Babel (3 page)

2

T
he most striking thing, Brock had thought, when he’d first arrived, was the public nature of the crime. This was no private violence in some dark corner, but a public execution staged before a large audience. The body had lain sprawled theatrically halfway down a monumental flight of steps, the image like a still from
The Battleship Potemkin
, with a trail of blood leading back up the flight, and clumps of students and police standing in immobilised groups beneath the glare of lights. He turned from his conversation with Bren to look away to his left across the curve of the Thames, towards the Millennium Dome glowing huge in the winter twilight, and at that moment a press cameraman caught him in his flash. They were practically on the newspapers’ doorstep here, and the reporters had arrived quickly, attracted perhaps by this public nature of the death. He gave them a few non-committal comments, then told the uniforms to move the cordon further back.

He hadn’t even heard of this university, the University of Central London East, or UCLE, nor been aware that there was a campus here in this area of the Docklands, and at first there had been confusion with the University of East London, further east in the old Royal Albert Dock. It hadn’t been here long, by the look of it, one among the host of new construction projects that had blossomed eastward along the river in the past few years. The cascade of steps, the flanking cantilevered lecture theatres, the squat curved tower of the central administration, the primary colours and gleaming stainless steel panelling, all seemed to Brock to protest an aggressive claim to identity, as if compelled to compete with the brash office towers of Canary Wharf, glittering Manhattan-like over there to the west. And for a moment, after he’d taken this all in, he’d been tempted to think that the stagey murder scene too might be some kind of pose, a publicity stunt perhaps, and that the old man sprawled so artfully on the steps might at any moment leap to his feet to the cheers of his rapt audience.

But his death was real enough, two shots to the heart, the medical examiner suggested, at very close range, which corresponded with what most of the witnesses thought they’d heard or seen.

‘Inspector! Inspector Gurney!’ The uniformed officer further up the steps was holding back a young woman who appeared to be trying to reach them. Bren loped up and bent to listen to what they were saying. Brock was struck by her pale elfin face, distressed, framed by short-cropped black hair, eyes wide and ringed with dark. He turned away to hear another detective’s report on the assailant’s description, as compiled from the accounts of a dozen students who had seen him: medium height, slim build, probably, but wearing a bulky anorak-style coat with hood covering the head, dark jeans, face obscured by a dark mask or balaclava, description of shoes too variable to be reliable. He was young, they all agreed, because of the agile way he skipped down the steps and ran off along the entry concourse towards the university entrance and the city beyond. And they all said ‘he’, although they couldn’t say for sure why they assumed it was a male. No one could recall seeing the gun, a revolver, the police assumed, since there had been no sign of the spent cartridge cases.

Brock sighed. ‘Put it out. It’s all we’ve got for now. Let’s hope the camera can tell us more.’ He glanced up again at the security camera that scanned the steps. If it had been working properly they should have a complete ringside record of the event.

And there was a curious detail from just one of the witnesses, a young man who had been climbing the steps about ten yards behind the victim. He had been watching the assailant coming down the flight before he reached the old man, because he had noticed the mask beneath the hood and been startled by it. So he had his eyes on the murderer’s face at the moment when he had struck, and he was convinced that he had spoken, had said something to the victim just before he closed in and put his left arm round the old man’s shoulder, quite gently, and raised his right hand to his chest and fired twice, then stepped away to let him tumble back down the steps.

Bren rejoined him, a young man in a sharp suit at his heels. ‘The girl was a student of his, name of Briony Kidd, didn’t witness it, but says she knew him quite well. I said we might want to talk to her later. This bloke insists on having a word, Brock.’

The young man introduced himself as the President’s Executive Officer.

‘President?’ Brock asked.

‘Yes, of the university. The head.’

‘I thought they were called vice-chancellors.’

The young man gave a knowing little smile. ‘Not any more, at least not here. We prefer the American title.

Professor Young sent me down to see if you’d like to meet with him now. You are in charge, I take it?’

Brock looked around at the activity on the steps, then nodded. ‘Lead the way.’

‘And the President did ask if your men could be instructed not to make any statements to the media until you’ve had a chance to discuss things with him.’

