Resurrection

‘It’s a temporary thing. Steve had a vacancy but whether he’ll get a new grant or not is another matter. If he doesn’t I’ll be out the door come Christmas. My face doesn’t really fit in the institute anyway.’

‘Why not?’

‘Times change. These days science graduates outnumber jobs ten to one. You need at least an upper second to get a job that would have gone to an ONC ten years ago. If the job involves making the tea as well, we’re talking about a PhD.’

Dewar smiled and said, ‘I hope something works out for you.’

He had a last meeting with Paul Hutton to thank him formally for his cooperation.

‘Does that mean you are finished with us?’ asked Hutton.

‘I should think so,’ replied Dewar. ‘Unless there are any more developments.’

‘You’re returning to London today?’

‘I’m going to show my face at the Iraqi students association. I’ll take it from there.’

SEVEN

The Iraqi students association was on the first floor of a Victorian building in a street largely taken up with restaurants offering cuisines of the world. The street was narrow, the buildings tall and traffic fumes hung in the air like a November fog. The smell of foreign food mingled with vague damp odours of plaster and cats as he climbed the badly lit stairs and knocked on the door with the brass plaque and Arabic inscription on it.

A young man answered, obviously surprised to see a westerner standing there. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in clipped but otherwise perfect English.

‘My name’s Dewar. I’d like to speak to any friends of Ali Hammadi.’

‘He is dead.’

‘I know he’s dead. That’s why I’d like to speak to them.’

‘You are a policeman?’

‘Not exactly.’ Dewar showed him his Sci-Med ID card.

The man seemed to compare the photograph on the card with the reality several times before deciding that it might be a reasonable likeness. ‘Dr Adam Dewar,’ he intoned.

‘That’s me,’ Dewar agreed.

‘Come inside.’ said the man, suddenly turning on his heel and leaving Dewar to close the door behind them. They passed along a narrow hallway past a series of grey-painted doors leading off into badly lit rooms as far as Dewar could determine. Single, unshaded light bulbs seemed to be the preferred source of illumination and, in rooms with ceilings twelve feet high, there seemed to be more shadow than light.

There were about twelve people in the room Dewar was finally shown into; they sat separately in groups of three or four and all looked about the right age to be students. The furnishings in the room were old and the heavy curtains on the windows looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned since the turn of the century. They hung behind several faded velvet-covered couches, each with one single wood-scrolled arm. The scene reminded Dewar of a Victorian illustration of an Opium den. A few of the students had note books open and appeared to be discussing course work.

The man who had answered the door said something to them in Arabic. Dewar picked out the word Hammadi.

There was a prolonged silence while everyone looked at Dewar impassively then one student got up and came over. He smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘I am Tariq Saadi, Ali was my friend,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d like some coffee?’

Dewar sipped bitter coffee while Saadi, a postgraduate student in Mathematics, told him what he knew of Ali. He and Ali had in fact, come from villages in Iraq not more than twenty kilometres apart but knew each other only slightly before going to Baghdad to do their first degrees, meeting up properly and becoming firm friends. Both had been delighted when they managed to get on to the foreign study programme together.

‘We didn’t think it would be possible for us to travel abroad but science is above political difficulty,’ said Tariq. ‘The politicians may disagree but the universities continue to communicate.’

‘Good,’ said Dewar. ‘How are your studies going? he asked, hoping to gain the man’s confidence.

Tariq shrugged and smiled. ‘Sometimes I struggle.’

‘Was it the same for Ali?’

‘Oh no,’ smiled Tariq. ‘Ali was very clever and so …’ he searched for the word … ‘about his science.’

‘Enthusiastic?’ suggested Dewar.

‘Yes, thank you, enthusiastic but more … dedicated is the word.. For Ali, science was everything. All he was interested in. The sky was the limit and one day he was going to do great things. He said it would be possible to have enough food for everyone on the planet. An end to starvation would be made possible through molecular biology and the cloning of the genes.’

Dewar smiled at the idealism of youth. Molecular biology might well enable scientists to do these things but it wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t going to happen because no one invested money in things that didn’t make a profit and feeding the hungry wasn’t a paying proposition. Ali Hammadi would not now live to discover that awful truth. There was no point in pointing it out to Tariq.

‘So why did Ali kill himself?’ asked Dewar softly.

Tariq paused, his eyes misting over as he thought of his friend, then he said simply, ‘It was so sad.’

Dewar needed more. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But no one seems able to come up with any reason why he did it? There must have been one. Something must have gone terribly wrong in his life. Ali’s colleagues at the institute tell me that he was obviously upset about something. They say he became very depressed during the weeks before he died. You were his friend; he must have confided in you, didn’t he?’

The boy shrugged uncomfortably and Dewar got the impression that it wasn’t just what he’d said that had produced the reaction. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that a new man had entered the room and was standing looking across at them. He seemed older than the others, an Arab, tall and bearded with heavy, dark- rimmed spectacles. He remembered Inspector Grant saying something about older men being part of the set- up.

‘No, Ali told me nothing,’ said Tariq, obviously unsettled at the appearance of the newcomer. ‘I don’t know why he did it. It’s a mystery. Maybe he was ill. It can happen, you know.’

Dewar looked him straight in the eye and knew that he was lying. The presence of the bearded man was intimidating him.

‘Look Tariq, maybe this isn’t the best place to talk?’ he suggested quietly.

‘I don’t think there is any more to say,’ replied the boy but he spoke the words like an automaton.’

‘I think there is,’ insisted Dewar but keeping his voice low. ‘Maybe you owe it to your friend to tell me exactly what you know? I understand how difficult things are for you so I’m going to leave now but I’ll leave my card on the seat. Call me when you feel it’s safe. If I’m not there leave a message.’

The boy nodded uncertainly.

‘Well, thanks for your help Tariq, I’m sorry about your friend’s death. It was very sad,’ said Dewar in a louder voice that invited overhearing. He got up and was shown to the door by Tariq. To get there they had to pass the older man who didn’t acknowledge them as they passed but Dewar took a good look at him anyway. Maybe Inspector Grant could come up with some pictures. It would be nice to know who and what he really was. As he walked out on to the street he decided that he would stay on in Edinburgh for the time being..

He booked into a city centre hotel and made his report to Sci-Med using his lap top computer and a phone link. There wasn’t that much to report, just that he wasn’t quite happy about the Edinburgh situation as it stood. He’d be staying on until he knew more. After that, he phoned Karen. She was at the lab.

‘You’re where?’

‘Edinburgh,’ Dewar told her again. ‘I’m going to be here at least another day. How’s Kensington? Is the world still falling out of its bottom?’