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.’
Babel Page 7