Кара Хантер - No Way Out

`What about Zachary? Doesn't someone have to identify him too?'

Everett and the attendant exchange a glance.

`There are other methods that can be used which we think are more appropriate in his case,' says the attendant.

But Gifford's no fool. `You don't want me to see him, do you? Because he's in such a terrible state, is that it?'

Everett starts to shake her head but she knows she's being disingenuous. She's seen the photos.

`There's no need to upset yourself,' she says. `Really.'

Gifford sits back in his chair, and for one awful moment she thinks he's about to insist, but then his shoulders sag a little. `OK,' he says. `You know best.'

She makes a rueful face. `I think I do. Sadly.'

`DI Fawley? There's someone down here to see you, sir.'

It's Anderson, the duty officer, sounding more than usually suspicious of the occupational hazard which is the General Public. `Just came into reception. German bloke. Hasn't got an appointment. I can tell him you're not here `“ I mean, it is the weekend `“ you're probably wanting to get off back home `“'

`No, it's OK, send him up.' Because let's face it, I don't have anywhere else I need to be.

Five minutes later the sergeant ushers the man into my room. He's tall `“ very tall, actually, probably six four `“ and that's the first clue. And when he introduces himself the accent clinches it. He's not German at all. He's Dutch. The last time I saw my brother he had a Dutch girlfriend. Her accent was exactly the same. And she was six foot two. Julian joked that he'd taken up mountaineering. Though obviously not in front of her.

`How can I help you?'

He sits down. Neatly, for someone of his height. `It concerns the fire. The most unfortunate fire in Southey Road. If I am not mistaken, this is the house of my colleague, Michael Esmond.'

I'm intrigued. Not least by his evident anxiety.

He pushes his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. `I believe you are what is called the Senior Investigating Officer?'

`I am, yes,' I say. He must have looked that up.

`As soon as I saw the news on TV, I knew at once that you would wish to speak to me. So I have pre-empted this request and come in myself.'

`Intrigued' bumps up a notch. What the hell is this all about?

Gislingham sits back. If what he's found is true, they're going to have to reassess the whole bloody case. Go through everything again. And not least the fact that Annabel Jordan lied to them. This isn't just pissing someone off; this is holing their career below the waterline. Gislingham leans forward, pulls up Google and keys in `Jurjen Kuiper' again. Age, place of birth, qualifications and current position. A Facebook page, which mostly looks pretty anodyne (though a lot of it's in Dutch, and the automated translation may well be missing the nuance). There's also a Twitter feed, but that's all suitably academic too. No sign, in fact, that there is anything in the slightest amiss. Gislingham makes a face. Does that ring true? Is it really believable that a professional disaster of these proportions would leave no external trace at all? He sits thinking a moment. Then he shifts forward quickly and starts typing.

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Posted by Tittle-Tattler 21 November 2017 11.56

Tribal warfare?

Latest rumblings on the departmental jungle drums suggest it's harpoons at dawn at a certain faculty building on the Banbury Road, after one of its inmates was stabbed in the front by a frankly blistering TLS review of his magnum opus. The culprit? None other than a member of his own tribe. Rather too close to home? One might well think so. After all, constructive criticism is one thing, live human sacrifice is quite another. Our sources tell us the atmosphere in the department is positively glacial, which doesn't, for once, reflect the primitive condition of the central heating system. Interested observers are now agog to see whether a rumoured TV contract will be the next casualty. Suffice to say that should such a catastrophe transpire, our amiable Dutchman's career will be less `flying' than crashing and burning. One might well forgive him for fantasizing about the latter by way of revenge`¦

`So you understand, Inspector, why I had to come.'

I nod slowly. `You're worried that we might think you had something to do with the fire.'

`Yes, yes,' he says, his cheeks slightly flushed. `Even though that is ridiculous `“ unthinkable. Even if I had borne such a resentment of Dr Esmond `“'

`It strikes me, Dr Kuiper, that you had a very good reason to feel aggrieved.'

He blinks. `Yes, of course. Naturally. He had cast a slur upon my research. My professional integrity. I am sure you yourself would have felt no small annoyance should such a thing have happened to you.'

It has, by the way, and it went way beyond `no small annoyance'. I was absolutely bloody incandescent. Which is, of course, a very unfortunate metaphor. In the circumstances.

Half an hour later, Gislingham is feeling decidedly smug. He's never been that good at lateral thinking but, this time, he really has surpassed himself. Though he did have to drag Baxter back in to help him with the techy stuff. Which turned out to be a good call, given what they've unearthed now. It's a Twitter feed with the ID @Ogou_badagri. That particular choice of identity may not mean much to them but the owner's name certainly does. `Jurjen Kuiper' in Dutch is George Cooper in English, and it's a George Cooper who set up this account. And unlike Kuiper's official one, this Twitter feed is anything but academic.

`I do sympathize with you, Dr Kuiper.'

He inclines his head. `Thank you. It is greatly distressing to have one's work impugned in such a way.'

`Impugned'. How many Brits would say that. Or even know what it means. But Kuiper does.

`All the same,' I continue evenly, `we will, of course, have to eliminate you from our enquiries.'

A pale doubt flickers across his face.

`I'm sure it will be just a formality, in your case. But there are procedures we have to adhere to. I'm sure you appreciate that.' I pull my notebook towards me. `If you could start by telling me where you were around midnight on Wednesday?'

He pushes his glasses up his nose again. `I was hoping `“'

He stops. Flushes.

`Yes?'

`It's a little delicate.'

I sit back. We're a long way past `intrigued' now. This man has something to hide.

`Kuiper isn't just pissed off, sir `“ it's a lot more than that.'

It's Gislingham. Baxter's got the Twitter feed up on a projector in the incident room and Gis is scrolling down. Quinn has joined us too; he always thinks of himself as a bit of an expert when it comes to social media (`He bloody well should be,' as Ev said, `the amount of time he spends on Tinder') but he's clearly worried Gis has got one over on him on this occasion.

`I googled that name as well,' says Gis, handing out printouts. `Ogou Badagri is a Haitian voodoo spirit.'

I glance at the sheet and then back at Gis.

`Not only that,' he continues, `but he just so happens to be the god of fire .' He gives me a meaningful look. ` And apparently you can also ask him to help you out if you need to take revenge on someone who's pissed you off.'

Quinn starts laughing. `Oh, come off it `“ no one seriously believes in that crap, do they? In this day and age?'

`That's not the point,' I say quietly. `It's not about believing in it. It's about using it. Using it to send a message. Michael Esmond is an expert in Latin American voodoo, he'd have known exactly what this meant. And who was behind it.'