‘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.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he hasn’t got any students.’
‘What about…’ Brock checked his notes, ‘… Briony Kidd?’
‘Oh, yes, I stand corrected. He has one student. Ms Kidd is near the end of her Ph. D., I think.’
‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ Brock said mildly. ‘He didn’t go to conferences, publish or teach? Doesn’t sound very… productive.’
‘He was an unusual case. He came here to take the chair in a fairly thriving department of philosophy, but since then we’ve gone through several restructurings. We no longer have departments as such, and philosophy, along with a number of other disciplines, has become incompatible with our institutional profile. We’ve been phasing it out, very successfully actually. We stopped enrolling new students some time ago, and most staff accepted the situation and have gone. Professor Springer was our last philosopher.’
‘And Ms Kidd your last philosophy student.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, do you have any thoughts as to who could have killed Professor Springer?’ Brock asked.
‘An intruder, clearly,’ Young said decisively. ‘We get them all the time, coming in here from the city. Young kids wanting to skateboard, older ones trying to deal drugs or steal the computers. Max probably ran foul of one of them, or perhaps a gang-he could be quite outspoken and provocative when he wanted to be. And they no doubt decided to teach him a lesson. I’m sure that’s the answer. Our own security people should be able to help, let you have information on some of our recent troublemakers.’
He sat back in his chair as if satisfied that some conclusive point had been reached in the discussion.
‘All the same,’ Brock said doubtfully, ‘a shooting murder?’
‘You get that all the time these days, don’t you?’ Young said. ‘You only have to open the paper…’ Then he added, ‘They told me you’re with Serious Crime, is that right, Chief Inspector?’
‘It is.’
‘Well, I rather fear they may have wasted your time pulling you onto this one. Much more likely to be petty crime turned nasty. Can I offer you something before you go? A drink? Coffee?’
The Executive Officer, who had taken notes throughout the meeting, put his notepad aside on the edge of the big desk and got to his feet.
‘No thanks, Professor Young. I’d better get back to my people.’
‘One thing before you go,’ the President said, leaning forward over his steel desk. ‘Concerning the media. I think it would be best if all press statements, media releases, interviews and so on were processed through one office and one office only, don’t you? Our Media Liaison Unit is very good. I’d like to propose that you work through them, just so there’ll be no crossed wires, all right?’
‘That won’t be possible,’ Brock replied. ‘We have our own staff who handle all our media contacts. Of course you must go ahead and issue a statement of regret, how Professor Springer contributed to the university, his academic achievements and so on. But nothing concerning the murder, nothing at all. No information about the circumstances, and no speculation about motive or perpetrator. Leave all that to us.’
The President looked deeply displeased. He regarded Brock for a moment, as if for the first time sizing him up as an opponent. Brock watched Young’s eyes check over his somewhat crumpled black suit, the beard in need of a trim, the shirt chosen for comfort rather than effect, the tie suffering from a small teriyaki sauce incident. ‘I may have to dispute that, Chief Inspector,’ he said finally, ‘at a higher level.’
‘Go ahead,’ Brock said, getting to his feet. He turned to the Executive Officer. ‘If I might have my coat?’
