fresh challenges, he resigned his chair at Oxford and accepted the position of Professor of Philosophy at the recently established University of Central London East. However, and despite a hopeful beginning, this move failed to fulfil its initial promise. His book Totalitarian Science (1996), which took up his earlier themes questioning current scientific thinking, was poorly received, and was widely condemned for the way it drew parallels between what he saw as the authoritarianism of science on the one hand and of fundamentalist religion on the other. In recent years he was perceived to be out of step with current movements in philosophy, and with the policies of his own university, which he publicly criticised. While Max Springer’s life may have appeared to have lost its relevance, his death has transformed that assessment, by demonstrating in the most dramatic and tragic way the significance of the principles for which he stood. He died a martyr to those principles, steadfast in his opposition to extremism, totalitarianism and authoritarianism of all kinds.
The following morning, while Kathy was adding up strings of Tina’s VAT figures on a calculator, her mobile rang. A female voice said, ‘Hello? Is that DS Kolla?’ Kathy’s heart gave an involuntary thump of panic. It was almost a month since anyone had addressed her by her rank. She didn’t recognise the voice, and she tried to remember who at Headquarters had her mobile phone number.
‘My name’s Clare Hancock. We’ve met a couple of times and you gave me your number. I’m a crime reporter for the Herald.’
Kathy could place her now, an intelligent, deceptively mild-looking woman, whom Kathy had once seen reduce a Chief Superintendent to a trembling jelly at a press conference with a few very well-researched questions. But that wasn’t her problem. With relief she got ready to deliver the magic phrase, ‘I’m not working on that case’.
‘I wondered if we could meet. It’s about the Springer case, as you might expect. I have some information I think you’d be interested in. Frankly, I want to trade. Are you at UCLE? Where would suit you? It is rather urgent.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Clare. I’ve got nothing to do with that case.’
There was a moment’s hesitation, then the voice doubtful, as if not sure to believe Kathy. ‘Really? I understood that Brock has you with him on all his big cases now.’
‘Not this one. I’m on leave, as it happens. I’m not even in London.’
‘Oh, dear. Bad timing. I’ll bet you’re kicking yourself.’
‘You’d better ring him instead. Do you have his number?’
‘I don’t want to do that. Brock gave me a hard time once, when I was new to the job. Grumpy old bastard he was. I’m hoping I can work with you, Kathy. Can’t you drop everything and get back here? You won’t be sorry. Brock will thank you for it, believe me.’
Kathy felt a jab of resentment. The rep from the tour operator was due in any minute and she didn’t want anything to do with this.
‘I take it you’ve seen our coverage this morning?’ the reporter said suddenly.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, go out and buy a copy. The Yard’s busting a gut about it. They’ve been hammering my editor all morning, wanting to know where we got our information. Well, what I’ve got for you may be better than that. Have a look, go on, and ring me back in half an hour.’
Kathy had no intention of playing this game, whatever it was. She reluctantly wrote down the phone number. ‘If I don’t get back to you, Clare, speak to Brock, or to Bren Gurney.’
‘You’ll ring me, Kathy. I know you will.’
Kathy looked up from her pad and saw Tina greeting someone at the door of the travel agency, then waving Kathy over to join them. I don’t think so, Clare, she thought.
All the same, as she chatted to Tina and the tour operator rep, she couldn’t help wondering what could be so compelling on the front page of the Herald that morning. After half an hour the other woman said she had to go. It appeared that Kathy’s lack of proficiency in another language would be a handicap, and she should probably get to work on her schoolgirl French as soon as possible. On the other hand her police experience would be a plus, coping with difficult people and situations, knowledge of first aid and so on. They’d rung the contact at the London agency and made an appointment for Kathy for the next day, but afterwards she felt deflated, feeling for the first time the insecurity of looking for work, and the fear that this way of escape might be more difficult than she’d assumed. She excused herself from the shop and went round the corner to a newsagent’s and bought the paper. The headline read, ‘FATWA DEATH OF SPRINGER: SENSATIONAL NEW POLICE THEORY’.
