Kathy was immediately reminded of Briony Kidd’s outburst at the university about Abu’s innocence, and remembered that she hadn’t had a chance to tell Brock about it. She mentioned it now. Brock wasn’t much impressed.
‘That woman seemed very emotional about Springer’s death, Kathy. The forensic evidence looks pretty conclusive, I’d say. Abu killed him all right. I think Briony Kidd needs to put it behind her now and move on. Reading stuff like Springer’s books all day won’t do much to cheer her up, either.’
‘Are they hard going?’
Brock groaned. ‘Very. I’m extending my vocabulary though, if nothing else. Have you ever heard of the word “psittacism”?’ He spelt it.
‘No.’
‘It means the mechanical repetition of ideas or words, parrot-fashion. I might use it the next time I give evidence in court. “But isn’t that simply psittacism, your honour?”’
‘He’ll probably give you three months for contempt,’ Kathy laughed.
‘There was one interesting thing that Springer pointed out in one of the books, about the nature of martyrdom, which I thought was relevant to what happened to him, ironically enough. He said there are two quite different traditions of religious martyrdom, the Christian and the Muslim. The Christian martyr is passive, suffering death as a victim for the sake of his faith, whereas the Muslim martyr gives up his life in an active attack on the enemies of his faith. It occurred to me that Springer and Khadra exactly demonstrated the two traditions. You might say that they were each an example of a type, and each suffered a martyr’s fate.’
They hadn’t been able to see Springer’s face on the security tape at the moment of his martyrdom, but Kathy had seen Abu’s face later, and after she rang off she wondered if that look of expectancy might have been the look of a martyr who knows his time has come. But that made no sense, for no one, least of all Abu Khadra, knew that a bunch of skinheads would take his life later that night.
Kathy felt at a loss. The case was over, as Wayne O’Brien had said, dead as a dodo. Like her private life. There was only one thing to do; she went shopping. She bought a Spanish language course of tapes, a Walkman and a new pair of joggers, and took them all for a run through the suburban back streets of Finchley and out along Dollis Brook and Woodside Park, abandoning herself to psittacism in the rain.
14
T hrough circumstances that nobody designed, but nobody resisted, both the memorial service for Max Springer and the interment of Abu Khadra were arranged for the same day, the first Thursday in February. By then Brock had been away from London for a week, and Kathy drove down to Battle to collect him and to act as his driver for the day. She found that he had dispensed with most of his visible dressings by this time, and substituted a walking stick for the crutch. She felt that the air of an old warhorse that he projected as he rejected offers of helping arms and stomped to the open car door, wounded but unbowed, was entirely right for the occasion. They waved goodbye to Suzanne and the children, and headed north. It was a bright cold winter’s day, freezing and sunny, the most appropriate of weather to face the reality of death.
Aware of how marginalised Professor Springer had become within his university, the two detectives wondered how many people would turn up for his service. But as they found a parking space in the back streets some distance from the university entrance they became aware of a host of black-coated figures all moving in the same direction as themselves, towards the university gates and the entry concourse beyond. Uniformed security staff stood at intervals to direct them towards the venue in lecture theatre U3, which meant that each sombre visitor followed the route of Springer’s last moments, the stations of Springer’s cross, passing beneath the security camera which had recorded his last moments, and up the great flight of steps on which he died, to the upper concourse where they inevitably stopped to gaze back at the view across the river towards the Millennium Dome, before continuing on to the entrance doors of the auditorium in which he had planned to give his final lecture.
Brock waved aside Kathy’s suggestion that they take the handicapped persons’ lift to the upper concourse, and, grey-bearded chin thrust forward, he grunted his way up all fifty-two of the broad steps with the help of the handrail and his stick. When they reached the lecture theatre they discovered that Springer had attracted many more people in death than in life. Looking at the size of the large hall, Kathy could see how pathetic the twenty or thirty audience for his lecture would have appeared, and how impressive the present turnout was, both in numbers and range of the university hierarchy. Even Richard Haygill, the subject of Springer’s venom, was there, accompanied by a rather glamorous looking blonde several inches taller than himself.
A small, elegantly printed leaflet on each seat explained that this would be a secular celebration of Professor Max Springer’s life and achievements, in accord with his creedless philosophy. Despite this, the service began with the stirring opening of the Faure Requiem, the haunting lines of the Kyrie reverberating through the auditorium, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.
After the notes had faded away, the University President, Professor Roderick Young, moved to the simple lectern in the centre of the stage and delivered an eloquent eulogy on what he described as his ‘most highly esteemed colleague’. He spoke in a commanding, sonorous voice of the irremediable loss to the international community of scholars and to the ‘UCLE family’. After several minutes of this, Brock began to stir and make noises of either discomfort or disgust, Kathy couldn’t be sure.
Young was followed by an elderly man introduced as Springer’s cousin, speaking on behalf of the family. He seemed rather overwhelmed by the occasion, and spoke in a wavering Midlands accent, mainly of his recollections of their shared childhood in Solihull during the War. Kathy got the impression that there hadn’t been so much contact in more recent years, and she imagined that Max had probably had little in common with the English family into which, an intellectual cuckoo, he had been introduced in 1937.
Other speakers followed. An American academic and a leading member of the London literary scene both spoke powerfully about the values Springer stood for, to the accompaniment of much flash activity and note-taking from the press contingent which occupied the rear third of the raked seating. Perhaps the most surprising contribution, and for Kathy the most moving, came from a reasonably sober and clean looking Desmond Pettifer, who took the lectern and announced that he would recite his friend Max Springer’s favourite poem, which henceforth, he believed, would carry redoubled meaning for all present. With an accent becoming more pronouncedly Welsh with every syllable, he then spoke the lines of Dylan Thomas’ ‘Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night’. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and began to appear around the hall too, as he intoned the final words with a fierce passion, ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’.
The contrast with the interment of Abu Khadra that afternoon could hardly have been greater. After a light pub lunch, Kathy drove them to a large public cemetery near Tooting in South London. The morning sun was now hidden by a sullen grey cloud mass, and as they turned in through the gates and slowly wound their way through endless silent lanes of death the prospect became more and more grim, and, it seemed to Kathy, Dylan Thomas’ defiance more and more forlorn.
In a bleak corner most distant from the entrance, a small area had been set aside for those of the Shia Muslim faith. They were early, and reversed the car and parked at the roadside on the fringe of the area, with a view towards the newly excavated hole visible at the end of a desolate row of stones and markers inscribed with Arabic characters, a few freshly delineated in gold, the majority old and faded. As she stared out through the misting window at the scene, it occurred to Kathy that this was an appropriately terminal backdrop to the final moments of what looked to be her last case.
To avoid any possibility of fresh disturbances, there had been a strict news blackout on Abu’s burial. Only the imam of the Nur al-Islam mosque had been consulted over the arrangements, and he had been entrusted with inviting only the closest intimates of the dead man, in strictest confidence. Shortly before 3:00 p.m. a black hearse approached, followed by a single car, a battered red Toyota. They stopped just beyond the grave, steam coiling from their exhausts. Two men got out of the front of the Toyota, and Brock pointed out the heavy bulk of Qasim Ali, proprietor of the Horria Cafe, as he eased himself with difficulty out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t know the other man. Both wore overcoats and were holding black Homburgs which they arranged carefully on their heads before moving forward to the hearse, where two attendants in black suits were opening the rear door. Together the four men slid a plain casket out of the vehicle and gripped its side handles. Another man got out of the front of the
