEING A DRUG ADDICT,
HE WASN’T DISSAPPEARING
Not my own handwriting this time, but neat block capitals so regular as to be bereft of individuality. I don’t know who wrote it but the syntax looks distinctly Turkish: the spelling error could be anyone’s, but it’s Turks who have trouble distinguishing between the progressive form – ‘was disappearing’ – and the simple – ‘disappeared’, and they use the past tense in the main clause of unreal conditions. I look at it. This is about Laurent. Does that mean there’s a definite connection between his disappearance and Ekrem’s death? And why am I being sent these messages? What am I expected to do with them? I suppress a niggle of fear. I need to show this to David Scott: it’s evidence of a sort and it might encourage him to step up the search for Laurent. But I don’t want it sitting on the board here all through our meeting because it will derail us and there are decisions we have to make. I shall take a photo of it on my phone. Annie does this all the time - if you’re out with her you find her brandishing her phone at anything she sees that amuses her – and she has shown me how to do it. I can manage the technology.
I take the picture and it shows up clearly on my screen. I have a qualm, though, as I go to rub the message off the board. I worry that I’m destroying evidence, so I do two things: I pick up the black board pen lying on the desk, holding it with my skirt to avoid leaving prints (though my prints must be all over it, actually, as I use it every day) and I slip it into one of my plastic document wallets, feeling rather thrillingly professional; then I fish out David Scott’s card and phone him. I don’t want to rub this off till he has seen it, so I’m going to send it to him. Technological wizardry – I hope he’s impressed.
Once I’m sure he’s got the picture I clean the board and manage to launch us into the business of the meeting without getting bogged down in the Ekrem drama. We make final decisions on entries for Cambridge Proficiency and First Certificate exams; we agree on recommendations about progression to academic courses; we sketch out staffing for summer courses. Then there’s the issue of the budget surplus – all two hundred pounds of it. We have to spend all this year’s allocation before April 1st or return it, so we’ve only a couple of weeks to spend our surplus and, inevitably, everyone has a different priority. After half an hour we decide on beefing up the books for the summer courses and go for coffee.
Over coffee I field questions about Laurent. We all, except Iris, teach this class: Jenny takes them for Listening, Tessa for Speaking, Malcolm for Reading; I, as you know, do Grammar and Writing. We all know that Laurent is pretty feckless but he’s never stayed away from classes for more than a day or two. We’re all worried and we all wish the police would show more sign of being worried. I report on my information from DCI Scott and we’re discussing its implications when Gillian from the office comes into the SCR to tell me that Mme Amiel and her daughter are here to see me.
Mme Amiel is bronzed and glossy but her face has a defensive, downward cast that speaks of disappointment and mistrust. She is smartly trouser-suited and her shoes and bag look dauntingly expensive. She looks round my office with distaste and a little perplexity. Maybe she’s not used to the academic world – or to the world of work in general. Her daughter, Claudette, on the other hand, seems quite at home. She is in designer jeans and a jacket of soft, golden suede. She is, I’ve already learnt, a student at the University of Lausanne, where she is getting excellent grades. Her mother has expatiated on the contrast between her and her brother at some length and I gather that she has always been a paragon of virtue, and proof that Mme Laurent n’est pas une mauvaise mère. Claudette has been brought along as translator, as her English is
superb (her mother again). I have not had the chance to judge as yet since modesty is obviously among her many virtues and she has not been translating her mother’s eulogies on herself.
Still, I am relieved that she’s here: my French really isn’t up to the kind of conversation I see we’re going to have. This is how it goes: Mme Amiel produces a torrent of French, of which I sort of get the gist, then Claudette gives me a précis in English, I reply as succinctly as I can and Claudette appears to expand my answer into discursive French. Mme Amiel does not hold back: from the start a handkerchief is produced and she weeps mascaraed tears.
‘My mother,’ says the admirable Claudette when her mother pauses for breath, ‘thinks that the police are not concerned because Laurent is a foreigner. She thinks that if he were a British boy, they would have done more. My mother has read many accounts of the murders of foreign students in Britain. She thinks it is a very dangerous place for foreigners.’
