that someone might want to kill him?’
‘Not at the time, no. But now . . . well, I don’t know.’
On the way back to his office in Queen Anne’s Gate, an annexe of New Scotland Yard a couple of blocks away from the Victoria Street headquarters building, Brock phoned the laboratory liaison officer, Sergeant Leon Desai, and arranged for him to meet him there.
‘Anything for us yet, Leon?’ Brock asked when they met.
‘They should be ready for a screening of the enhanced video film later this afternoon, Brock. And firearms has made a preliminary assessment of the cartridge, but verbal only at this stage, being a bit careful.’ He said it approvingly, being himself a stickler for accuracy.
‘Go on.’
‘7.62 millimetre, probably of Warsaw Pact origin, maybe to go with something like the Russian Tokarev automatic pistol. Doesn’t mean to say that’s what we’re looking for, of course. Could have been fired from something else.’
‘Availability in London?’
‘Yes, there’s quite a bit of old Soviet stuff floating around. The Tokarev and its ammunition was also sold to a number of countries outside the Warsaw Pact.’
He handed Brock a list. Brock’s frown deepened as he scanned it. ‘Syria, Somalia, Libya, People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen . . .’
He put the paper down and reached into his pocket, handing Leon the green pamphlet from Springer’s desk. ‘What do you make of that?’
Leon read, then said, ‘It’s the Qur’an.’
‘That’s what I thought. You’re not a Muslim are you, Leon?’
Leon gave him a sharp look to see if the question was serious.
‘No, I’m not actually, but my family used to be. They were originally Muslims from Gujarat in India who went out to Kenya, where they began to get lazy about their faith. They lost it altogether when we were kicked out of Kenya. Many of the East African Gujarati went up north to Bradford, where there already was a community of Gujarati from India who’d built their own mosques and schools, but we settled in London and never took up with Muslims here. But I was brought up on the Qur’an when I was a kid.’
It was the longest speech Brock had ever heard from Leon, normally so economical with words, on any subject other than forensics.
‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of the Qur’an handy, would you?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘Actually I’m beginning to think we may need the help of an expert on this. Does the phrase “people of the book” mean anything to you?’
‘Yes, it’s a phrase that’s used in the Qur’an.’
Brock rubbed at the side of his beard thoughtfully. ‘This is beginning to get worrying, Leon.’ He handed him the other packet with the pieces of envelope. ‘See if the lab can get anything from these. Especially the postmark. It’s smudged, see? I could only get the date.’
‘Is this what the green note came in?’
‘That’s one of the things I’d like you to find out, if you can. They were in different places, but this was the only envelope I could find. We’re doing a proper search now.’
As he turned to go, Leon said, keeping his voice neutral, ‘Heard from Kathy at all, Brock? Is she OK?’
‘Not too bad, I think, Leon. Taking it easy, I hope.’
‘Yes. Don’t know how I could contact her, do you?’
‘Anything urgent?’
‘No, no. Just thought I’d get in touch. See how she’s doing.’
‘I think I’d leave it for now. Give her a bit of breathing space. All right?’
Leon nodded and left.
5
T he officer from the Islamic Desk of Special Branch had dark curly hair and a cheerful grin. He was wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans and had an easy, relaxed manner and an unobtrusive way about him that would suit him well, Brock thought, to the role of intelligence gatherer, which the Special Branch played. They shook hands.
‘Sergeant O’Brien, sir.’
‘You don’t bother with ranks and sirs over there, do you? Neither do
‘Not at the time, no. But now . . . well, I don’t know.’
On the way back to his office in Queen Anne’s Gate, an annexe of New Scotland Yard a couple of blocks away from the Victoria Street headquarters building, Brock phoned the laboratory liaison officer, Sergeant Leon Desai, and arranged for him to meet him there.
‘Anything for us yet, Leon?’ Brock asked when they met.
‘They should be ready for a screening of the enhanced video film later this afternoon, Brock. And firearms has made a preliminary assessment of the cartridge, but verbal only at this stage, being a bit careful.’ He said it approvingly, being himself a stickler for accuracy.
‘Go on.’
‘7.62 millimetre, probably of Warsaw Pact origin, maybe to go with something like the Russian Tokarev automatic pistol. Doesn’t mean to say that’s what we’re looking for, of course. Could have been fired from something else.’
‘Availability in London?’
‘Yes, there’s quite a bit of old Soviet stuff floating around. The Tokarev and its ammunition was also sold to a number of countries outside the Warsaw Pact.’
He handed Brock a list. Brock’s frown deepened as he scanned it. ‘Syria, Somalia, Libya, People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen . . .’
He put the paper down and reached into his pocket, handing Leon the green pamphlet from Springer’s desk. ‘What do you make of that?’
Leon read, then said, ‘It’s the Qur’an.’
‘That’s what I thought. You’re not a Muslim are you, Leon?’
Leon gave him a sharp look to see if the question was serious.
‘No, I’m not actually, but my family used to be. They were originally Muslims from Gujarat in India who went out to Kenya, where they began to get lazy about their faith. They lost it altogether when we were kicked out of Kenya. Many of the East African Gujarati went up north to Bradford, where there already was a community of Gujarati from India who’d built their own mosques and schools, but we settled in London and never took up with Muslims here. But I was brought up on the Qur’an when I was a kid.’
It was the longest speech Brock had ever heard from Leon, normally so economical with words, on any subject other than forensics.
‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of the Qur’an handy, would you?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘Actually I’m beginning to think we may need the help of an expert on this. Does the phrase “people of the book” mean anything to you?’
‘Yes, it’s a phrase that’s used in the Qur’an.’
Brock rubbed at the side of his beard thoughtfully. ‘This is beginning to get worrying, Leon.’ He handed him the other packet with the pieces of envelope. ‘See if the lab can get anything from these. Especially the postmark. It’s smudged, see? I could only get the date.’
‘Is this what the green note came in?’
‘That’s one of the things I’d like you to find out, if you can. They were in different places, but this was the only envelope I could find. We’re doing a proper search now.’
As he turned to go, Leon said, keeping his voice neutral, ‘Heard from Kathy at all, Brock? Is she OK?’
‘Not too bad, I think, Leon. Taking it easy, I hope.’
‘Yes. Don’t know how I could contact her, do you?’
‘Anything urgent?’
‘No, no. Just thought I’d get in touch. See how she’s doing.’
‘I think I’d leave it for now. Give her a bit of breathing space. All right?’
Leon nodded and left.
5
T he officer from the Islamic Desk of Special Branch had dark curly hair and a cheerful grin. He was wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans and had an easy, relaxed manner and an unobtrusive way about him that would suit him well, Brock thought, to the role of intelligence gatherer, which the Special Branch played. They shook hands.
‘Sergeant O’Brien, sir.’
‘You don’t bother with ranks and sirs over there, do you? Neither do
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