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  ‘Yes, through various agencies, the Arab World Bank, the Islamic Health Foundation, and so on. They’re listed in the books there. They support a number of teams, some in the Middle East and Pakistan and some in the States, one in France, and us in the UK. We each have particular paragraphs of the book to study, and are developing our own techniques for interventions.’

  ‘And you’ve made a point of recruiting staff from those regions also, have you?’

  ‘As far as possible, yes.’

  ‘They form a close-knit team, I imagine? Strong sense of loyalty to you and to the project?’

  ‘Yes.’ Haygill frowned at him. ‘You have a point?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just the story we heard about the Christmas e-mail problem, Professor. It made me think that your Muslim team members must feel rather isolated here, somewhat embattled, perhaps, to react in that way?’

  ‘It might seem a trivial matter, but they had some justification for feeling that they had to make a point. This wasn’t the first incident. But I’m sure we’ll resolve it all in due course.’ He passed a hand wearily across his eyes.

  ‘I thought it was resolved.’

  ‘Not yet. An arbitration committee has been appointed, but it hasn’t heard all the evidence yet. But Springer had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘And the earlier incidents?’

  ‘Oh, some of our laboratory technicians had a somewhat unfortunate sense of humour. They dubbed our project . . .’ he winced and lowered his voice, ‘. . . the “super-wog project”. They even had a scurrilous newsletter that they produced. You can imagine the kind of offence that caused when it got out. There was a disciplinary committee, and the university wanted to dismiss them outright, but the union fought that as an excessive penalty. In the end they were kept on, but moved to another part of the campus. It left a great deal of bitterness all round. Hence the sensitivity to the Christmas e-mail.’

  ‘I see. And again, Springer had no involvement in any of this?’

  ‘Absolutely not. As I say, I’d be very surprised if any of my team, beyond Tahir Darr perhaps, has ever heard of Max Springer. And if you have the slightest reason to doubt it I’d be very much obliged if you’d interview my people as soon as possible and clear this up, because these rumours of some kind of Islamic fatwa against Springer are potentially enormously damaging to us. Do you see that? The reports were causing untold consternation in the Gulf when I left. They’re wondering what the hell is going on at UCLE, and I want to distance ourselves absolutely from whatever has happened.’

  ‘I appreciate your cooperation, Professor Haygill. As a start I’d like a complete list of CAB-Tech staff, preferably with some information on their background.’

  ‘That’s easy. We keep profiles of our research team updated on file for our funding submissions. I’ll get a copy run off for you.’

  A giant blood-red sun hung low on the western horizon as they left the CAB-Tech ziggurat, its light glinting on the dark surface of the Thames, shimmering off the prisms of the university buildings.

  Kathy turned her collar up against the cold. ‘This place is weird, isn’t it? What’s it trying to be, Disneyland? And the people! The editor of the book of life; a girl wasting five years of her life writing about a theory of action that no one will ever read; a mad old man shot dead on the lecture theatre steps . . . Only the students seem normal.’ She watched a group of them hurrying towards the doors of the cafeteria, a couple kissing in the shadow of an overhanging balcony, a youth whistling past on a bike.

  ‘Got time for a drink?’ Brock said. ‘Somewhere normal.’

  10

  The warm fug, the smell of stale beer, the dimly lit browns and creams of the saloon bar of The Three Crowns were all reassuringly normal. Around the walls were old photographs of it in its heyday as a watering hole for the dockers, shipwrights and sailors who had once populated Shadwell Road. From her seat by the window Kathy could see out between the red velvet curtains to the evening crowds of turbaned and saried shoppers who had taken their place, but with rather less patronage for the pub.

  Brock sipped his pint thoughtfully as he worked his way through the sheaf of staff biographies Haygill had supplied, each helpfully provided with a photograph in the top corner. He set aside six, which Kathy considered. There were two Pakistanis including Dr Darr, one Egyptian, two Iraqis and a Lebanese. All had impressive academic pedigrees from a mixture of Middle East, UK and US universities, and all had doctorates in the biological sciences with the exception of the Lebanese, who was the team’s systems analyst and chief computer programmer.

