Babel

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Unfortunately not. His face was masked, and it all happened very quickly. We have very little information about him at present, though East London police have been alerted to his description, such as it is. We’re in the process of examining your security camera tapes, and we’re hopeful they may give us something more.’

  ‘And no doubt there will be other evidence? Forensic?’

  But Brock had had enough of this interrogation and ignored Young’s question, turning instead to his own. ‘Tell me about Professor Springer. We need details such as home address, next of kin, age and so on, but I’d also like a sketch of what he did, how he fitted in here. A couple of the students said he was world famous, though I have to admit the name means nothing to me.’

  ‘Our Professor of Philosophy. Distinguished career. He’s held in high regard, especially in Germany and the States, I believe. This will cause a tremendous shock.’ He leaned forward to emphasise the point. ‘This will be noticed, Chief Inspector Brock, noticed. This is not just a local matter.’

  Brock took this to be a query of his credentials to handle such a case. The man was an instinctive bully, he decided. ‘But not exactly a household name?’ he objected. ‘I mean, his fame would be confined to fairly narrow university circles, would it?’

  ‘Not narrow . . . but I take your point,’ Young conceded. ‘You mean he wasn’t a celebrity, like a television presenter, or something?’

  ‘Yes. A philosopher . . . Did he hold controversial views, then? Did he upset people?’

  ‘Not really. Not any more. In his heyday he did cause a bit of controversy. There was quite a lot of public debate over the views expressed in one of his books, on the Arab and Israeli question, I believe.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, but that was years ago. He’s in his mid-sixties now, and to be honest, he’d pretty much faded from public view. I mean, I’m sure we haven’t approved any conference expenses for Max in the past three years, and there have been no research grants, or publications . . . No, the idea of a murderer incensed by his ideas just seems, well, bizarre, frankly.’

  The President tapped on the keys of one of the two computers on his steel desk, then corrected himself. ‘He was sixty-six. I’ll write down the home address for you.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit old to be still in post?’

  ‘It is rather. Most of our older staff took early retirement several reviews ago, to clear the way for our New Model Army—that’s what I like to call my new breed of academics. But a few hang on.’ He gave a grim little smile, and Brock had a sudden image of old men desperately hanging on to the flanks of a great steel ship while President Young worked to prise their fingers loose.

  ‘You were trying to get rid of him?’

  ‘Oh no, no. Max was . . . a feather in our cap, a distinguished ornament. We can afford a few of those.’ He chuckled indulgently. ‘Joined UCLE nine years ago,’ Young continued, reading from his screen. ‘Three years before I arrived. Things were very different then. We were in a maze of old buildings in Whitechapel. A slum. He came to us from Oxford.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘The previous vice-chancellor got him to come. It was quite a catch for UCLE. Put our humanities programme on the map . . . Next of kin is listed as his wife.’ Young frowned at the screen. ‘That’s a mistake. I’m sure she died long ago. And I don’t know of any other family. There certainly weren’t any children.’

  ‘Are you aware of any complications in his private life?’ Brock asked. ‘Anyone with a grudge?’

  ‘You mean a jealous husband or something?’ Young snorted with amusement. ‘I hardly think so. I suppose you could speak to someone who was closer to him.’

  ‘Who do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, perhaps Desmond Pettifer.’

  Brock noticed the President give a little wince, as of indigestion.

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘Classics. His office is close to Max’s.’

  ‘Good, I need to have a look at his office. Perhaps you could get Mr Pettifer to meet me there.’

  ‘Well,’ he glanced at his Executive Officer, ‘We’ll try, but Dr Pettifer tends to be a bit hard to locate in the afternoons.’

  The other man allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘I think what the President is trying tactfully to say, Chief Inspector, is that Dr Pettifer is probably under the table in some pub somewhere, finding communication difficult.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose he has a mobile phone,’ Young added. ‘He’ll be the last man on earth to possess one.’

  Brock smiled. ‘I recall that my tutor used to keep an oak cask of sherry by his bedside, for night-time emergencies.’

