Babel (13 page)

Kathy grasped at this. ‘I’ve heard that Max was antagonistic to science, and I couldn’t understand why. Is that the reason? He thought like Arendt?’

‘Yes. He believed that the whole project of science is to construct a single unified truth that will exclude all other views of the world. In that sense it is like a fundamentalist religion, and he hated it.’

‘What about the scientists here on this campus? Did he hate them?’

‘
Especially
them, and they hated him for challenging their “truth”.’

‘Are they particularly bad here, then?’

‘Oh, God, yes. Haven’t you heard of the CAB-Tech research project? That’s the ultimate obscenity. They don’t just want to find perfect truth, they want to create the perfect man.’

Kathy smiled as if this was a joke, then realised that she was serious. ‘What, they say that?’

‘That’s what it amounts to.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s true! They’re getting all this money to make everybody’s genes the same.’

‘That’s how Max described it, was it?’

Kathy couldn’t keep the scepticism from her voice, and Briony abruptly turned away. ‘What did you come for, anyway?’

‘Oh, I was just trying to establish what Max’s state of mind was like over the past three or four weeks. I thought you might be a good person to ask, working closely with him.’

‘State of mind?’

‘Yes.’ Kathy really wanted to ask if he was normal, but was beginning to suspect that normal wasn’t quite the term for Max Springer. ‘Was he at all agitated, would you say, under stress?’

‘Oh, you mean, did he feel threatened by the people who did this? No, not at all. He seemed very calm and normal to me. Almost . . . well, serene.’

Kathy nodded and began to get to her feet. ‘All right. Well, I won’t—’

‘I don’t understand why you didn’t know about CAB-Tech. Aren’t you investigating them? Surely you must be? I read in the papers . . .’

Kathy hesitated. She hadn’t picked that up from either Brock or Wayne. This was what happened when you blundered uninvited into other people’s investigations. Feeling foolish she said, ‘What did you read?’

‘About the Islamic extremists. I thought that was what you were looking for.’

Feeling even more confused, Kathy said hesitantly, ‘Islamic . . . Yes, but I thought we were talking about CAB-Tech?’ ‘But, that’s them, isn’t it? They have lots of Islamic fundamentalists working over there. That’s what’s so absolutely
right
, isn’t it? The two old gangs seeking after one truth working together. Max thought it was bitterly funny if it weren’t so bloody tragic.’

‘Islamic fundamentalists?’ Kathy wondered if she was really following this.

‘Yes. Have they told you about the Christmas e-mail yet? No? Well, ask them, go on. You ask them about that.’

9

W
hen she left UCLE Kathy realised that she was running short of time to get to her interview in the West End, and of course it was impossible to find a car park. Eventually she arrived half an hour late for her appointment, a lapse that the woman interviewer, middle-aged and severe, obviously found both significant and annoying.

‘You see, being on time is one of the absolutely basic requirements for a courier or tour guide. We run to timetables, schedules. What are you going to do with your party of twenty pensioners from Pontefract at Moscow airport at ten o’clock at night when you’ve just missed the last flight back to the west because you turned up half an hour late, eh?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m usually very prompt. In the police—’

‘Yes,’ the woman leapt in, the reference to the police obviously touching another nerve, ‘but in the police you can just say you were tied up with something important, and people just have to put up with it.’

Kathy’s heart sank. Probably the woman had just been given a speeding ticket, or the cops had failed to turn up after she was burgled.

‘. . . whereas in a service industry like tourism, there simply is no acceptable excuse for letting the customer down. You do understand that, don’t you? I mean, why exactly do you want to change from the police anyway? You don’t have some romantic notion of exotic travel at someone else’s expense, do you? Because it’s not like that at all. It’s not
glamorous
, it’s hard work, sometimes extremely tedious, and often dealing with people who are boring and annoying.’