  ‘You see, what I’m thinking, Kathy . . . well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘That one or more of these might have put the gun in your wild young tearaway Ahmed’s eager little fist.’

  Brock nodded. ‘Not a conspiracy, necessarily, but something like that. We have a tightly knit, somewhat paranoid group, devoted to their great cause and to Haygill, who is being unjustly harassed by some mad old coot who just won’t shut up. And maybe, at the end of another long, hard day, Haygill says, in that weary way of his, “Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?” or words to that effect. Not seriously, just out of exasperation.’

  ‘So you’d be looking for someone with some connection to Shadwell Road.’

  ‘Yes. Someone who lives around here, or worships at the Twaqulia Mosque across the way perhaps. Someone who heard about Ahmed beating this pub up, and knows what a charge he’d get from a real mission. Something really important, part of a jihad, involving a real gun, brought in from the Middle East with some shipment of scientific equipment or something.’

  ‘Sounds plausible.’

  ‘Mm. Pity.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking that you would have been the ideal one to tackle these lads, Kathy.’

  ‘Me?’ Kathy looked with surprise at the pictures of the swarthy men scowling from the corners of the file sheets. ‘Surely a woman would be the last person to put onto them . . .’

  ‘No, no.’ Brock waved this aside, taking another swig of his bitter. ‘They admire strong women, Kathy. They’re disarmed by them. Think of Benazir Bhutto, Hanan Ashrawi . . . er . . . that rather attractive Turkish ex-Prime Minister. Did you know there are more women deputies in the Iranian parliament than women MPs at Westminster?’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit of a caricature? They’re disarmed by strong women?’

  Brock smiled. ‘Well, the truth is, we all are.’

  ‘Wayne would be ideal, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Special Branch don’t interview suspects for us, Kathy. And anyway, I don’t agree. I think these boys are far too smart to be taken in by Wayne’s hail-fellow, how’s-your-father patter, don’t you? I mean it might work with some dumb mug down the pub, but these blokes would see through Wayne right away.’

  Kathy felt her face burning and reached quickly for her glass.

  ‘But anyway, no matter. It can’t be helped. We’ll find someone else. Do you want to give it to me now, or do you need another whisky first?’

  Kathy blinked. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Whatever it is you’ve got in that bag that you’ve been clutching like a live hand-grenade ever since we met.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes. Another whisky then.’ Brock got up and ambled over to the bar. He stood chatting to the barman for some time before he returned with her glass refilled. ‘He remembers Ahmed’s assault on the pub well. Bit of a lark, he thought, once they’d realised that the boy wasn’t armed.’

  Kathy looked over at the huge character pulling a pint behind the bar, twice Ahmed’s body weight. It had taken three of them to subdue him.

  ‘More worrying is that he’s heard rumours that the coppers have arrested three Pakistani lads from the estate behind here for the murder of a white professor, and he says he’s had a few skinheads dropping in last night and this lunchtime, asking about it. He smells trouble. You’ve heard about th
e firebombing of the mosque in Birmingham overnight? We’d better warn the local boys here.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to give a combined briefing to Home Office and Foreign Office staff this evening. That’s why this is so important, Kathy.’ He tapped the papers Haygill had given them. ‘No matter what the reality, if anyone else was involved with Ahmed, it will be seen as a conspiracy, a deliberate attack by a group of Islamics on British lives and freedoms, and all hell will break loose. That’s what everyone on both sides is so worried about.’ He shook his head gloomily and took another sip before rousing himself. ‘So, better let me have it, eh?’

  Kathy reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you just yet.’

  Brock nodded, took out a neatly folded handkerchief to wipe some froth from his beard. ‘I have one just like it in my desk drawer in the office. It’s dated the fifth of September 1976. My marriage was breaking up at the time, things getting on top of me. I gave it to my boss, and he opened his desk drawer and took out another one just like it, dated 1957. He took mine and put it with his own in the drawer and said he’d keep them there together for a while, to see what happened. After a month I went and asked him for it back.’

  Kathy stared down at the envelope in her fingers. ‘Suzanne told you?’

  ‘Absolutely not. No need. Goodness, Kathy, it would be unnatural if you hadn’t done something like that.’