She skimmed the lead article: new information suggesting prior death threats from Islamic fundamentalists, speculation from experts on possible terrorist groups, guarded comments from university sources, terse ‘no comments’ from the British Council of Muslims in Bradford and the Islamic Research Centre in London. Inside an editorial invoked the Rushdie affair and called for calm until more facts were known.
OK, Kathy thought. So what? It was intriguing, shocking perhaps, but did Clare Hancock really expect her to drop everything for this? Then it occurred to her that MI5 would want to get their hands on something like this, and might well be trying to take it away from Brock at this moment. And again, if Kathy wouldn’t talk to her, the reporter might go to them instead. For Brock’s sake then, she realised she’d have to ring the woman back.
They had spent the weekend working through the Special Branch leads that Wayne O’Brien had fed them, rating his suggestions according to his private scale of adjectives, this one being ‘cool’, that one ‘ripe’, another one ‘the real McCoy’. This steady but so far unproductive progress was thrown into disarray by the Herald story. Now resources were being thrown at the case from all sides, SO13 had joined in, the Diplomatic Protection Group, SO16, was demanding participation, as was SO10, Covert Operations, and, as expected, MI5 was circling hungrily in the background. Action, not discretion, was the order of the day, and Brock found himself at the centre of a turmoil of activity.
And in the middle of all this, he had found himself entangled in an absurd industrial relations fiasco. They had decided to interview PC Talbot once more, with O’Brien present, to see if they could tease any new information out of the young constable’s memory of his interview with Professor Springer. But when Brock had phoned Shadwell Road police station and spoken to the inspector he had been met with the stiff information that PC Talbot was currently under suspension, pending review of his conduct in not keeping his superiors properly informed of the approach of a member of the public at serious risk, namely Professor Max Springer and his appeal for help. Brock smelt some frantic retrospective fireproofing on the inspector’s part and tore into him, demanding that the constable be reinstated immediately and sent up to Queen Anne’s Gate. After some token protest, Brock having asked him how he thought his action would appear to a hostile press and to the Metropolitan Police at large, the inspector relented. Ten minutes later he phoned back with the news that PC Talbot was being advised by his union, the Police Federation, to stay at home, speak to no one and leave future negotiations to them.
And so Brock was in a car with O’Brien, stuck in traffic on their way to the East End, when Kathy phoned and said she’d like to meet him to talk to him about something important and in private. It was a hell of a time to try to talk to him about her future, he thought, but he tried to sound calm and reassuring and told her to take the Blackwall Tunnel and meet him at Shadwell Road.
When she got to the police station, Kathy found that Brock was locked away in conference in the back room, and the desk sergeant told her he couldn’t be disturbed. She showed him her warrant card and he reluctantly agreed to inquire. While he was away a young man in a leather jacket and jeans who had been lounging against the far end of the counter came over and introduced himself as a Special Branch officer.
‘Call me Wayne.’ He gave her a friendly grin.
‘Kathy.’
‘I’m waiting for him too,’ Wayne said. ‘Some stuff-up with the local boys.’
The sergeant reappeared and said that DCI Brock had asked if she would give him another ten minutes, discussions having reached a critical stage. Wayne suggested they get a cup of coffee across the road, and they went out together.
Kathy hadn’t been in Shadwell Road before, and as she looked more closely at the shops and people she became increasingly fascinated. What she had at first assumed to be an ordinary high street meandering through an old area of the East End, now seemed more like a bit of the Indian subcontinent, not transplanted so much as grafted onto the root stock. The brick building over there, with an unpretentious attempt at a classical portico on its gable, which might have been a modest old non-conformist church, was in fact a mosque. The girl behind the coffee shop counter was wearing a headscarf and track pants, and the CD she was playing was, according to Wayne, Billy
