Babel bak-6

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Sorry, I had to fly out to the Gulf again over the weekend and I’m a bit behind in my sleep. This business has been incredibly disruptive, you understand. It’s been very hard for us to focus on our work.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine that your overseas partners would find it a little disturbing.’

  Haygill raised his eyes. ‘More than a little, Chief Inspector, I can assure you. The sooner we can put it behind us the better. Incidentally, may I ask something? I felt very bad that we weren’t represented at Abu’s interment. I understand that there was a young woman there, and that there was some kind of incident. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine now.’

  ‘Good. Is she a relative?’

  ‘I understand she was a friend of Mr Khadra’s.’

  ‘Really. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend, you see, and I wondered if I should get in touch with her, express our regrets.’

  ‘If you wanted to send a note to me, Professor, I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  ‘Oh… thank you. I wrote to the address we had for his family in the Lebanon, but I haven’t heard anything.’ He sighed. ‘It’s so hard to know what to say.’

  Brock began the formal interview. ‘Professor Haygill, there is strong forensic evidence to suggest that Abu Khadra was the man who murdered Max Springer, but we are puzzled by his motive. Why would he have done such a thing? Have you any idea?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But you must surely have wondered about this. What possibilities did you come up with?’

  Haygill hunched forward slightly, frowning through his glasses at Brock. ‘I don’t think I quite understand. Are you asking me to speculate?’ He turned to the solicitor at his side, who gave a small shake of his head.

  ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate,’ the solicitor advised.

  ‘I think it’s inevitable,’ Brock retorted, ‘if not with me then with a wider public. People will speculate, Professor, and I’m asking for your informed help.’

  Still Haygill didn’t offer anything, and Brock went on.

  ‘Well, let me put this to you, just as an example. Max Springer was an extremely hostile critic of you and your work. On one occasion I believe he compared you to the Nazi Dr Mengele, am I right?’

  Haygill took a deep breath and made a weary gesture with his hand. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a pretty drastic kind of criticism, isn’t it? Especially coming from a man who lost his parents in the concentration camps.’

  ‘It was a preposterous, outrageous remark for which he was censured by the Chair of the University Senate.’

  ‘But you didn’t pursue it, Professor? You didn’t consider suing him?’

  ‘I did consider it, but on reflection I felt that would only give his absurd opinions the public exposure he craved. He wanted me to sue him. He wanted a forum and publicity to present his idiotic ideas. He didn’t care that he would have lost. So I declined to give him that opportunity.’

  ‘But it must have been extremely frustrating and upsetting to you and the members of your team at the Centre of Advanced Biotechnology?’

  Haygill regarded Brock impassively, then wiped a hand quickly over his sandy hair and replied, ‘I think we regarded it with the contempt it deserved.’

  ‘You regarded him with contempt?’

  But Haygill wasn’t going to be caught like that. ‘I regarded his statement with contempt. I had no particular personal feelings for Max Springer, except to wish that he would calm down and have a bit of commonsense.’

  ‘But your staff are younger people, less mature than you, less able to take a detached, scientific view of Springer’s remarks, perhaps. They must have been outraged, surely?’

  ‘Well, you can ask them. But my impression was that they took little notice.’

  ‘Come on, Professor! I’m told they practically caused an international incident over some Christmas e-mail! If they took offence at something like that, they’d hardly accept Springer’s taunts calmly.’

  ‘That was completely different. They saw that as an attack on their religious convictions.’

  ‘Hm.’ Brock consulted his notes. ‘On another occasion I believe Springer described your role in CAB-Tech as “Svengali-like”.’

  ‘Really?’ Haygill looked mildly surprised. ‘I haven’t heard that one. But no abusive remark attributed to Max would especially astonish me.’

  ‘That particular remark has a specific meaning, though, doesn’t it? It suggests that you hold a dominating influence over the people under you at CAB-Tech. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Nonsense. We operate on teamwork and cooperation between team members, just as in a hundred other scientific establishments around the world.’