Brock looked coolly at him. ‘They won’t be.’

‘Good.’ Then, as if conscious that some note of accommodation might be appropriate, he added, ‘This is quite shocking, isn’t it? We really have no precedent for it. I’m sure we all hope it can be quickly resolved. You’ll have our full cooperation, naturally.’

They walked along the dockside concourse to the foot of the Central Administration Tower and into a lobby of blond wood, stainless steel and recessed lighting, like a rather modish cocktail bar, Brock thought. A lift took them to the top floor, where a secretary led them into a spacious office dominated by a large brushed steel desk whose curved front echoed the curve of the glass wall behind, which, stretching the full width of the room, offered a spectacular night-time panorama of the Thames, from the Millennium Dome on the left to the pyramidal peak of the tower at Canary Wharf on the right. A couple of ships were visible on the black ribbon of the river, and in the distance the lights of Greenwich and South London faded into a bank of mist moving up from the south. A powerfully built man with a thick mop of fair hair rose from his seat behind the desk, and advanced forcefully towards them.

‘Roderick Young,’ he growled softly, fixing Brock with an intent stare and gripping his hand hard.

‘Detective Chief Inspector David Brock.’ The room was warm, and Brock eased off his coat which was immediately swept up by the young Executive Officer, who removed it to a wardrobe disguised behind a panel of blond veneer.

‘Chief Inspector, we are very shocked by this. There really is no precedent for it. I’m sure we all hope it can be resolved quickly, and you can rely on our full cooperation, naturally.’ Brock recognised the exact words the younger man had used earlier, as though over-tutored. The President waved them to seats in front of the desk while he returned to his place with his back to the panorama, as if to say, You may find this spectacular view distracting, but I am entirely focused on more important things.

‘Now, would you care to brief me?’ He adjusted crisp white cuffs and smoothed the faintest crease in an immaculate charcoal suit that lent an almost military style and gravitas to his bulky figure. ‘I’ve only just arrived back on campus from a meeting in the City, and I’d like to hear the facts directly from you.’

The lights of a twin-engined passenger jet, just taken off from the London City Airport a couple of miles to the east, passed slowly across the panorama, but only the faintest rumble came through the sweep of glass wall. Without turning, Professor Young murmured, ‘The 17:35 to Berlin,’ and sat back in his chair.

Brock checked his watch. ‘I can tell you as much as I know, which isn’t a great deal at this stage. An hour and a half ago, at about four o’clock, a man, identified by witnesses as one of your staff, Professor Max Springer, was fatally shot on the main steps leading between the upper and lower concourses on this campus. The assailant escaped without hindrance. My officers have secured the crime scene and are presently interviewing the considerable number of witnesses who were in the vicinity. The body is being removed to the Whitechapel mortuary. It will be necessary to close the immediate area around the steps for some time, perhaps several days.’

‘And the, er,
assailant
, has he been identified? You must have a good description, presumably, with all those witnesses?’

‘Unfortunately not. His face was masked, and it all happened very quickly. We have very little information about him at present, though East London police have been alerted to his description, such as it is. We’re in the process of examining your security camera tapes, and we’re hopeful they may give us something more.’

‘And no doubt there will be other evidence? Forensic?’

But Brock had had enough of this interrogation and ignored Young’s question, turning instead to his own. ‘Tell me about Professor Springer. We need details such as home address, next of kin, age and so on, but I’d also like a sketch of what he did, how he fitted in here. A couple of the students said he was world famous, though I have to admit the name means nothing to me.’

‘Our Professor of Philosophy. Distinguished career. He’s held in high regard, especially in Germany and the States, I believe. This will cause a tremendous shock.’ He leaned forward to emphasise the point. ‘This will be noticed, Chief Inspector Brock,
noticed
. This is not just a local matter.’

Brock took this to be a query of his credentials to handle such a case. The man was an instinctive bully, he decided. ‘But not exactly a household name?’ he objected. ‘I mean, his fame would be confined to fairly narrow university circles, would it?’

‘Not
narrow . . .
but I take your point,’ Young conceded. ‘You mean he wasn’t a celebrity, like a television presenter, or something?’

