going round. Probably the younger men had spread the word.’
‘What story was that?’
‘Why, that the two detectives had gone into Chandler’s Yard to arrest someone called Abu.’
‘For murder?’
‘I would say so.’ The draper shrugged regretfully. ‘It is hard to keep such things quiet. People are such gossips, don’t you know? Now, tell me, before I show you some of my finest cloth, specially discounted in honour of our fine police force, tell me where this Abu lived. I am curious. Some say it was in the university, and others that it was in Chandler’s Yard itself. What is the truth?’
Something greedy, almost prurient about Manzoor’s interest in the details of the tragedy disturbed Kathy. ‘The university,’ she said quickly, and turned to go.
Kathy reported this conversation to Brock that evening over a companionable couple of steaks.
‘Makes sense,’ he nodded stiffly, shifting his weight with a wince. ‘Word travels fast. By the time we got Abu out of Chandler’s Yard half of the East End must have known.’ He thought of the minutes they’d wasted listening to the cafe owner’s history of Yemeni settlement in Britain. ‘Maybe if we’d been a bit quicker, or told them less at the mosque…’ Or been able to understand Urdu, he repeated to himself.
‘It probably wouldn’t have made much difference. The skinheads had been gathering for days, ever since Springer’s murder and the arrest of Ahmed and his mates. They were spoiling for trouble. If it hadn’t been Abu it would have been someone else.’
‘All the same…’ Brock reached for a bottle of pills on a shelf at his elbow, then pushed them away. ‘What’s so frustrating is that Springer’s murder remains a blank. I was itching to sit down with Abu and find out what the hell he thought he was going to achieve, if he was the killer. Come to that, Springer himself remains pretty much a blank. His death kicked up a storm, but the man himself, at the centre, remains a void, at least to me.’ He dropped his fork from two thickly bandaged fingers and sighed with frustration. ‘It seems as if what’s happened almost vindicates what Springer was going on about. Maybe I should make some use of my time sitting here and read some of his books.’
Kathy didn’t like to say that, since he now seemed completely shut out of the Springer inquiry, there didn’t seem very much point. ‘If they’re anything like what his student was trying to explain to me, they’re probably a good cure for insomnia. But I’ll get them for you, if you want. I could go over to the university tomorrow.’
‘Ah, talking about that,’ Brock said, pouring them both another glass of red wine, ‘I was speaking to Suzanne on the phone this afternoon, and she was asking how you were, and when you were going back down there.’
‘Yes, I must ring her. The thing is, I don’t feel I should leave London just at the moment, with all this going on, and you laid up and everything…’
‘Mm,’ Brock nodded. ‘Take your point,’ he murmured carefully. ‘Better not make me your reason though. You’re sure, are you? You feel OK about staying?’
Kathy stared into the deep purple of the wine, as rich as the colours of Mr Manzoor’s fabrics, and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
Thursday, 27 January was one of those bright, windy, glittering wintry days that remind you that spring will come. When she reached UCLE Kathy parked her car under the viaduct, buttoned up her coat and strode down to the river’s edge of the university concourse where a few other brave souls were sitting on the steel benches, getting some sun on their pale faces and wind through their hair. She made her way along the concourse thinking that she might quickly pick up the books from the library and then get a cappuccino at the student cafeteria. She followed signs to the library, which was vast and circular, with inquiries at the centre. Kathy managed to access the computer index, and track down two of Springer’s books that were on the shelves. She took them to the central checkout point, and tried to explain, as a queue grew restive behind her, that she was from the Metropolitan Police and just wanted to borrow them for reference purposes for a few days. The librarian looked at her as if she must be slightly simple, and explained that if she didn’t have a staff or student number and identity card, well, she’d better apply to the Head of Data Resources. She found the Data Resources inquiry desk and was given a form to fill in, but the assistant seemed to feel that it might take some time, weeks probably, before she would hear.
She decided on another tack, and found her way to the scruffy old wing in which Springer and his doctoral student had their rooms. As always, Briony Kidd was at her desk. She looked up as Kathy knocked and stepped into the little room, and Kathy had the immediate impression that the bright and cheery approach she had been framing wouldn’t be a success. Briony looked terrible, her eyes red, skin blotched around her throat and wrists as if she had been scratching herself raw.
‘Yes?’ she said, as if she expected the effort to earn her a blow.
‘Er… Briony, hi,’ Kathy said, suddenly uncertain. ‘How are you?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘You look… tired.’
‘Oh, I wonder why?’ The sarcasm was heavy, too forced to be anything but painful.
Kathy was at a loss, but Briony saved her the problem of finding appropriate words.
‘How could you have been so stupid!’ she said, spitting her despair. ‘Of all the unlikely people in the world, you had to pick on Abu! God!’
‘I don’t understand,’ Kathy said cautiously.
‘Well, I don’t think that will surprise anyone!’ Briony wailed and turned away.
Kathy took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Briony, you were the one who told me we should be talking to the Muslim members of Professor Haygill’s staff.’
‘But not Abu!’ the woman spun back, tears pouring from her eyes. ‘Not Abu!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he would never, never have hurt Max!’
The intensity of her conviction was baffling. Kathy took another deep breath. ‘You knew Abu?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘You didn’t tell me that, Briony. How well did you know him?’
‘Oh…’ She made a wild gesture with her arm. ‘We met… in the cafeteria, and places. He was a gentle, caring man. I can’t believe what’s happened. First Max and now Abu! I think I’m going mad.’
‘Did he and Max know each other?’
‘Yes… Maybe… I don’t know…’
‘Which?’ Kathy insisted. ‘Yes or no? Did they know each other?’
‘I… I…’ Briony seemed caught in some kind of confusion. ‘I don’t know. But that’s not the point, is it? The point is that you charged in with your great jackboots and arrested him and dragged him out into the street and let those Nazis kill him!’
Kathy remembered the expression on Abu’s face when she had first seen him, the look of recognition and acceptance. Could it have meant something else? Had she completely misjudged him? She felt a chill of panic and defensiveness and guilt as the possibility occurred to her that she might have engineered Abu’s arrest and murder on the strength of some misread signs from Briony and Abu himself. And then it occurred to her that the source of Briony’s distress was precisely the same as this, the guilt of having inadvertently betrayed her… her what? Friend? Lover even? She tried to picture the two of them together, and found it difficult, but certainly not impossible. The over-serious, lonely, passionate English girl and the Arab with the shining eyes. Both slender, fragile, ready to be broken by life…
She stopped her imagination running away with her.
‘Briony, we all feel terrible about what happened, but I can tell you that neither you nor I am responsible for Abu’s death. The people who are will be caught and punished.’
Briony swung back at her. ‘You are responsible!’ she cried. ‘You killed him!’
The force of her accusation was almost physical, and Kathy felt herself backing away, shaking her head. She found herself outside in the corridor, and realised that she was trembling. She turned and walked slowly away and almost stumbled at the next corner of the corridor into a man whose breath smelled strongly of whisky.
‘Oh, easy there!’ he breathed and squinted at her. ‘You all right?’
‘Fine, yes.’
‘Lost?’
‘A bit, yes.’
He gave her a roguish leer. ‘Well, let me give you a helping hand. Pettifer’s the name. Desmond.’