  ‘But your team is unusual, isn’t it, in the way you’ve recruited a group of Middle Eastern staff with a common religious outlook and strong personal loyalty to you.’

  ‘You find it questionable that our staff should include some Islamic scientists?’ Haygill said coldly, straightening in his seat. ‘Maybe you should examine your own attitudes, Chief Inspector. Maybe there’s some prejudice lurking in there that we should know about.’

  The solicitor leaned over to make a comment, but Haygill shook his head impatiently. ‘I’d like to hear where they’re going with this.’ He glared at Brock. ‘You’re implying that Abu was so upset by Springer’s insults, and so loyal to me, that he went off and shot the man dead? Is that it?’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Brock asked mildly.

  ‘It’s laughable.’

  ‘I understand Abu felt that he owed you a great deal for advancing his career, and looked up to you almost as a father.’

  Haygill looked doubtful. ‘I think that’s putting it far too strongly.’

  ‘So you don’t see much merit in the idea that he did it for you?’

  ‘As a theory, I think it’s feeble.’

  ‘Well… would it be stronger, as a theory, if you’d encouraged him to do it?’

  Haygill swivelled away in his seat and laughed, shaking his head.

  ‘Perhaps half-joking, a few hints that things would be a lot easier if someone could make Springer shut his mouth. That kind of thing?’

  ‘No.’ Haygill swung back and leaned forward across the table at Brock to make the point. ‘Not half-jokingly or in any other way. I did not encourage him or anyone else to do anything to Max Springer.’

  ‘Very well.’ Brock scanned his papers as if running out of questions.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Er, not quite. Does CAB-Tech do business with the Bank of Credit and Commerce Dubai?’

  Haygill looked stunned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many accounts are there?’

  ‘Why on earth are you asking?’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘There are several individual research project accounts, a reserve deposit account, a general working account… Probably eight or nine in all.’

  ‘What about you personally?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, do you have a personal account with the bank?’

  ‘Yes, but what has this got to do-’

  ‘We would like your authorisation to examine all of the accounts for the period of, say, the last twelve months.’

  Haygill said, ‘Absolutely not! They are commercially sensitive.. .’ His face had gone pink, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘This is absolutely outrageous!’ He turned to his lawyer who took up the objections.

  ‘There is no question of my client agreeing to such an examination, Chief Inspector. We would maintain most vigorously that his business and personal financial records are excluded material under the terms of the 1984 Act.’

  Brock shrugged and went on. ‘Do you or does anyone else associated with CAB-Tech, either here or overseas, to your knowledge own a hand-gun of any kind?’

  ‘No! Certainly not!’

  ‘What is the BRCA4 Protocol, Professor Haygill?’

  Once again the scientist looked stunned, as
if physically struck by some blow from a totally unexpected quarter. He shook his head, ‘I

  … I don’t understand what all this…’

  ‘What is the BRCA4 Protocol, Professor Haygill?’

  Haygill pulled himself together, spread his fingers wide on the table and stared at them as if counting to check they were all there.

  ‘Chief Inspector Brock,’ his solicitor said, ‘I would like to speak in private with…’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ Haygill said. ‘The BRCA4 Protocol is a proposal for a research project originating from our laboratories. One of dozens.’

  ‘Could you describe it to me?’

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t.’

  ‘You have some kind of proposal document, describing it?’

  Haygill frowned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I would like to have it examined by our staff.’

  ‘No. It is commercially sensitive.’

  ‘Secret?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Then how did Max Springer know about it?’

  ‘Springer?’ Haygill looked horrified. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There was evidence in his room at the university that he had information on it.’

  ‘I’m astonished… How could he?’

  Into Brock’s mind came an image of Springer’s room when they had first opened its door, and the impression of it having been ransacked, countered by the security guard’s assurance that it always looked like that.

  ‘If he had, it would have been very sensitive, would it? Commercially?’