  ‘But maybe . . .’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘What I’m thinking is that I’ve lost my nerve, Brock.’

  ‘Hm.’ Brock scratched the side of his beard. ‘How did it feel, returning to Queen Anne’s Gate to see me this afternoon?’

  ‘Strange. I felt detached.’

  ‘Physically uncomfortable?’

  Kathy shook her head.

  ‘And did the thought of interviewing these blokes tomorrow make you feel sick in the pit of your stomach?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kathy,’ he leaned forward intently and covered her hand with his big fist, ‘I’m not a psychiatrist, but I’ve seen people who have lost their nerve. Whatever it is you’ve lost, or temporarily displaced, it isn’t that, believe me.’ He glanced up and saw the publican looking at them. The man grinned and gave him a big wink. Brock hurriedly took his hand from Kathy’s and leaned back against the padded pub seat.

  Kathy sat in silence for a while, head bowed. Then she said, ‘If I interview these men, I have a condition.’

  ‘I wasn’t serious about that, Kathy. I only raised it to see how you really felt. There are lots of people I can put onto it. You get back to Suzanne and take the rest of your leave. Decide what you want to do about that letter.’

  ‘Maybe it would be easier to do that if I was here. I mean, pacing up and down the Hastings sea front in January doesn’t necessarily give you a clearer perspective on anything.’

  ‘Well, that may be. What was the condition?’

  ‘I’d want PC Talbot with me.’

  Brock’s face dropped. ‘I’d hoped I’d spent enough time on PC Talbot. You know the Federation’s getting quite militant about his case. Why him?’

  ‘Because he’s the most likely to recognise any of them if they’ve shown their face around Shadwell Road.’

  ‘That’s true.’ He thought for a moment, then came to a decision. ‘All right, Kathy, you’re on. We’ll get Special Branch to check these characters overnight, and you and PC Talbot can get started first thing in the morning, even if it means risking the first police strike since World War One.’

  ‘What’s wrong with now?’ Kathy said, snapping the clasp on her shoulder bag. ‘According to the list they gave you, most of these men are living in hostel accommodation on the UCLE campus. We might get to them all tonight, while Wayne does his stuff on their past records.’

  ‘What about PC Talbot?’ Brock said, looking worried as he tried to work out which point in the hierarchy to attack first.

  ‘Can we get him a baby-sitter? His wife’s on nights at the hospital. I’m sure I could talk him into coming out with me for an evening if we can take care of his kid.’

  Brock grinned with relief. ‘Kathy, I don’t know what I did without you. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, if these blokes are as touchy as they sounded over the Christmas e-mail, and if they are involved in some way, we’re going to need back-up, maybe armed, and on campus.’

  ‘Yes. As discreet as possible.’ He drained his glass and got to his feet, slipping Kathy’s envelope into his pocket. ‘A race riot and a police strike. Now that would be something for one night. I hope you’re not going to make me regret this, Kathy.’

  She swallowed her whisky. ‘Not losing your nerve, are you, Brock?’

  They started with Dr Tahir Darr, the senior researcher of the team, and the oldest. He was still working in one of the laboratories in the CAB-Tech building when they arrived, and he recognised Kathy from their earlier meeting. He glanced dismissively at Greg Talbot, who stood back, saying nothing, looking very junior and inoffensive out of uniform, and clearly Darr felt unthreatened as Kathy worked through the first set of questions she’d prepared. He’d been with Professor Haygill for over three years now, and when he talked of the team ‘we’ had built up, the work ‘we’ were engaged in, he was referring to Haygill and himself as the prime movers of CAB-Tech.

  It was only when she went on to more personal matters that he began to look at her more quizzically and measure his answers more carefully. Yes, he was a practising Muslim, and attended the East London Mosque in the Whitechapel Road, the oldest in London, and why was that any concern of hers? Kathy explained that, with all the loose and inflammatory speculation recently concerning the Springer case, the police were anxious to be able to protect people who might come under unjustified attention, especially those on campus.

