Next to the travel agent was Manzoor Saree Centre, its lights bright, though, like everywhere else, doing little business. She crossed the street and opened the shop door to an accompanying tinkling of a bell. The interior was dazzling, bolts of multi-coloured fabric stacked and cascading everywhere over counters, mannequins and rails. Mr Manzoor himself, in a dark suit, formed the only note of sobriety in all this exuberance. He smoothly closed the order book he was studying and glided forward to greet Kathy with a little bow, his eyes examining her critically as his head dipped.
‘Good evening, madam. How can I be of assistance? You would like a silk business suit, perhaps? Or something for evening wear?’
‘I’m with the police, Mr Manzoor.’
‘Ah.’ He sighed regretfully. ‘But still, the police need affordable clothes of excellent quality just like everyone else. I have given away many cards today. I expect many orders in the fullness of time.’ He offered Kathy a business card.
‘Thank you. I’m just following up one or two loose ends from the day. You were interviewed, weren’t you?’
Manzoor gave a modest little bow of assent. ‘Like all my fellow traders in Shadwell Road, I did my best to assist the officers to reconstruct the shocking events of yesterday.’
‘Because you were there, weren’t you, in the street at the time the man was killed?’
‘Sadly so, although I saw nothing of it, with such a crowd… I am not a tall man, as you see.’ He smiled deprecatingly.
‘And before that, you actually spoke to one of the skinheads, I understand.’
Manzoor looked momentarily startled. ‘Why, yes! You know, I had forgotten that until you reminded me. The riot, the fighting, it was so terrifying that what happened before had faded in my mind. Did the skinhead tell you that?’
‘Another witness mentioned it. What did you talk about?’
‘Well…’ Manzoor thought for a moment. ‘The man was coming through the crowd, asking people what was going on, why we were there. Most people looked away and pretended not to hear him. He was about the only European among us, but more than that, he was a skinhead, an ugly little fellow. People didn’t want to talk to him. He approached me, and I said that we didn’t want any trouble. I have to confess that I was thinking more of my shop windows. I had no idea that anything worse than that might happen.’
‘He mentioned Abu by name, did he?’
Manzoor looked vague. ‘I don’t recall that.’
‘But you knew of the name Abu?’
‘Oh, yes. I was at mosque when the two officers came to speak to Imam Hashimi. He called several of us in to ask if we knew of this Abu Khadra.’
‘Did he say what he was wanted for?’
‘Not in so many words, but we assumed it was to do with the murder at the university.’
‘And did the crowd in the street learn about this?’
‘The imam asked us to be discreet, and to keep it to ourselves, but pretty soon I gathered that the story was 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.