SIX
The British Airways Shuttle got into Edinburgh Airport only a few minutes late. Dewar made contact with Sci-Med using the Executive Lounge facility on the first floor. He was told that the Institute of Molecular Sciences was expecting him and that the police had also been informed. An officer, Inspector Ian Grant had been detailed to brief him at Fettes police headquarters. He was expected there at ten thirty.
The airport taxi made such good progress into town despite the rush hour traffic. that Dewar thought he might be too early for his meeting with Grant. He asked the driver to take him round by Princes Street. Being no stranger to the city — he’d come up with Karen on several occasions when she’d been visiting her mother — he always enjoyed the view of the castle.
‘It’s your money, Pal,’ replied the driver dourly.
Police Headquarters in Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh proved to be a large, white modern, functional-looking building on the north side of the city, sitting opposite the striking and much older facade of Fettes College, the top Scottish public school that Prime Minister, Tony Blair had attended.
Ian Grant turned out to be a burly man in his late thirties with a bushy black moustache that emphasised his dark eyes. He wore a sports jacket and dark trousers. He was wearing a tie but it was loosened as was the top button of his shirt, making him look like Hollywood’s idea of a journalist about to write up his story. Grant poured himself some coffee from a silver-coloured jug and waved it in Dewar’s direction. Dewar shook his head.
‘Foreign student, tops himself, what’s to say? Case closed as far as we’re concerned,’ said Grant as he sat back down at his desk.
‘No suicide note?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you come up with any likely reason for him doing it?’
”Fraid not. We expected tales of exam pressure, fear of failure, the usual shit but not in his case. His supervisor thought everything was going swimmingly. Shows how much he knew about the price of cheese.’
‘University can be a pretty lonely place,’ said Dewar. ‘It can get to kids, particularly if they’re from a different country.’
‘Wouldn’t know about that,’ said Grant. ‘A university of life man, myself.’
‘Are there any other Iraqi students in the city?’
‘Quite a few as a matter of fact.’ Grant brought out a sheet of paper and continued, ‘They’re all registered with us; they have to be. They have their own students association; it’s in Forest Road, near the Royal Infirmary. The address is on here. I guess a lot of them are medical students.’
Dewar nodded. ‘Did you speak to any of them?’
‘Went through the motions. Nobody knew anything. I got the impression they were all shit scared to talk to the police about anything if you ask me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Goes with their background, I suppose,’ said Grant. ‘If you live in a police state I suppose you think all police forces are the same.’
‘Do you get the impression they were subject to scrutiny from home while they’re here?’ asked Dewar.
‘Oh yes. There were a couple of blokes hanging around that I thought were a bit old to be students but I didn’t bother asking. If you do, they nearly always turn out to be cultural advisors or some crap like that.’
Dewar nodded and got up. ‘Thanks for your help. I’m going to have a word with the people he worked with then maybe I’ll pop in to the place in Forest Road. Take a look around.’
‘Right you are, I wish you joy. What’s your interest in all this anyway?’
‘Home Office Routine,’ shrugged Dewar. ‘Foreign nationals always attract extra paperwork.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Grant.
‘Do you have a copy of the pathologist’s report, by the way?’
‘Not to hand,’ replied Grant. ‘But it was pretty straightforward. He looked to see if Dewar would be satisfied with this. Dewar remained impassive.
Want me to send you a copy?’
‘If you would.’
The Institute of Molecular Sciences was situated on a site just outside the city on the south side, or ‘Science Park’ as they preferred to call it. As he walked the final two hundred metres or so from the main gate, Dewar could see that academia was now working very much hand-in-glove with commerce. Many of the buildings seemed to be affiliated to pharmaceutical or chemical companies. He remembered being told by a colleague recently that these days you were as liable to find a patent lawyer in a lab than a scientist. Big money had moved in to exploit the promise of molecular biology in a big way.
Dewar had a brief meeting with Paul Hutton, the head of institute whom he found pretty much of the old school. A place for everyone and everyone in their place, the kind of public school product who would show unswerving loyalty to a cardboard box as long as the cardboard box held an official position. This made him easy — by virtue of being predictable — to deal with. He spoke briefly about the tragedy of Ali Hammadi’s death in suitably muted tones and went on to tell Dewar of the proposed scholarship that Hammadi’s parents had proposed.
‘We’re going to call it the ‘Ali Hammadi Research Scholarship’.
Can’t fault that, thought Dewar. He asked if he might speak with Ali’s supervisor and colleagues.
‘Dr Malloy is expecting you. He’s been taking Ali’s death rather badly, I’m afraid. He blames himself. Ridiculous of course. I’ll have someone show you up.’
Dewar felt unsure about Malloy when he first saw him and took in the Tee shirt and jeans. He was inclined to think he might be of the Mike Davidson school of pain-in-the-arses, another free spirit, untied by time, tide or geometry, tethered only to this earth by his university tenure and comprehensive superannuation scheme, but he decided to withhold judgement.
Malloy for his part was equally unsure about Dewar, seeing the well cut hair, the expensive dark suit, the polished shoes and the briefcase. A ministry pen-pusher was the initial thought but he too decided to withhold judgement.
They talked in Malloy’s office. Dewar picked up on a poster on the wall featuring the American tenor sax player, Stan Getz. ‘You’re a fan?’ he asked.
‘Certainly am.’
‘Me too. I saw him live in Kansas City the year before he died. Played a lot of the Brazilian stuff from the early sixties. Wonderful.’
‘I like that stuff too,’ agreed Malloy. His guitarist, Charlie Byrd, came to Edinburgh a few years ago. I went along. Sounded just the same in real life. Little guy, looked like a bank manager, came on wearing a suit, did his thing and left after blowing all the would-be guitarists in the audience away.’
‘You play yourself?’
‘Not in that company I don’t,’ said Malloy.
Dewar smiled. The ice had been broken.
‘I understand you’re here about Ali?’
‘It’s Ali’s connection with smallpox fragments I’m concerned about,’ said Dewar, putting his cards on the table.
Malloy seemed taken aback. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know all about the ban on fragment movement at the moment?’
‘It’s a real bastard. It’s stopped us in our tracks.’
‘There’s a reason.’
‘But is it a good one?’
‘The WHO and the UN think it is.’
‘Not convincing enough in itself. It’s always the safest course for bureaucrats to pull the plug on something. It’s the best way to guard their own arses.’