  ‘Really. Well, hopefully you won’t meet too many of that sort at UCLE, Chief Inspector. We’ve tried to eliminate that kind of eccentricity, as far as possible. It’s hardly fair, is it? On the others who have to shoulder the load. Unfortunately Dr Pettifer has a propensity for intoxicating substances. He was arrested at Heathrow some years back trying to bring some cocaine into the country after he’d spent a sabbatical at a Californian university, where he’d acquired a taste for the stuff. He was treated leniently, and my predecessor chose to hush the matter up. I would have been far less tolerant, believe me.’

  ‘Well, now,’ Brock said, ‘so far we’ve eliminated an ideological motive, a family dispute and an outraged husband, so that leaves us with the obvious, I suppose, a disgruntled student.’

  Sounds of protest began to come from Professor Young, and Brock added, ‘Witnesses describe the assailant as a young, agile male. The campus is teeming with them. Surely a student is the most likely candidate?’

  ‘Ordinarily that might have been a possibility, I agree. We have had isolated cases of violence, or threatened violence from students. Last summer there was an unfortunate incident over a Chinese student who’d run out of funds and couldn’t go home without his Ph.D. or he’d suffer loss of face, but his tutor refused to approve his thesis as being ready for examination and the man became very fraught and threatened her. So yes, these things are conceivable. But that is highly unlikely in this case.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he hasn’t got any students.’

  ‘What about . . .’ Brock checked his notes, ‘ . . . Briony Kidd?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I stand corrected. He has one student. Ms Kidd is near the end of her Ph.D., I think.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ Brock said mildly. ‘He didn’t go to conferences, publish or teach? Doesn’t sound very . . . productive.’

  ‘He was an unusual case. He came here to take the chair in a fairly thriving department of philosophy, but since then we’ve gone through several restructurings. We no longer have departments as such, and philosophy, along with a number of other disciplines, has become incompatible with our institutional profile. We’ve been phasing it out, very successfully actually. We stopped enrolling new students some time ago, and most staff accepted the situation and have gone. Professor Springer was our last philosopher.’

  ‘And Ms Kidd your last philosophy student.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, do you have any thoughts as to who could have killed Professor Springer?’ Brock asked.

  ‘An intruder, clearly,’ Young said decisively. ‘We get them all the time, coming in here from the city. Young kids wanting to skateboard, older ones trying to deal drugs or steal the computers. Max probably ran foul of one of them, or perhaps a gang—he could be quite outspoken and provocative when he wanted to be. And they no doubt decided to teach him a lesson. I’m sure that’s the answer. Our own security people should be able to help, let you have information on some of our recent troublemakers.’

  He sat back in his chair as if satisfied that some conclusive point had been reached in the discussion.

  ‘All the same,’ Brock said doubtfully, ‘a shooting murder?’

  ‘You get that all the time these days, don’t you?’ Young said. ‘You only have to open th
e paper . . .’ Then he added, ‘They told me you’re with Serious Crime, is that right, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Well, I rather fear they may have wasted your time pulling you onto this one. Much more likely to be petty crime turned nasty. Can I offer you something before you go? A drink? Coffee?’

  The Executive Officer, who had taken notes throughout the meeting, put his notepad aside on the edge of the big desk and got to his feet.

  ‘No thanks, Professor Young. I’d better get back to my people.’

  ‘One thing before you go,’ the President said, leaning forward over his steel desk. ‘Concerning the media. I think it would be best if all press statements, media releases, interviews and so on were processed through one office and one office only, don’t you? Our Media Liaison Unit is very good. I’d like to propose that you work through them, just so there’ll be no crossed wires, all right?’

  ‘That won’t be possible,’ Brock replied. ‘We have our own staff who handle all our media contacts. Of course you must go ahead and issue a statement of regret, how Professor Springer contributed to the university, his academic achievements and so on. But nothing concerning the murder, nothing at all. No information about the circumstances, and no speculation about motive or perpetrator. Leave all that to us.’

  The President looked deeply displeased. He regarded Brock for a moment, as if for the first time sizing him up as an opponent. Brock watched Young’s eyes check over his somewhat crumpled black suit, the beard in need of a trim, the shirt chosen for comfort rather than effect, the tie suffering from a small teriyaki sauce incident. ‘I may have to dispute that, Chief Inspector,’ he said finally, ‘at a higher level.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Brock said, getting to his feet. He turned to the Executive Officer. ‘If I might have my coat?’

  3

  Despite 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 b
efore, 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.