Wham! I gather my forces, wishing I had some statistics to counter Mme Amiel’s assertions about the slaughter of the foreign innocents. It is true there have been some high-profile murders of foreign students, but are they really a high-risk group? As a devoted listener to Radio 4, I know that there are about 800 murders a year in this country; that two women a week, on average, are killed by their partners and that at least one child a week is killed by a parent. I’m not good at remembering numbers but these stick in my mind. I’m not sure that being a foreign student is as dangerous as all that. I hope not because we in the English language business trade on the UK being a safe place – it’s how we’re able to beat off competition from the US.
‘Please tell your mother,’ I say to Claudette, ‘that the police here take the disappearance of a foreigner just as seriously as they do that of a British citizen, but Laurent is an adult and responsible for himself. We are not talking about the disappearance of a child here.’
Claudette turns to relay this to her mother, but I hold my hand up (rather imperiously, I realise).
‘The police have evidence which suggests that Laurent may have been planning to go away. He withdrew all the money from his bank account on Friday afternoon.’
Mme Amiel’s response is further tears and gestures of despair. I give up the attempt to comprehend and wait for enlightenment from Claudette.
‘My mother,’ she explains, ‘is concerned that Laurent may be on his way back to Switzerland. Perhaps he is there and we are here.’
I can help with this at least.
‘Impossible. Laurent hasn’t got his passport with him.’
This quietens Mme Amiel, as well it might. Mind you, the Amiels don’t yet know about the disturbing phone silence, and I’m not going to tell them unless I’m pushed. A job for DCI Scott, I reckon. We all sit for a moment in silence, contemplating individually the possible intentions of Laurent in emptying his bank account and disappearing from view. Coercion? Trouble with drug pushers driving him underground? A weekend binge gone wrong? The Amiels start a muttered conversation, clearly not designed to be relayed to me. Time to bring this to a close, I think. Treacherously, I say to Claudette, ‘I think you should talk to the policeman in charge of the case, Detective Chief Inspector Scott. I’m sure he will be able to give you more help than I can. I have his card here.’
I call a taxi for them and with a few more tears on Mme Amiel’s part and expressions of sympathy on mine, I am soon able to usher them out of the room. Should I warn David Scott that they’re on their way? On the whole, I think not. It is his job, after all.
At lunch time, a quartet from the college chamber music group is playing Beethoven in the Concert Room. The room is actually a former chapel and, godless though I am, I love its aura of calm and longevity. These lunchtime concerts are always well-attended – not surprisingly as they’re free for a start. More than that, though, there is something wonderful about escaping from the middle of a mundane day to allow glorious music to flow over you, even if it is only for a strictly limited forty-five minutes. Most of the members of my department go from time to time. I sit near the front, well to one side. It’s not the best position acoustically but I hope to avoid having anyone I know sitting next to me. I vant to be alone.
They are playing the third Razumovsky quartet and Christiane is the violist. I have heard her play before; she plays, as she does everything, with gravity and grace. As they embark, delicately, on the tentative pianissimo opening, I am assailed by an unfamiliar emotion: envy. Envy isn’t one of my sins, really; I’ve always thought it was a waste of time. Anger, pride and sloth, with occasional outbreaks of lust and gluttony, I will admit to, but envy and avarice I disclaim. Now though, just for a moment, as the music seeps into me and I watch Christiane’s intent face, a whispering voice in my head asks, Why can’t I have a daughter like that, so sane, so competent, so certain? I hope you appreciate by now that I love my daughters dearly; I would (and do) defend them savagely against anyone who criticises them. I’m not blind to their faults, though, any more than I’m blind to my own, and what I think most of all, as I watch Christiane, is what a relief it must be to have a daughter like that because you wouldn’t have to worry about her; you would know that she would cope with the world, that she would be all right.
