we. What do they call you?’
‘Wayne.’
‘I’m Brock.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve heard about you, Brock. And I’ve heard about this place, too. Always wanted to visit the infamous rabbit warren. There’s even a rumour that you keep your own pub in this place, did you know that?’
‘You’re not serious? A pub, in an office of the Metropolitan Police?’
‘Yeah, likely, eh?’ He gave a cheeky grin. ‘Good story though. Adds to the myth, right? And I brought my copy of the Qur’an, like you asked.’
‘Good. Tell you what, let’s go downstairs and meet Bren Gurney. I’ve ordered some sandwiches. Come across him before?’
‘Did he play rugby for the Met?’
‘He did. Wing three-quarter. Put on a bit of weight since then. Follow me.’
Brock led the way through the confusing maze of corridors and flights of stairs which connected the rooms of what had once been separate terrace houses, then the converted offices of a publishing company, gradually working his way down into the basement. They passed under an arch, turned a corner and suddenly found themselves in the snug of an ancient public house.
‘Struth!’ The Special Branch officer stared around him at the ornate frosted glass, the tiny mahogany bar, and the huge stuffed salmon mounted in a glass case on the wall. ‘It’s true then! Wicked.’
‘Keep it to yourself, though, won’t you Wayne? Welcome to The Bride of Denmark.’ He lifted a flap in the counter and squeezed behind the bar, stooping to inspect the shelves beneath. ‘What’s your poison, old son? Whisky, beer? No draught beer, I’m afraid.’
‘Blimey.’
Bren came through the arch at that moment, bearing a tray of sandwiches, which he placed on a small table. They settled themselves around it with bottles of beer.
‘Well, now, Wayne,’ Brock began. ‘This may be a waste of your time, but we’d appreciate a bit of advice on one of our current cases.’
‘The murder down at UCLE?’ O’Brien asked hopefully. ‘I’ve seen it on TV and in the papers, of course. Choice one by the sound of it.’
‘That’s the one. A couple of things have come up that make us wonder if there might be some Islamic connection. Recently the victim reported that he’d received a threatening phone call which he connected with a radio interview he’d made speaking out against extremists and fundamentalists. Apparently the caller threatened to kill him within two weeks of the end of Ramadan if he didn’t pipe down. Then in his room we found this . . .’
He showed O’Brien a colour photocopy of the green handbill.
He read it over, cocking his head to one side. ‘The Qur’an. Let’s have a look . . .’ He pulled a well-worn hardback book from the bag he’d had slung over his shoulder and thumbed through to chapter seventy-eight.
‘Of course, we don’t know the context, how it came to be in the victim’s room, but it sounds threatening, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, here we go, about the Day of Judgement.’
He handed the book to Brock who read the passage, then pointed to the words that followed. ‘“We have recorded everything in a Book.” The victim apparently said something about “the people of the book”. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ O’Brien took the volume back and turned to the index at the back. ‘Here we go . . . Chapter four . . . “People of the Book! Exceed not the limits in the matter of your religion, and say not of Allah anything but the truth.” The book it’s referring to is the Bible, and the people of the Book are the Jews and Christians who follow it.’
‘I see.’ Brock frowned in thought. ‘The victim, Max Springer, professor of philosophy at UCLE, had strong opinions about fundamentalists, apparently, though not only Muslims. He doesn’t seem to have had a particularly high profile in recent years, and everyone seems very surprised that he should have been murdered, let alone in such a public and conspicuous way. He
‘Wayne.’
‘I’m Brock.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve heard about you, Brock. And I’ve heard about this place, too. Always wanted to visit the infamous rabbit warren. There’s even a rumour that you keep your own pub in this place, did you know that?’
‘You’re not serious? A pub, in an office of the Metropolitan Police?’
‘Yeah, likely, eh?’ He gave a cheeky grin. ‘Good story though. Adds to the myth, right? And I brought my copy of the Qur’an, like you asked.’
‘Good. Tell you what, let’s go downstairs and meet Bren Gurney. I’ve ordered some sandwiches. Come across him before?’
‘Did he play rugby for the Met?’
‘He did. Wing three-quarter. Put on a bit of weight since then. Follow me.’
Brock led the way through the confusing maze of corridors and flights of stairs which connected the rooms of what had once been separate terrace houses, then the converted offices of a publishing company, gradually working his way down into the basement. They passed under an arch, turned a corner and suddenly found themselves in the snug of an ancient public house.
‘Struth!’ The Special Branch officer stared around him at the ornate frosted glass, the tiny mahogany bar, and the huge stuffed salmon mounted in a glass case on the wall. ‘It’s true then! Wicked.’
‘Keep it to yourself, though, won’t you Wayne? Welcome to The Bride of Denmark.’ He lifted a flap in the counter and squeezed behind the bar, stooping to inspect the shelves beneath. ‘What’s your poison, old son? Whisky, beer? No draught beer, I’m afraid.’
‘Blimey.’
Bren came through the arch at that moment, bearing a tray of sandwiches, which he placed on a small table. They settled themselves around it with bottles of beer.
‘Well, now, Wayne,’ Brock began. ‘This may be a waste of your time, but we’d appreciate a bit of advice on one of our current cases.’
‘The murder down at UCLE?’ O’Brien asked hopefully. ‘I’ve seen it on TV and in the papers, of course. Choice one by the sound of it.’
‘That’s the one. A couple of things have come up that make us wonder if there might be some Islamic connection. Recently the victim reported that he’d received a threatening phone call which he connected with a radio interview he’d made speaking out against extremists and fundamentalists. Apparently the caller threatened to kill him within two weeks of the end of Ramadan if he didn’t pipe down. Then in his room we found this . . .’
He showed O’Brien a colour photocopy of the green handbill.
He read it over, cocking his head to one side. ‘The Qur’an. Let’s have a look . . .’ He pulled a well-worn hardback book from the bag he’d had slung over his shoulder and thumbed through to chapter seventy-eight.
‘Of course, we don’t know the context, how it came to be in the victim’s room, but it sounds threatening, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, here we go, about the Day of Judgement.’
He handed the book to Brock who read the passage, then pointed to the words that followed. ‘“We have recorded everything in a Book.” The victim apparently said something about “the people of the book”. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ O’Brien took the volume back and turned to the index at the back. ‘Here we go . . . Chapter four . . . “People of the Book! Exceed not the limits in the matter of your religion, and say not of Allah anything but the truth.” The book it’s referring to is the Bible, and the people of the Book are the Jews and Christians who follow it.’
‘I see.’ Brock frowned in thought. ‘The victim, Max Springer, professor of philosophy at UCLE, had strong opinions about fundamentalists, apparently, though not only Muslims. He doesn’t seem to have had a particularly high profile in recent years, and everyone seems very surprised that he should have been murdered, let alone in such a public and conspicuous way. He
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