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concourse and out into the streets.’
    He turned to the security man. ‘Does any of this mean anything to you, Mr Truck? Nothing strike you about the killer?’
    Truck was shaking his head. ‘Unbelievable. Like something on the telly. Hard to believe it’s for real. No, it could be anybody. Nimble, though.’
    ‘Yes, I thought a student, but your boss, Professor Young, thinks it’s more likely to be one of those local kids you get coming on campus and causing trouble. What do you think?’
    ‘Phor . . .’ Truck rubbed his nose, obviously not taking to that idea. ‘I don’t know. There’s never been any violence before, only mischief. This isn’t their style. I mean, it seemed . . . professional, don’t you reckon? Deliberate, thought out.’
    ‘You haven’t been aware of Professor Springer being in any arguments with anybody?’
    ‘The only trouble I know about Professor Springer was with the cleaners. He keeps his room in a bit of a state, and the girls had trouble sorting the rubbish from the rest. He accused them of throwing out precious papers so they refused to go into his room any more. I wouldn’t like to cross Doris myself, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her in the hood.’ He grinned, then coughed and pulled himself together. ‘I’ll check with my lads, sir. See if they know of anything.’
    ‘Thanks. And I’d like one of my people to sit down with you and go through all the incidents you’ve had here recently. Now, perhaps you’d take us to this untidy room of Professor Springer and let us take a look.’
    But they were still there, waiting for Truck to unload the tape for them to send to the electronics laboratory for enhancement, when Bren’s mobile rang. He listened for a minute, then drew Brock aside. ‘Something interesting, chief. When they entered a report on CRIS just now, the computer came back with a reference on Springer. Apparently a Max Springer registered a complaint a couple of weeks ago. Offences Against the Person, section sixteen.
    Said he was being threatened with death.’
    ‘Really? Where did he make the complaint?’
    ‘The local nick, Shadwell Road station, not far away.’
    They took the tape from Truck and made their way to the university entrance where they’d left their car, stopping on the way to direct a search for the cartridge cases on the lower concourse, and phoning the Shadwell Road police station to expect them.
    The main entrance to UCLE was beside a station of the Docklands Light Railway, the DLR, whose elevated track formed a demarcation between the new development of the university and the old buildings of the city beyond. As they walked under the concrete viaduct, Brock was struck by the abrupt dislocation between the two sides, the steel panelled university turning its back on the disordered jumble of old warehouses, workshops, derelict looking shops and tiny pubs that jostled up to it. They found their car and headed north and west into the city traffic as the drizzle turned to steady rain.
    Despite the rain, Shadwell Road looked bright and cheerful, its pavements busy with people doing some evening shopping in the stores that lined its length. Beneath the umbrellas Brock noticed women in headscarves and saris, men in skullcaps and baggy pants, a Nigerian in his distinctive wide-shouldered coat, a group of Sikhs in turbans. Window posters on the shopfronts advertised cheap flights, £350 to Dhaka, £340 to Karachi, and forthcoming entertainments by Raha and Malkit Singh. Shop signs were mostly in English and one or more other languages, Urdu, Gujarati, Arabic, Hindi. They parked outside Manzoor’s Saree Centre (‘fabulous fashions and fabrics for all the family’) next door to the police station, a converted shop in the middle of a row of small traders. Its front window was filled with posters advertising its own specials—four Wanted for Murders, five Missing Persons, a couple of Serious Sexual Assaults, one Terrorism: Postal Bombs Alert