I banish such fruitless thoughts and let the music do its work through to its dazzling, frenzied finale. I walk back with the melodies still dancing in my head and my thoughts go back to Christiane: how amazing the resilience of German culture; how extraordinary to recover from the horror, shame and humiliation of Nazism, holocaust and defeat to be producing thoughtful, civilised, humane young women like her. Was it owning Beethoven and Brahms, Schiller and Goethe, that enabled them to do it, I wonder (I omit Wagner as he spoils my thesis). As I climb the stairs to my office I wonder whether Shakespeare will save us. On the whole, I’m inclined to think he will.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, I arrive in Seminar Room 5 to teach what I’ve come to think of as Ekrem’s class. It is a week since we sat here and worked on conditional sentences; is that why I got the message about Laurent today? I start with a little t.l.c.. First I congratulate Christiane on her performance and she turns a bit pink and thanks me, unsmiling as musicians always are. However thunderous the applause, they stand and receive it straight-faced, as though it is the music and not they that is being approved.
Then I turn to Denis.
‘Denis!’ I cry cheerfully. ‘Back in one piece from interrogation, I see.’
Denis gives his customary smirk.
‘I employed my legal rights,’ he says airily. ‘I claimed the protection of the law.’
I love the way the French always call the law ‘the low’, but it’s my duty to correct him:
‘The law, Denis. Imagine it’s spelt l o r.’
Then I turn to Yukiko.
‘And Yukiko? You’re obviously a dangerous criminal. How did you get on with Chief Inspector Scott?’
Yukiko colours and puts her hand to her mouth, with that special suppressing gesture that Japanese women use, before she says, ‘I think Chief Inspector Scott is more gentle than Japanese police. And he is rather handsome.’
‘I see. Well, you obviously got the better of him too, in your way. You’re a dark horse, Yukiko.’
‘What is dark horse?’ Irina asks.
‘Someone who has hidden abilities or who is not what they seem.’
The class regards Yukiko for a moment, as if trying to see into her hidden depths, and she droops her head under their scrutiny. I turn to work.
Since a lot of the students are studying law or law-related subjects, I’ve taken a section on legal vocabulary from Advanced Vocabulary for Academic English. We launch into an exercise on verb-noun collocations (commit a crime, try a case, stand trial, give evidence/ testimony, make a statement, take the witness stand, hand down a verdict, pronounce sentence et cetera). I sense a lack of interest in this exercise, though they plod through it dutifully, and as we finish I have doubts about
taking them on to more of the same. I’m about to opt for a game of legal hangman when Denis raises a hand.
‘Over the page here is an interesting exercise, I think. There are some faux amis that are useful for us.’
Faux amis, or false friends, are words which are similar in two languages but actually have different meanings. French and English have a lot of them: in French, for instance passer un examen means to take, not to pass, an exam; a librairie is a bookshop and important means ‘extensive’.
‘Assassinate’, continues Denis, ‘is not the same as assassiner, I think.’
I turn the page and find there is a chart of words to do with killing. They all seem eager to do this: no-one seems to feel that it is a tasteless topic to pursue only a week after one of their classmates has been killed and it involves ticking boxes, which always goes down well. I surrender and it all gets quite philosophical. We discuss why it is not possible to murder an animal, even when the killing is illegal; we conclude that when one criminal is murdered by another he is murdered as a person, not as a criminal; we debate whether the execution of a criminal must always be legitimised by the state; we compare slaughter and butcher, with their Germanic and French roots respectively, and decide that slaughter implies large numbers of victims while an individual may be butchered; I confirm that assassinate always involves a public figure, whereas assassiner can mean simply kill, and I expatiate on the epic implications of using slay (one may slay a dragon but not a cat, a knight but not a burglar).
In the end our chart looks like this:
As there is more than one way to kill a cat, so there are multiple ways of killing one’s fellow humans. In large numbers we may slay, exterminate, slaughter, butcher or massacre them; individually, we may murder, butcher, assassinate or execute them. In discovering this we have ourselves killed the time. I send them home and I clean the board.
Back in my office, I find David Scott waiting for me. I find this annoying: I lock my door when I’m out of the office but he must have come in through the communicating door with ‘his’ office – the one I had to promise to keep locked. What has he been doing? Has he been at my computer? I make a pantomime of my exaggerated surprise.
This Is a Dreadful Sentence Page 9