Barry Maitland: Babel

‘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 before, 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.

Despite the rain, Shadwell Road looked bright and cheerful, its pavements busy with people doing some evening shopping in the stores that lined its length. Beneath the umbrellas Brock noticed women in headscarves and saris, men in skullcaps and baggy pants, a Nigerian in his distinctive wide-shouldered coat, a group of Sikhs in turbans. Window posters on the shopfronts advertised cheap flights,?350 to Dhaka,?340 to Karachi, and forthcoming entertainments by Raha and Malkit Singh. Shop signs were mostly in English and one or more other languages, Urdu, Gujarati, Arabic, Hindi. They parked outside Manzoor’s Saree Centre (‘fabulous fashions and fabrics for all the family’) next door to the police station, a converted shop in the middle of a row of small traders. Its front window was filled with posters advertising its own specials-four Wanted for Murders, five Missing Persons, a couple of Serious Sexual Assaults, one Terrorism: Postal Bombs Alert and one Prostitution. They went inside.

Their advance phone call had had some effect. The uniformed duty inspector and desk sergeant were standing together behind the counter looking as if they’d just brushed their hair and scrubbed their fingernails.

‘Evening, sir,’ the inspector said stiffly. ‘May we help you?’

‘I hope so,’ Brock said, and introduced them both. ‘We phoned.’

‘Of course. Would you care to come this way, sir?’ He lifted the counter flap and indicated a door leading through to the back of the shop, like a tailor inviting a special customer through for a fitting. They went into a small windowless interview room with a few chairs arranged around a table, some recording equipment on a side table. An extract fan rattled into life as the lights were switched on.

‘The PC who interviewed your murder victim is out on the beat at the moment, sir, but we’ve radioed him and he’s on his way. Should be here shortly. May I fetch you gentlemen something while we’re waiting? A cup of tea? A bite to eat?’

Brock felt suddenly hungry. ‘Anywhere round here to get a sandwich?’

‘The pub across the way does a very decent sandwich. Or we could get in some take-away-Tandoori, Balti, Bangladeshi, Halal. You can get most anything here. All on our doorstep.’

‘The sandwich sounds fine. And a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’

They placed their orders and the inspector left them to read the file copy of PC Greg Talbot’s report of the complaint made by Professor Max Springer against person or persons unknown. Ten minutes later, as they were eating their supper, there was a knock on the door and the inspector showed in the young constable. He entered cautiously, as if he’d been warned he might be in trouble. As he came through the door he bumped awkwardly against the jamb with the load of kit strapped to his belt-the process pouch, quick-cuffs, first aid kit, Asp extendable baton, radio, torch, and the CS spray canister in its spring-loaded holster.

‘PC Talbot, sir,’ the inspector said, and the constable came to attention in front of them, eyes fixed on the wall behind Brock’s head.

‘Greg, isn’t it?’ Brock said. ‘Take a seat, Greg. Don’t mind us eating, will you. Fancy a sandwich yourself?’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ the man said stiffly. ‘I’ll be having my dinner shortly.’ Then added, ‘Hopefully.’

‘Yes.’ Brock checked his watch. ‘You’re just coming off your shift now, aren’t you? But on Sunday the second you were on the morning shift, that right?’

‘Sir. We were a bit short handed that day, after the New Year celebrations, and I was on front desk. The gentleman came in midmorning, eleven o’clock. I couldn’t speak to him immediately ’cos I was dealing with another person.’ He glanced over at his Inspector and added, ‘Mr Manzoor next door, sir. Complaining about his daughter again.’

The inspector nodded and Greg Talbot turned back to face Brock and Bren.

‘Please relax, Greg,’ Brock said gently, seeing how rigid the lad was. He looked too young to be in uniform, Brock thought, his face more that of a cheeky schoolboy than the stolid mask of a cop. Or maybe it’s me, Brock thought, getting too old. ‘We just want to get your impressions of the man. You’ve been briefed about his murder today, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir. Can I ask, sir, am I in strife?’

‘Good Lord, no. I’ve read your report. It all seems quite reasonable.’

‘But he was right, wasn’t he? It happened just like he predicted.’

‘The date, you mean? Yes, that is interesting…’ Brock ran his finger down the report. ‘He said that he had had a threatening phone call from a man who didn’t identify himself, but said that “if he didn’t stop broadcasting his views immediately, he would suffer the consequences soon, and no later than the twentieth of January”, which is today. Those were his actual words, were they?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The policeman sounded defensive.

‘I mean, precisely, Greg? “Broadcasting”, for instance? That was his word?’

‘Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have used that word myself. I asked him what he meant, and he said he’d been making his opinions known publicly. He’d been interviewed on the radio, apparently. Radio East London. Some time towards the end of last year.’