  ‘But isn’t that the excuse that police have always used, for collecting dossiers on everyone?’ Darr exclaimed, with a ferocious flash of his brilliant white teeth. ‘You’re doing it for our own protection! How very kind!’

  ‘My boss, Detective Chief Inspector Brock, whom you met, discussed this with your boss, Professor Haygill, very carefully this afternoon,’ Kathy smiled back, playing what she assumed to be her best card. ‘Professor Haygill was in complete agreement, in fact very insistent, that we speak to you. But if there’s any question you’d feel uncomfortable about answering, then please don’t.’

  ‘Oh, but then I’m being uncooperative, which is only a small step down from being a trouble-maker, no?’

  Kathy struggled on, mentally striking off her list the questions she’d prepared on the Christmas e-mail saga. Yes, Dr Darr had been aware of Professor Springer’s attacks on Professor Haygill. Springer was a very foolish, irrational old man who had lost touch with the realities of life, quite beneath contempt, more to be pitied. No, he couldn’t recall the CAB-Tech team ever discussing Springer before the murder, why would they? He may have raised the matter with Professor Haygill at some stage, he wasn’t sure, but Professor Haygill had no wish to talk of such foolishness. At the time of Springer’s death he, along with all the other members of the team, was working here in the laboratories, naturally. And he had no theories to explain why anyone should want to kill the old man.

  At the end of it, Kathy felt as tense as if she’d been stepping through a minefield, though Darr seemed rather pleased. ‘Have I satisfied you, Sergeant?’ he demanded, beaming.

  ‘I believe so. Do you know where I can find the other members of the team, Doctor?’

  Darr’s good humour abruptly evaporated. ‘The others? But I have spoken for everyone. It will not be necessary for you to interview them. I cannot agree to it.’

  ‘Professor Haygill was quite specific, Dr Darr. We have to speak to everyone. You could talk to him if you want to check.’

  After a tense little negotiation Darr relented. The two Iraqis were working in another lab on the floor below. The others he wasn’t sure about. As they made their way the
re they marvelled at the equipment they passed, ranks and batteries of gleaming machines stretching away in all directions, all looking new and well maintained. Greg Talbot compared it to the dismal state of the technology available at Shadwell Road police station.

  ‘Ah, but you’re not editing the book of life, Greg,’ Kathy said. ‘You’re just trying to stop it nicking cars.’

  Talbot hadn’t recognised any of the photographs on the staff information sheets, but they had made an arrangement that he would pull out the purple handkerchief he carried and blow his nose if he thought he knew them when they were interviewed, and he confirmed that he’d never seen Darr before. When they found the two Iraqis the purple handkerchief remained in his pocket. They had none of the confidence and bluster of the senior researcher, and Kathy wondered what experiences they’d had with police in the past as each in turn answered her in low monosyllables, eyes on the floor. They also worshipped at the East London Mosque and denied having heard of Springer before his death.

  They moved on, leaving the warmth of the CAB-Tech building and hurrying through the cold night to the extreme east end of the campus developments, where a series of serrated-roofed zigzag blocks along the waterfront provided dormitory accommodation.

  ‘They’re like monks,’ Kathy muttered as they followed the colonnade behind Block A towards Block C. ‘Haygill’s team. They’re all either single or they’ve left their families behind. They toil by day in the labs and retire at night to their cells to pray.’

  The stairwells and corridors were spartan, clean and free of graffiti and the two police met no one, although from time to time they would hear the sounds of music or a TV behind a closed door, and smell cooking. The Lebanese computer expert answered their knock at room C-210 and Kathy knew as soon as she registered his face, and even before Greg Talbot started loudly blowing his nose, that he was the one.

  Afterwards she tried to work out how she had been so certain. He had been warned of their coming, that was obvious, and no doubt Darr had been on the phone to all of them as soon as they’d left his lab. But it wasn’t that he had mentally composed himself for their arrival. It was something to do with the look and body tension beneath the composure, a mixture of fright and exhilaration and relief, as if he’d been preparing himself for much longer than the half hour Darr would have given him for this first bold stare into the eyes of his fate. It radiated from him and she felt it instantaneously, and knew, as soon as she met his eyes and smiled at him, that he knew she had picked it up.