‘I don’t understand why you didn’t know about CAB-Tech. Aren’t you investigating them? Surely you must be? I read in the papers…’
Kathy hesitated. She hadn’t picked that up from either Brock or Wayne. This was what happened when you blundered uninvited into other people’s investigations. Feeling foolish she said, ‘What did you read?’
‘About the Islamic extremists. I thought that was what you were looking for.’
Feeling even more confused, Kathy said hesitantly, ‘Islamic… Yes, but I thought we were talking about CAB-Tech?’ ‘But, that’s them, isn’t it? They have lots of Islamic fundamentalists working over there. That’s what’s so absolutely right, isn’t it? The two old gangs seeking after one truth working together. Max thought it was bitterly funny if it weren’t so bloody tragic.’
‘Islamic fundamentalists?’ Kathy wondered if she was really following this.
‘Yes. Have they told you about the Christmas e-mail yet? No? Well, ask them, go on. You ask them about that.’
9
W hen she left UCLE Kathy realised that she was running short of time to get to her interview in the West End, and of course it was impossible to find a car park. Eventually she arrived half an hour late for her appointment, a lapse that the woman interviewer, middle-aged and severe, obviously found both significant and annoying.
‘You see, being on time is one of the absolutely basic requirements for a courier or tour guide. We run to timetables, schedules. What are you going to do with your party of twenty pensioners from Pontefract at Moscow airport at ten o’clock at night when you’ve just missed the last flight back to the west because you turned up half an hour late, eh?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m usually very prompt. In the police-’
‘Yes,’ the woman leapt in, the reference to the police obviously touching another nerve, ‘but in the police you can just say you were tied up with something important, and people just have to put up with it.’
Kathy’s heart sank. Probably the woman had just been given a speeding ticket, or the cops had failed to turn up after she was burgled.
‘… whereas in a service industry like tourism, there simply is no acceptable excuse for letting the customer down. You do understand that, don’t you? I mean, why exactly do you want to change from the police anyway? You don’t have some romantic notion of exotic travel at someone else’s expense, do you? Because it’s not like that at all. It’s not glamorous, it’s hard work, sometimes extremely tedious, and often dealing with people who are boring and annoying.’
While she tried to keep up with this, occasionally offering a conciliatory few sentences that only seemed to irritate the woman more, part of Kathy’s brain kept returning to Briony Kidd’s outburst. Kathy hadn’t tried to contact Brock, because she had been in such a rush, she told herself, but also, she knew, because this time she wanted more than a quick thanks and goodbye from him.
‘And apart from the languages problem, it doesn’t sound as if you’ve actually had a great deal of experience of travel, Ms Kolla, have you? I mean, a school trip to Paris… Excuse me, have I said something? What’s the matter?’
The matter, the reason why Kathy was staring so disconcertingly at the woman, was that Clare Hancock’s final throw-away remark had just come back to her, the comment she hadn’t understood at the time, the reporter’s ‘lurking worry’ that they’d been given the fatwa story in order to put them off Springer’s feud with CAB-Tech. And with it had come the blinding realisation that this remark was very important, for with it the reporter had told her, inadvertently or not, who her informant for the fatwa story was.
‘Oh, golly,’ Kathy said, and blinked. ‘Sorry, where were we?’
The woman stared at her with a mixture of alarm and incredulity, then looked hurriedly at her watch. ‘We were just coming to the end, I’m afraid. I have other clients waiting. I suggest you fill in the questionnaire in the reception area outside and leave it with the girl at the desk. We’ll be in touch.’
Kathy left the place flattened. She went into the cafe next door and sat with a cup of short black in front of a mirrored screen in which she saw a reflection of a drained, unemployable female. ‘Well done,’ she muttered. ‘So what exactly can you do right?’
‘Kathy! Come in, come in!’ Brock seemed genuinely pleased to see her as he waved her to a seat. He looked tired and rumpled, and his secretary Dot had warned Kathy on the way in that he was short of sleep. She had done this, Kathy guessed, because Dot assumed Kathy’s visit was about some personal matter Brock could best do without.
‘I got your note from Wayne. Many thanks. Helps to paint a clearer picture of Springer’s state of mind, if nothing else. Obviously had his knickers badly in a twist.’
‘Yes, but suppose there was something in his claim that people at CAB-Tech might want to silence him?’
Brock looked puzzled. ‘Oh, I don’t see how that’s possible, Kathy. You said yourself, in your report, that you didn’t believe it.’
‘Yes, but still… You’re positive that this Muslim lad is the killer?’
‘Looks pretty convincing, Kathy. I believe we can make a solid case that he had met Springer and had a grudge against him. He’s admitted that the green pamphlet was his, and forensic have established that the torn envelope was posted to Springer from the East End, somewhere within a mile of Shadwell Road. So we have evidence of a threat, a motive, and, when we crack his buddies, an opportunity.’
‘Is that enough?’
‘Well now…’ Brock considered Kathy carefully, his hand going up to rub the side of his grey beard. ‘I’d like more, of course. I’d like the gun and its source, and I’d like residue traces on Ahmed’s coat… That’s why I haven’t released any information yet, despite the best efforts of our press office, who are desperate to dampen this fatwa story that’s flaring up everywhere now. You’ve seen this morning’s papers? Yes, so… what is it, Kathy? I’ve seen this look before. You’ve thought of something.’
‘Have you worked out where the Herald got the fatwa story from?’
‘No, wish I had.’
‘Could it have been anyone at the university? Did anyone there know that you were working on the possibility of an Islamic extremist?’
Brock thought about that. ‘Only one person to my knowledge. The University President. I told him myself.’
Kathy explained about Clare Hancock’s puzzling final comment. ‘I realised afterwards that it made sense only if she knew that her source might have some interest in suppressing Springer’s accusations against CAB-Tech.’
‘Someone at the university…’ He pictured the man sitting in his shirtsleeves at his steel desk in front of his great window, and his desire to control the information that went out to the media. ‘Yes, it’s possible.’
‘And there’s something else.’ As she told Brock about Briony’s claim of Islamic fundamentalists in CAB-Tech, he slowly stiffened upright in his seat with what Kathy thought was the look of someone who’d just discovered that he’d missed his flight, with twenty pensioners from Pontefract waiting at his back.
Professor Haygill’s secretary explained that the professor was currently on a plane from the Gulf, and that he wouldn’t be returning to the university that day. Could someone else be of assistance? If the Chief Inspector would like some information on CAB-Tech, Professor Haygill’s Principal Research Scientist, Dr Tahir Darr, might be able to help. Brock said that would do fine, rang off and raised his eyebrows at Kathy. ‘The Gulf!’ He looked thoughtful, then added, ‘I know you’re on leave, Kathy, but since you’ve been taking a bit of an interest, and since two heads are better than one… fancy coming with me?’ Again Kathy sensed that she was being gently tested, like an invalid. And on the road out to the East End, Brock went on, in a tone of casual vagueness which Kathy thought contrived, ‘So, how are you, anyway? Everything’s all right at Suzanne’s?’
‘It’s very comfortable, thanks. She’s been good to me.’