Barry Maitland: The Marx Sisters

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like some information about a member of your staff, Dr Endicott. Felix Kowalski.’

‘Felix? Is he in trouble?’

‘He’s helping us with an inquiry. There’s just a couple of things you might be able to confirm for us.’

‘I really don’t know that I can do that. If he’s in trouble… a colleague. Also, I’m due at a meeting at 9.15, so I don’t have time at present. Perhaps you might make an appointment with my secretary.’

‘Important?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The meeting. Is it important?’

‘Ah. Well.’ He looked doubtfully at the papers on his desk, about two inches thick. ‘A meeting of the Academic Board sub-committee to decide the composition of the Committee on Gender Equity in Selection and Promotion Procedures.’

‘Well, ours is a murder inquiry, and I really don’t want to take up much of your time, but I’d like to do it now.’ Dr Endicott’s eyes widened at the word ‘murder’. Brock pressed on before he could frame a question. ‘Have you been aware of any difficulties Mr Kowalski might have been having lately?’

‘Not really.’

‘I have the impression that he’s not happy in his work. Would that be fair?’

‘Not happy? Well. Like many of us, he has had to adjust to changing circumstances. Funding cuts, new priorities, and so on. I think he has found it rather difficult. He was in a particularly hard-hit area.’

‘Has he been looking for some alternative?’

‘I really feel he should be telling you this himself. But I suppose I can say that I did write one or two references for him some three or four years back. Nothing recently, though. I rather thought he’d, er, become reconciled.’

‘Is he a popular member of staff?’

‘Ah…’ Dr Endicott swept some lank hair back from his lined forehead and frowned at his papers as he thought about that. ‘He is a challenging colleague, one might say. Abrasive, even.’

‘Yes, that was rather our impression. And is that the result of his work frustrations, would you say, or is there some other reason?’

‘Oh, I really couldn’t say. I always felt there was something

… fiery in his make-up. Central European, you know.’

‘You’ve sent him to conferences, I believe. One just last week.’

‘Really?’ Endicott looked vague.

‘The University of Nottingham?’

‘Ah yes. Not really a conference. More a staff development course, really. “Communication under Conditions of Stress” or something like that. Quite appropriate given our staff-student ratios.’

‘And last September?’

‘I can’t recall him being away last September. I could, get the file. Maureen will remember, I’m sure.’

‘Scarborough?’

‘Oh yes. That was a conference. Not really his field if I recall, but the Departmental Conferences Committee felt rather sorry for him, I think.’

‘So he went to Canada?’

‘Canada? Good heavens no! Scarborough in Yorkshire! There would have been no way of sending him to an overseas conference with our budget in the state it was!’

‘Yet we have reason to believe he went to Canada during the first week of last September.’

‘Really? Skipped off to Canada when he was supposed to be at the conference in Yorkshire? Are you sure?’ Dr Endicott seemed rather taken with the idea.

‘Are you aware of any connection he might have had with North America-friends, relatives, academic connections?’

‘Well, no.’ He hesitated, then shook his head as if dismissing an absurd idea.

‘Something?’

‘Well, the only “connection” that springs to mind is that we had an exchange student from Canada in the department last year. Rather personable young woman. But that hardly seems relevant.’

‘Felix taught her?’

‘Emm, I couldn’t say. Maureen would know, our departmental secretary. We might ask her.’ Dr Endicott seemed to have forgotten about his committee meeting as he led them out to the departmental office, where Maureen was briskly giving orders to a group of confused students. She turned to deal with the Head of Department with the same determined look on her face.

‘These gentlemen are from the Metropolitan Police, Maureen.’

‘I know. I told them you wouldn’t be able to see them. You were supposed to be at that committee meeting five minutes ago.’

Dr Endicott cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, they need some assistance regarding that Canadian girl who was here last year. Do you remember?’

Maureen ignored his question and turned on Brock. ‘Are you the same lot that have been searching Felix Kowalski’s office?’

‘Searching?’ Endicott looked startled.

‘We have a search warrant, sir. Look, if you want to go to your meeting now, that will be fine. You’ve been most helpful. If we can just have a few moments of Maureen’s time.’

Maureen rolled her eyes and broke off to give instructions to the photocopier repair man who had just appeared. Dr Endicott hesitated, then regretfully sighed and turned back to his room to collect his papers.

‘Well?’ Maureen returned her attention to Brock and Gurney.

‘Do you recall the Canadian student Dr Endicott mentioned, Maureen?’ Brock asked amiably.

She looked suspiciously at him for a moment. ‘What is this all about?’

‘We’re conducting a murder investigation. We’d appreciate your co-operation.’

Maureen’s eyes lit up with curiosity. ‘You think Felix has murdered someone?’

‘He’s helping us with our inquiries,’ Brock said. ‘Do you remember her?’

‘Of course I do. She’s been writing to him every week since she went back.’

‘To him here?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose he wants her to write to him at home!’ She smiled grimly.

‘Did you know he went over there last September?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’ She shook her head. ‘But, I do remember a call from a travel agent for him, which I thought was a bit funny. Sometime in the middle of last year.’ Her eyes wandered away in the direction of the corridor leading to Felix’s room. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’

‘Some old books. Are there other places we should look?’

‘Only…’ She hesitated, then shrugged. ‘He left a box in my store cupboard last year. Just before Christmas term started. I told him to move it somewhere else because I’ve got little enough space as it is to keep the stationery and departmental records and so on, but he never did.’

She showed him a door in the corner of the office, opening into a small storeroom with shelves crammed with boxes, files and papers. On the floor at the back they found an old box for photocopy paper, sealed with brown plastic tape. Bren lifted it out on to Maureen’s table and took the scissors she offered him. From the look of the tape the box had been opened and resealed several times. He folded back the flaps of the box and brought out a wad of Canadian airmail envelopes held together with a rubber band. Then he began carefully to pull out the books. Brock reached for one with a frayed black leather spine. ‘Proudhon’s Confessions,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘We seem to have found our dealer, Bren.’

‘Will he be away long?’ Maureen called after them as they left, Bren carrying the box under his arm. ‘Only we’ll have to rearrange his classes.’

They called in at the hospital on the way back. Kathy was conscious, gazing through half-open, bruised eyelids at the snow falling past the window against the grey of the morning sky. A tube was in her nose. She creased her eyes in a smile, the unbruised parts of her face as pale as the pillow and the bandages around her head.

‘A little better?’

She nodded and wiggled the fingers of her left hand, which Brock, sitting beside her, took in his own. Bren remained standing at the end of the bed, unable to keep the concern out of his eyes. She looked towards the plaster cast on her right arm.