‘Yes. A philosopher . . . Did he hold controversial views, then? Did he upset people?’

‘Not really. Not any more. In his heyday he did cause a bit of controversy. There was quite a lot of public debate over the views expressed in one of his books, on the Arab and Israeli question, I believe.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, but that was years ago. He’s in his mid-sixties now, and to be honest, he’d pretty much faded from public view. I mean, I’m sure we haven’t approved any conference expenses for Max in the past three years, and there have been no research grants, or publications . . . No, the idea of a murderer incensed by his
ideas
just seems, well, bizarre, frankly.’

The President tapped on the keys of one of the two computers on his steel desk, then corrected himself. ‘He was sixty-six. I’ll write down the home address for you.’

‘Isn’t that a bit old to be still in post?’

‘It is rather. Most of our older staff took early retirement several reviews ago, to clear the way for our New Model Army—that’s what I like to call my new breed of academics. But a few hang on.’ He gave a grim little smile, and Brock had a sudden image of old men desperately hanging on to the flanks of a great steel ship while President Young worked to prise their fingers loose.

‘You were trying to get rid of him?’

‘Oh no, no. Max was . . . a feather in our cap, a distinguished ornament. We can afford a few of those.’ He chuckled indulgently. ‘Joined UCLE nine years ago,’ Young continued, reading from his screen. ‘Three years before I arrived. Things were very different then. We were in a maze of old buildings in Whitechapel. A slum. He came to us from Oxford.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘The previous vice-chancellor got him to come. It was quite a catch for UCLE. Put our humanities programme on the map . . . Next of kin is listed as his wife.’ Young frowned at the screen. ‘That’s a mistake. I’m sure she died long ago. And I don’t know of any other family. There certainly weren’t any children.’

‘Are you aware of any complications in his private life?’ Brock asked. ‘Anyone with a grudge?’

‘You mean a jealous husband or something?’ Young snorted with amusement. ‘I hardly think so. I suppose you could speak to someone who was closer to him.’

‘Who do you suggest?’

‘Well, perhaps Desmond Pettifer.’

Brock noticed the President give a little wince, as of indigestion.

‘Where can I find him?’

‘Classics. His office is close to Max’s.’

‘Good, I need to have a look at his office. Perhaps you could get Mr Pettifer to meet me there.’

‘Well,’ he glanced at his Executive Officer, ‘We’ll try, but Dr Pettifer tends to be a bit hard to locate in the afternoons.’

The other man allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘I think what the President is trying tactfully to say, Chief Inspector, is that Dr Pettifer is probably under the table in some pub somewhere, finding communication difficult.’

‘And I don’t suppose he has a mobile phone,’ Young added. ‘He’ll be the last man on earth to possess one.’

Brock smiled. ‘I recall that my tutor used to keep an oak cask of sherry by his bedside, for night-time emergencies.’

‘Really. Well, hopefully you won’t meet too many of that sort at UCLE, Chief Inspector. We’ve tried to eliminate that kind of eccentricity, as far as possible. It’s hardly fair, is it? On the others who have to shoulder the load. Unfortunately Dr Pettifer has a propensity for intoxicating substances. He was arrested at Heathrow some years back trying to bring some cocaine into the country after he’d spent a sabbatical at a Californian university, where he’d acquired a taste for the stuff. He was treated leniently, and my predecessor chose to hush the matter up. I would have been far less tolerant, believe me.’

‘Well, now,’ Brock said, ‘so far we’ve eliminated an ideological motive, a family dispute and an outraged husband, so that leaves us with the obvious, I suppose, a disgruntled student.’

Sounds of protest began to come from Professor Young, and Brock added, ‘Witnesses describe the assailant as a young, agile male. The campus is teeming with them. Surely a student is the most likely candidate?’

‘Ordinarily that might have been a possibility, I agree. We have had isolated cases of violence, or threatened violence from students. Last summer there was an unfortunate incident over a Chinese student who’d run out of funds and couldn’t go home without his Ph.D. or he’d suffer loss of face, but his tutor refused to approve his thesis as being ready for examination and the man became very fraught and threatened her. So yes, these things are conceivable. But that is highly unlikely in this case.’