beyond. As they walked under the concrete viaduct, Brock was struck by the abrupt dislocation between the two sides, the steel panelled university turning its back on the disordered jumble of old warehouses, workshops, derelict looking shops and tiny pubs that jostled up to it. They found their car and headed north and west into the city traffic as the drizzle turned to steady rain.
Despite the rain, Shadwell Road looked bright and cheerful, its pavements busy with people doing some evening shopping in the stores that lined its length. Beneath the umbrellas Brock noticed women in headscarves and saris, men in skullcaps and baggy pants, a Nigerian in his distinctive wide-shouldered coat, a group of Sikhs in turbans. Window posters on the shopfronts advertised cheap flights,?350 to Dhaka,?340 to Karachi, and forthcoming entertainments by Raha and Malkit Singh. Shop signs were mostly in English and one or more other languages, Urdu, Gujarati, Arabic, Hindi. They parked outside Manzoor’s Saree Centre (‘fabulous fashions and fabrics for all the family’) next door to the police station, a converted shop in the middle of a row of small traders. Its front window was filled with posters advertising its own specials-four Wanted for Murders, five Missing Persons, a couple of Serious Sexual Assaults, one Terrorism: Postal Bombs Alert and one Prostitution. They went inside.
Their advance phone call had had some effect. The uniformed duty inspector and desk sergeant were standing together behind the counter looking as if they’d just brushed their hair and scrubbed their fingernails.
‘Evening, sir,’ the inspector said stiffly. ‘May we help you?’
‘I hope so,’ Brock said, and introduced them both. ‘We phoned.’
‘Of course. Would you care to come this way, sir?’ He lifted the counter flap and indicated a door leading through to the back of the shop, like a tailor inviting a special customer through for a fitting. They went into a small windowless interview room with a few chairs arranged around a table, some recording equipment on a side table. An extract fan rattled into life as the lights were switched on.
‘The PC who interviewed your murder victim is out on the beat at the moment, sir, but we’ve radioed him and he’s on his way. Should be here shortly. May I fetch you gentlemen something while we’re waiting? A cup of tea? A bite to eat?’
Brock felt suddenly hungry. ‘Anywhere round here to get a sandwich?’
‘The pub across the way does a very decent sandwich. Or we could get in some take-away-Tandoori, Balti, Bangladeshi, Halal. You can get most anything here. All on our doorstep.’
‘The sandwich sounds fine. And a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’
They placed their orders and the inspector left them to read the file copy of PC Greg Talbot’s report of the complaint made by Professor Max Springer against person or persons unknown. Ten minutes later, as they were eating their supper, there was a knock on the door and the inspector showed in the young constable. He entered cautiously, as if he’d been warned he might be in trouble. As he came through the door he bumped awkwardly against the jamb with the load of kit strapped to his belt-the process pouch, quick-cuffs, first aid kit, Asp extendable baton, radio, torch, and the CS spray canister in its spring-loaded holster.
‘PC Talbot, sir,’ the inspector said, and the constable came to attention in front of them, eyes fixed on the wall behind Brock’s head.
‘Greg, isn’t it?’ Brock said. ‘Take a seat, Greg. Don’t mind us eating, will you. Fancy a sandwich yourself?’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ the man said stiffly. ‘I’ll be having my dinner shortly.’ Then added, ‘Hopefully.’
‘Yes.’ Brock checked his watch. ‘You’re just coming off your shift now, aren’t you? But on Sunday the second you were on the morning shift, that right?’
‘Sir. We were a bit short handed that day, after the New Year celebrations, and I was on front desk. The gentleman came in midmorning, eleven o’clock. I couldn’t speak to him immediately ’cos I was dealing with another person.’ He glanced over at his Inspector and added, ‘Mr Manzoor next door, sir. Complaining about his daughter again.’
The inspector nodded and Greg Talbot turned back to face Brock and Bren.