While she tried to keep up with this, occasionally offering a conciliatory few sentences that only seemed to irritate the woman more, part of Kathy’s brain kept returning to Briony Kidd’s outburst. Kathy hadn’t tried to contact Brock, because she had been in such a rush, she told herself, but also, she knew, because this time she wanted more than a quick thanks and goodbye from him.

‘And apart from the languages problem, it doesn’t sound as if you’ve actually had a great deal of experience of travel, Ms Kolla, have you? I mean, a school trip to Paris . . . Excuse me, have I said something? What’s the matter?’

The matter, the reason why Kathy was staring so disconcertingly at the woman, was that Clare Hancock’s final throw-away remark had just come back to her, the comment she hadn’t understood at the time, the reporter’s ‘lurking worry’ that they’d been given the fatwa story in order to put them off Springer’s feud with CAB-Tech. And with it had come the blinding realisation that this remark was very important, for with it the reporter had told her, inadvertently or not, who her informant for the fatwa story was.

‘Oh, golly,’ Kathy said, and blinked. ‘Sorry, where were we?’

The woman stared at her with a mixture of alarm and incredulity, then looked hurriedly at her watch. ‘We were just coming to the end, I’m afraid. I have other clients waiting. I suggest you fill in the questionnaire in the reception area outside and leave it with the girl at the desk. We’ll be in touch.’

Kathy left the place flattened. She went into the café next door and sat with a cup of short black in front of a mirrored screen in which she saw a reflection of a drained, unemployable female. ‘Well done,’ she muttered. ‘So what exactly can you do right?’

‘Kathy! Come in, come in!’ Brock seemed genuinely pleased to see her as he waved her to a seat. He looked tired and rumpled, and his secretary Dot had warned Kathy on the way in that he was short of sleep. She had done this, Kathy guessed, because Dot assumed Kathy’s visit was about some personal matter Brock could best do without.

‘I got your note from Wayne. Many thanks. Helps to paint a clearer picture of Springer’s state of mind, if nothing else. Obviously had his knickers badly in a twist.’

‘Yes, but suppose there was something in his claim that people at CAB-Tech might want to silence him?’

Brock looked puzzled. ‘Oh, I don’t see how that’s possible, Kathy. You said yourself, in your report, that you didn’t believe it.’

‘Yes, but still . . . You’re positive that this Muslim lad is the killer?’

‘Looks pretty convincing, Kathy. I believe we can make a solid case that he had met Springer and had a grudge against him. He’s admitted that the green pamphlet was his, and forensic have established that the torn envelope was posted to Springer from the East End, somewhere within a mile of Shadwell Road. So we have evidence of a threat, a motive, and, when we crack his buddies, an opportunity.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘Well now . . .’ Brock considered Kathy carefully, his hand going up to rub the side of his grey beard. ‘I’d like more, of course. I’d like the gun and its source, and I’d like residue traces on Ahmed’s coat . . . That’s why I haven’t released any information yet, despite the best efforts of our press office, who are desperate to dampen this fatwa story that’s flaring up everywhere now. You’ve seen this morning’s papers? Yes, so . . . what is it, Kathy? I’ve seen this look before. You’ve thought of something.’

‘Have you worked out where the
Herald
got the fatwa story from?’

‘No, wish I had.’

‘Could it have been anyone at the university? Did anyone there know that you were working on the possibility of an Islamic extremist?’

Brock thought about that. ‘Only one person to my knowledge. The University President. I told him myself.’

Kathy explained about Clare Hancock’s puzzling final comment. ‘I realised afterwards that it made sense only if she knew that her source might have some interest in suppressing Springer’s accusations against CAB-Tech.’

‘Someone at the university . . .’ He pictured the man sitting in his shirtsleeves at his steel desk in front of his great window, and his desire to control the information that went out to the media. ‘Yes, it’s possible.’

‘And there’s something else.’ As she told Brock about Briony’s claim of Islamic fundamentalists in CAB-Tech, he slowly stiffened upright in his seat with what Kathy thought was the look of someone who’d just discovered that he’d missed his flight, with twenty pensioners from Pontefract waiting at his back.