  ‘Well…it’s only a proposal for a feasibility study at this stage

  …’

  ‘So not especially valuable commercially?’

  Haygill shrugged doubtfully.

  ‘How about ethically? Would it have been ethically sensitive, in the hands of an opponent like Max Springer? Something that could have been used to embarrass you if produced in a public lecture, for example.’

  Haygill lowered his eyes to his spread fingers and didn’t answer. Looking at him, Brock knew he didn’t need to. Reggie Grice had been right-despite all the differences in their power and influence, Haygill was vulnerable to the kind of trouble that the wayward Springer could stir up, and he knew it. There was something here, something Haygill had kept hidden, which he now felt that he could almost smell.

  ‘Thank you, Professor Haygill.’

  ‘What? Is that all?’

  ‘For the moment. Are you planning any more trips abroad?’

  ‘Er… The next is scheduled for the end of the month, but as things stand, it may be necessary-’

  ‘Don’t make any arrangements without consulting us first, will you? Here’s my contact details.’

  Brock handed Haygill a card and got to his feet.

  Leon Desai left his coat with the cloakroom attendant and strolled through a pair of large panelled doors into a bar lounge, trying to appear confident and relaxed, as if he came to places like this all the time. It wasn’t at all to his taste. A cross between an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club and a Turkish brothel, Wayne O’Brien had said, and he could see what he meant. The furniture was too amply stuffed, the carpet pile too thick, the port and burgundy colour scheme too livid, so that the effect was bombastic. The theme of the decorations was horsy, in keeping with the club’s name, with large Stubbs reproductions of thoroughbred champions framed around the walls, and bronze horse heads mounted on pedestals. Leon found it all both contemptible and thoroughly intimidating, especially in view of O’Brien’s estimate of the amount of money that passed through here each night.

  The place seemed quiet, a few people embedded in the plump furniture around the room. The opulent mahogany bar that formed one end of the lounge was deserted, and Leon walked to it and eased himself onto a leather barstool. The doors in the far wall opened as a couple passed through, and he glimpsed more people in the gaming room beyond.

  The barman returned with a silver tray of empty glasses. ‘Good evening, sir. What can we do for you?’ He was as smooth and glossy as the brandy balloons glistening against the mirror at his back.

  ‘My name’s Desai. I’m a friend of-’

  ‘Mr O’Brien, sir. Why yes, of course. I’m Rupert. How are we this evening?’

  Actually he wasn’t feeling too bad now. Earlier he had been petrified with what he took to be a form of stage fright, his mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, his stomach aching. But now that things had begun, he felt much better. ‘Fine, just fine. I might have a glass of champagne.’

  As he poured it Rupert leaned forward a little and said, confidentially, ‘The gentleman you’re interested in is behind you, Mr Desai, in the far corner, talking to a blonde lady. They’ve been there for twenty minutes.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Leon glanced at the mirror behind the bar and just managed to make out two figures in the distance.

  ‘Don’t know who she is. Haven’t seen her here before. Let’s hope he sends her packing and comes to the bar, eh?’

  While they waited Rupert chatted on about what a great bloke Wayne O’Brien was, a real card, while Leon tried to make appropriate noises. He had a tape recorder in the pocket of his suit, but he didn’t switch it on. He had no intention of recording praise of O’Brien if he could help it.

  The barman left to service the seated drinkers and an American came and sat at the bar for a while, resting, as he said, between bouts of losing his children’s inheritance. He went on at some length about his ungrateful children, and Leon began to feel depressed. Finally the American slid out of the stool and lurched away, and Rupert returned, with a wink for Leon.

  ‘He’s getting her a taxi. I think we’re in luck. Another champers?’

  ‘Why not?’ Leon reached into his pocket and clicked on the machine.

  After a few minutes Leon sensed Darr’s presence behind his right shoulder, and caught sight of him in the mirror. He had an impression of a tall, sombre figure. The hands that rested on the edge of the bar wore heavy gold rings.

