‘But how are you, Kathy?’
‘Oh, busy, busy.’
‘Good! That’s the way to be. You are coping all right on your own? I’ve been worried about you.’
‘I’m not an invalid,’ Kathy laughed. ‘I was in your last batch of lame ducks, remember? All patched up and ready to fly again.’
‘Tina said she’d been talking to you. Sounds promising?’
‘Yes. I’m learning Spanish.’
‘Terrific! Well, you know you’re always welcome here, any time. Did you want to speak to David?’ Suzanne’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Only he’s got someone with him at the moment. A policeman. He came down from London specially. They’ve been talking for almost an hour now. Shall I get him to ring you when he’s finished?’
‘Thanks. Do you know the man’s name?’
‘Russell, it was. Superintendent Russell. I just hope he’s offering David a nice job off the streets. Doing research into police methods in warm and sunny locations, or something. Then you could do the travel arrangements for our extended overseas trips.’
Kathy didn’t spoil Suzanne’s fantasy by telling her who Russell was. If the man who’d taken over Brock’s case was interviewing him at length now, he probably needed a lawyer more than a travel agent. Instead she asked to say hello to the children, then rang off and made a cup of coffee.
The phone rang before she had finished it. She heard Brock’s voice and quickly said, ‘How did it go with Russell? Is it a problem?’
He said, sounding relaxed, ‘No, no. He came down to go through his conclusions for his report to the coroner, partly out of courtesy, he said, but mainly to check that I couldn’t see any obvious holes. I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it to yourself.
‘It seems his faith in a forensic outcome has been justified by three new pieces of evidence that weren’t available to us. First, and most important, they found traces of gunshot residue on Khadra’s coat and gloves that matches that on Springer’s clothes, so there’s little doubt that Abu was the gunman. So then there’s the question of whether he acted alone.
‘The second forensic success concerns the bullet. They’ve been able to match it with another that was used in a drug-related shooting in North London eighteen months ago. Both were fired from the same gun, and there seems to be no connection between the two crimes. In other words the gun appears to be just one of those floating around the underworld black market, and Abu probably bought it from a bent dealer. Therefore no indication of the involvement of foreigners or of some larger organisation.
‘And thirdly, the three kids we picked up, Ahmed Sharif and his mates, appear to be in the clear. The saliva used to lick the stamp and the gum on the torn envelope I found in Springer’s study doesn’t give a DNA match with any of them, nor with Abu. In fact it was Springer’s own saliva, presumably from a self-addressed envelope used for something else entirely. Springer could have picked up the green leaflet at any time-we know he went to Shadwell Road, and the three kids were handing them out to passers-by. So that was all irrelevant.’
Brock paused as if skimming notes. ‘So, three bits of forensic evidence that seem to simplify the picture a good deal, supporting the view that Abu Khadra murdered Max Springer, and acted alone.’
‘What was his motive?’
‘There we can only speculate. It seems he was a private, serious young man, not socialising much with his colleagues at work, a computer fanatic and very religious. You’ve also got to remember that he grew up in Lebanon at a time when violence was seen as an obvious solution to any problem. The hypothesis is that he regarded Springer as a blasphemer who was attacking a project that aims to alleviate the lot of the faithful. However that won’t go into the report. It smacks too much of religious fundamentalism, which everyone’s keen to avoid mentioning. It’ll be up to the inquest to speculate about motive.’
‘You sound unconvinced, Brock,’ Kathy said after a pause.
‘No, no, it’s not that. It makes sense, and if I’d been in Russell’s shoes I’d probably have come up with the same answer. Just my natural scepticism, I suppose. Russell made it clear that everyone’s looking for closure on this one, and that’s exactly what he’s offering – no conspiracy, no fatwa, no jihad, just a disturbed loner with no one to speak for him now.’
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.