Professor Haygill’s secretary explained that the professor was currently on a plane from the Gulf, and that he wouldn’t be returning to the university that day. Could someone else be of assistance? If the Chief Inspector would like some information on CAB-Tech, Professor Haygill’s Principal Research Scientist, Dr Tahir Darr, might be able to help. Brock said that would do fine, rang off and raised his eyebrows at Kathy. ‘The Gulf !’ He looked thoughtful, then added, ‘I know you’re on leave, Kathy, but since you’ve been taking a bit of an interest, and since two heads are better than one . . . fancy coming with me?’ Again Kathy sensed that she was being gently tested, like an invalid. And on the road out to the East End, Brock went on, in a tone of casual vagueness which Kathy thought contrived, ‘So, how are you, anyway? Everything’s all right at Suzanne’s?’

‘It’s very comfortable, thanks. She’s been good to me.’

‘Yes, yes. And you were coming up to town anyway, were you? Only I wouldn’t like to think that I’d broken into your leave . . .’

‘Clare Hancock did that. But I didn’t really mind.’ That wasn’t true, she thought. At the time she’d minded a lot, like a patient being forced to get out of bed. ‘Yes, I had one or two things to do. Nothing serious.’

‘Ah. And you met up with Wayne yesterday evening, he tells me. Nice lad.’

‘Mm.’ Kathy didn’t feel inclined to encourage this line of inquiry, but the interrogator had a supplementary.

‘Leon was asking after you. He wanted to contact you earlier, but I thought it best you be left in peace for a while. Was I wrong?’

‘No, you were right. I couldn’t have faced him. Not sure I can now.’

‘Ah. And this . . . being out on a case with me again, Kathy. Can you face that I wonder?’

She frowned to herself, both of them keeping their eyes strictly on the road ahead, and she wondered if Suzanne had said something to him.

‘To be honest, I’m not absolutely sure.’

‘Ah. Because I may not have mentioned it before, but it’s always a pleasure to work with you, Kathy. Even if, in this case, it’s only temporarily.’

No, she didn’t think he had mentioned that before, not in so many words. She waited until he’d negotiated the next lights, then quietly said, ‘Thanks.’

Brock was surprised to see the security chief waiting for them at the entrance to the university.

‘We didn’t need a reception committee, Mr Truck,’ he said.

‘Don’t want you getting lost now, do we, sir?’ Truck replied, in the jovially menacing tone that Brock associated with prison warders and drill sergeants.

Brock recognised the blue mirrored ziggurat glinting like a stepped iceberg in the wintry sunlight. ‘Is that all CAB-Tech, Mr Truck?’

‘It is, sir. Built with Arab money that is. You can sort of tell, don’t you think?’

Brock looked around at the other architectural prisms and didn’t think he could.

A tall, very dignified South Asian in a spotless white lab coat was waiting for them in the foyer, and introduced himself as Dr Darr. He had the same colouring as Leon, Kathy thought, and the same coolness, but older and not as good looking. As they waited for a glass lift to arrive, he pointed to the plans of the building on an information board, like a series of pineapple slices of diminishing size.

‘The central core of the building contains all of the services, electrical, telecommunications, hydraulics, fresh and exhaust air, which are, as you can imagine, very sophisticated in a research facility such as this. From the core the laboratories radiate outward . . .’ he paused to emphasise the poetic simile, ‘. . . like the petals of a flower.’

‘And I suppose Professor Haygill’s office is at the top?’ Brock asked, pointing to the smallest, crowning plan level.

Dr Darr gave a thin smile. ‘Actually, no. The Director was emphatic that the top floor, with the best views, should be devoted to the staff relaxation area. It was a functional decision. You see, the staff like to go up there for the views, and there they mix and discuss their work freely and often ideas are sparked between teams who normally wouldn’t be working together. We are not a particularly hierarchical organisation. People contribute to the limit of their ability and are rewarded accordingly. Professor Haygill’s office is only on the next level up in fact, with the meeting rooms and administrative support.’