Barry Maitland: Babel

‘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?’

D espite 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.’