‘Please relax, Greg,’ Brock said gently, seeing how rigid the lad was. He looked too young to be in uniform, Brock thought, his face more that of a cheeky schoolboy than the stolid mask of a cop. Or maybe it’s me, Brock thought, getting too old. ‘We just want to get your impressions of the man. You’ve been briefed about his murder today, I take it?’
‘Yes, sir. Can I ask, sir, am I in strife?’
‘Good Lord, no. I’ve read your report. It all seems quite reasonable.’
‘But he was right, wasn’t he? It happened just like he predicted.’
‘The date, you mean? Yes, that is interesting…’ Brock ran his finger down the report. ‘He said that he had had a threatening phone call from a man who didn’t identify himself, but said that “if he didn’t stop broadcasting his views immediately, he would suffer the consequences soon, and no later than the twentieth of January”, which is today. Those were his actual words, were they?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The policeman sounded defensive.
‘I mean, precisely, Greg? “Broadcasting”, for instance? That was his word?’
‘Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have used that word myself. I asked him what he meant, and he said he’d been making his opinions known publicly. He’d been interviewed on the radio, apparently. Radio East London. Some time towards the end of last year.’
‘And did you inquire as to the nature of his opinions?’
‘Yes, sir. I thought he might be a nutter. Maybe a racist. But he said he’d been speaking out against extremists of all persuasions.’
‘Extremists.’
‘Yes, sir. And fundamentalists. His words.’
‘Hm. And he was quite specific about the date? Not “about the twentieth” or “within three weeks” or something like that?’ Brock noticed the lad blink involuntarily. There was the briefest hesitation before he replied.
‘The twentieth, sir. Exactly.’
‘Yes…’ Brock gave him a sympathetic smile, but held his eyes, saying nothing until the constable abruptly said, ‘We worked that out, you see, sir. That’s how he could be so specific.’
‘Worked it out?’
‘He claimed the caller had said, “within two weeks of the end of Ramadan”, and we worked out that was the twentieth. I didn’t put all that in the report,’ Talbot said speaking faster now. ‘Would have taken too long, and anyway, around here you don’t think twice about Ramadan…’
Brock nodded understandingly. Ever since the Stephen Lawrence case and the McPherson report that followed it, condemning endemic racism in the Metropolitan Police, a tidal wave of political correctness had swept over the force. Greg Talbot had omitted the words ‘fundamentalist’ and ‘Ramadan’ from his report because they had a flavour that he would prefer to keep out of his account. He would have done this automatically, as part of a self- correcting editorial process, presenting the facts in a more neutral way, just to be on the safe side. But it did change things, by God it did. He felt Bren stir at his side.
‘Greg, what I’m going to ask you to do is to write out for me as full a description as you can possibly recall, of everything that you and Professor Springer said, word for word.’
Talbot hesitated, no doubt seeing this as an invitation to weave the rope that he would be hanged by. ‘I’m not sure, sir…’ he said hesitantly, and Brock saw the lad’s brain working, perhaps trying to remember where he could get the phone number of the Police Federation for help.
Brock felt momentarily helpless. He was too old, too highly ranked, altogether too heavy for this. Clearly the lad felt threatened by him. Bren on his own wouldn’t have been much better, either, just another, younger version of the same. Kathy could have done it, got the kid on side, talking informally, sympathetically. He felt a little stab of pain and loss at the thought of her. She would probably see the case mentioned in the papers, on TV, and she might be tempted to return too soon. He’d have to phone Suzanne later and warn her.
‘Greg, this will only be for my personal use, to further our investigation into the Springer murder, I can assure you of that. I will keep the original, and no copies will be made. As I said, I have no criticism of the way you handled this, and I take it your supervisors feel the same way?’ He glanced at the inspector, who looked uncomfortable, as if wanting to keep his options open, depending on how this turned out, but he gave a nod all the same.
‘He just didn’t seem kosher, sir!’ Talbot blurted out. ‘He looked sort of weird, with his hair sticking out all over
