committal comments, then told the uniforms to move the cordon further back.
He hadn’t even heard of this university, the University of Central London East, or UCLE, nor been aware that there was a campus here in this area of the Docklands, and at first there had been confusion with the University of East London, further east in the old Royal Albert Dock. It hadn’t been here long, by the look of it, one among the host of new construction projects that had blossomed eastward along the river in the past few years. The cascade of steps, the flanking cantilevered lecture theatres, the squat curved tower of the central administration, the primary colours and gleaming stainless steel panelling, all seemed to Brock to protest an aggressive claim to identity, as if compelled to compete with the brash office towers of Canary Wharf, glittering Manhattan-like over there to the west. And for a moment, after he’d taken this all in, he’d been tempted to think that the stagey murder scene too might be some kind of pose, a publicity stunt perhaps, and that the old man sprawled so artfully on the steps might at any moment leap to his feet to the cheers of his rapt audience.
But his death was real enough, two shots to the heart, the medical examiner suggested, at very close range, which corresponded with what most of the witnesses thought they’d heard or seen.
‘Inspector! Inspector Gurney!’ The uniformed officer further up the steps was holding back a young woman who appeared to be trying to reach them. Bren loped up and bent to listen to what they were saying. Brock was struck by her pale elfin face, distressed, framed by short-cropped black hair, eyes wide and ringed with dark. He turned away to hear another detective’s report on the assailant’s description, as compiled from the accounts of a dozen students who had seen him: medium height, slim build, probably, but wearing a bulky anorak-style coat with hood covering the head, dark jeans, face obscured by a dark mask or balaclava, description of shoes too variable to be reliable. He was young, they all agreed, because of the agile way he skipped down the steps and ran off along the entry concourse towards the university entrance and the city beyond. And they all said ‘he’, although they couldn’t say for sure why they assumed it was a male. No one could recall seeing the gun, a revolver, the police assumed, since there had been no sign of the spent cartridge cases.
Brock sighed. ‘Put it out. It’s all we’ve got for now. Let’s hope the camera can tell us more.’ He glanced up again at the security camera that scanned the steps. If it had been working properly they should have a complete ringside record of the event.
And there was a curious detail from just one of the witnesses, a young man who had been climbing the steps about ten yards behind the victim. He had been watching the assailant coming down the flight before he reached the old man, because he had noticed the mask beneath the hood and been startled by it. So he had his eyes on the murderer’s face at the moment when he had struck, and he was convinced that he had spoken, had said something to the victim just before he closed in and put his left arm round the old man’s shoulder, quite gently, and raised his right hand to his chest and fired twice, then stepped away to let him tumble back down the steps.
Bren rejoined him, a young man in a sharp suit at his heels. ‘The girl was a student of his, name of Briony Kidd, didn’t witness it, but says she knew him quite well. I said we might want to talk to her later. This bloke insists on having a word, Brock.’
The young man introduced himself as the President’s Executive Officer.
‘President?’ Brock asked.
‘Yes, of the university. The head.’
‘I thought they were called vice-chancellors.’
The young man gave a knowing little smile. ‘Not any more, at least not here. We prefer the American title.
Professor Young sent me down to see if you’d like to meet with him now. You are in charge, I take it?’
Brock looked around at the activity on the steps, then nodded. ‘Lead the way.’
‘And the President did ask if your men could be instructed not to make any statements to the media until you’ve had a chance to discuss things with him.’
Brock looked coolly at him. ‘They won’t be.’
‘Good.’ Then, as if conscious that some note of accommodation might be appropriate, he added, ‘This is quite shocking, isn’t it? We really have no precedent for it. I’m sure we all hope it can be quickly resolved. You’ll have our full cooperation, naturally.’
They walked along the dockside concourse to the foot of the Central Administration Tower and into a lobby of blond wood, stainless steel and recessed lighting, like a rather modish cocktail bar, Brock thought. A lift took them to the top floor, where a secretary led them into a spacious office dominated by a large brushed steel desk whose curved front echoed the curve of the glass wall behind, which, stretching the full width of the room, offered a spectacular night-time panorama of the Thames, from the Millennium Dome on the left to the pyramidal peak of the tower at Canary Wharf on the right. A couple of ships were visible on the black ribbon of the river, and in the distance the lights of Greenwich and South London faded into a bank of mist moving up from the south. A powerfully built man with a thick mop of fair hair rose from his seat behind the desk, and advanced forcefully towards them.
‘Roderick Young,’ he growled softly, fixing Brock with an intent stare and gripping his hand hard.
‘Detective Chief Inspector David Brock.’ The room was warm, and Brock eased off his coat which was immediately swept up by the young Executive Officer, who removed it to a wardrobe disguised behind a panel of blond veneer.
‘Chief Inspector, we are very shocked by this. There really is no precedent for it. I’m sure we all hope it can be resolved quickly, and you can rely on our full cooperation, naturally.’ Brock recognised the exact words the younger man had used earlier, as though over-tutored. The President waved them to seats in front of the desk while he returned to his place with his back to the panorama, as if to say, You may find this spectacular view distracting, but I am entirely focused on more important things.
‘Now, would you care to brief me?’ He adjusted crisp white cuffs and smoothed the faintest crease in an immaculate charcoal suit that lent an almost military style and gravitas to his bulky figure. ‘I’ve only just arrived back on campus from a meeting in the City, and I’d like to hear the facts directly from you.’
The lights of a twin-engined passenger jet, just taken off from the London City Airport a couple of miles to the east, passed slowly across the panorama, but only the faintest rumble came through the sweep of glass wall. Without turning, Professor Young murmured, ‘The 17:35 to Berlin,’ and sat back in his chair.
Brock checked his watch. ‘I can tell you as much as I know, which isn’t a great deal at this stage. An hour and a half ago, at about four o’clock, a man, identified by witnesses as one of your staff, Professor Max Springer, was fatally shot on the main steps leading between the upper and lower concourses on this campus. The assailant escaped without hindrance. My officers have secured the crime scene and are presently interviewing the considerable number of witnesses who were in the vicinity. The body is being removed to the Whitechapel mortuary. It will be necessary to close the immediate area around the steps for some time, perhaps several days.’
‘And the, er, assailant, has he been identified? You must have a good description, presumably, with all those witnesses?’
‘Unfortunately not. His face was masked, and it all happened very quickly. We have very little information about him at present, though East London police have been alerted to his description, such as it is. We’re in the process of examining your security camera tapes, and we’re hopeful they may give us something more.’
‘And no doubt there will be other evidence? Forensic?’
But Brock had had enough of this interrogation and ignored Young’s question, turning instead to his own. ‘Tell me about Professor Springer. We need details such as home address, next of kin, age and so on, but I’d also like a sketch of what he did, how he fitted in here. A couple of the students said he was world famous, though I have to admit the name means nothing to me.’
‘Our Professor of Philosophy. Distinguished career. He’s held in high regard, especially in Germany and the States, I believe. This will cause a tremendous shock.’ He leaned forward to emphasise the point. ‘This will be noticed, Chief Inspector Brock, noticed. This is not just a local matter.’
Brock took this to be a query of his credentials to handle such a case. The man was an instinctive bully, he decided. ‘But not exactly a household name?’ he objected. ‘I mean, his fame would be confined to fairly narrow university circles, would it?’
‘Not narrow… but I take your point,’ Young conceded. ‘You mean he wasn’t a celebrity, like a television presenter, or something?’
‘Yes. A philosopher… Did he hold controversial views, then? Did he upset people?’