  ‘Another of the usual, Rupert, please. And one of my cigars.’

  He watched the barman fixing his order without turning to look at Leon. Rupert lit his cigar and let him draw on it before saying, ‘And have you met Mr Desai, Dr Darr? He’s in the science game too, aren’t you, sir?’ Darr turned slowly and eyed Leon for a moment before offering his hand. ‘Tahir Darr.’

  ‘Leon. What sort of science are you into then, Tahir?’ Leon thought his words sounded fatuous and utterly false as he said them, and his confidence ebbed away.

  Darr eyed him as if he really didn’t want to get into a conversation, but then replied, ‘I work for a research company. Biotechnology.’

  ‘Oh, right. Important area.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘We do testing. DNA, that sort of thing.’

  Darr nodded but didn’t seem inclined to pursue it. He puffed his cigar and raised the glass to his mouth, then cleared his throat. ‘Pakistan?’

  ‘What? Oh, no. Liverpool. You?’

  ‘London.’

  Rupert obviously sensed that they didn’t seem to be hitting it off, and said brightly, ‘And what sort of a day have you gentlemen had, then? Good start to the week?’

  ‘An abomination of a day, Rupert,’ Darr pronounced with grim relish. ‘And if this week’s like last week, and the one before it, it will be an abominable shit of a week.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rupert was a little taken aback by the vehemence of Darr’s words, and turned to Leon. ‘And what about you, Mr Desai?’

  Leon watched the smoke curling from Darr’s nostrils and caught his mood. ‘Awful,’ he said morosely. ‘My boss has given me a pig of a job to do and my girlfriend’s run off with a bloody copper.’

  It seemed rather lame to Leon, but Darr turned to him and a smile spread slowly over his face. ‘Join the bloody club, old chap.’

  Afterwards, when she came to hear the tape, Kathy realised that she had been wrong in doubting Leon’s ability to get Darr ta
lking. Someone with O’Brien’s breezy style would only have alienated Darr. In his dark mood, Leon’s laconic misery touched a chord. And much of this, it seemed to Kathy, was due to the fact that Leon’s gloom was quite genuine, and his tales of woe absolutely true. She felt his real pain when he told Darr about the misunderstanding he had had with his girlfriend, and how she had gone off with someone else, a smooth-talking police bastard who had no soul. She felt it, and responded in kind.

  ‘And tell me, Leon,’ Darr had said, ‘is this a white girl you’re talking about by any chance? Yes, I thought so. These English women are total bitches, believe me. It’s the way they’re brought up, indulged, spoilt.’

  ‘You talk from experience, Tahir?’ Leon had asked, and the reply had come:

  ‘Oh, yes… Oh, dear me, yes.’

  They had bought each other further drinks, warming to their theme, turning from the treachery of women to the injustices of work. Darr didn’t go into details, but he was clearly discontented with his lot.

  ‘We are in the most unenviable position, you and I. Those below us need us to guide their every step, while those above expect us to make their business work. We are under pressure from both ends. We have maximum responsibility without commensurate reward.’

  ‘You’re right. Does your boss make unreasonable demands on you?’

  ‘Oh, does he not!’

  ‘Did you see that psychological study of bosses of British companies, how one in six fulfil the diagnostic criteria for psychopaths?’

  ‘Hah! Only one in six?’

  ‘I suppose you’re expected to control everything your staff do, are you, Tahir?’

  ‘Absolutely. And if they do something, if something goes wrong, then it’s as if it’s your fault. As if you did this stupid thing!’

  ‘Has somebody done something stupid, then?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t talk about it. It’s all a disaster. And then, on top of all that, I’m expected to drop everything to write some phoney report, which no one will ever use, to cover my boss’s unworthy backside. As if I didn’t have a mountain of real work to do!’

  ‘Yes, yes. He’s English, is he, your boss?’

  ‘Yes, very pukka, quite the English gentleman. “Just get it done, Tahir. Just see to it.” Hah!’