Scratch Deeper (10 page)

He was, as she had suspected, about thirty-five. Pale brown hair, cut short. Oval lenses to his rimless glasses. Kind, intelligent eyes. ‘Hello, there, Detective – please, take a seat.'

‘Hello,' she replied, taking out her identification.

He waved it away. ‘I vaguely remember the piece in
The Chronicle
. Your father lectures here too?'

Iona felt herself blush. That stupid, damned article. ‘He does, yes.' They shook hands across the piles of paper covering his desk. ‘You seem to have as much form-filling as we do,' she observed as they both took their seats.

He glanced down with a look of irritation. ‘These? Requisition forms for missing equipment are what these are. We've just had the departmental audit signed off. Better late than never. Anyway, I'd offer you a drink, but it means a walk down to a rather soulless canteen.'

Iona was taking her notebook out. ‘That's fine. As you guessed on the phone, I'm a bit short on time.'

‘Yes.' He turned to a printout draped across the keyboard of his computer. ‘My tutorial notes for Vassen Bhujun.'

Iona looked hopeful. ‘Don't suppose you have his photo?'

An uncomfortable expression flashed across the professor's face. ‘No. Is he . . . Is this about making an identification?'

Iona caught what he was getting at and shook her head. ‘There is no body. We just need to trace him.'

‘Is he not back home in Mauritius?'

‘No.' Iona clicked her pen. ‘How did he strike you as a student?'

Ian lifted a shoulder. ‘What am I expected to say? I can tell you he was very conscientious. Attendance record was one hundred per cent. No issues with handing work in late. Always turned up for his tutorials on time.'

‘And what about as a person?'

The professor sat back. ‘Perfectly normal. I mean . . .' A hand was briefly raised. ‘Detective, I'll be honest. He was one of hundreds of students. I'm not here to provide pastoral care. He had no issues keeping up with course work. In fact, I see here, he graduated with a first.'

‘How much would his course have cost?'

‘Overseas student? MSc in Chemical Engineering? He wouldn't have got much change from twenty thousand pounds. Students like him are a valued source of revenue for the university.'

‘Almost twenty thousand?'

‘Yes – I can't say offhand exactly what he was charged. But the standard rate is around that.'

‘And his course lasted a year?'

The professor nodded. ‘The money came from some kind of benevolent fund, by the looks of it. The RA Foundation.'

Iona jotted it down. ‘Did he specialize in a particular area of chemical engineering?'

‘You mean his thesis? Yes – he was analysing ways of using liquid chromatography to purify proteins and other polymers.'

Iona raised her eyebrows in question.

He crossed his legs. ‘Liquid chromatography is a separation technique – a form of purification – used in all manner of manufacturing processes.' He checked his notes. ‘Bhujun was interested in producing a low-cost substitute for cocoa butter. He aimed to blend it with sugar – I gather that's the main cash crop of Mauritius. Chocolate bars: he was hoping to make cheap chocolate bars.'

Iona scribbled away. ‘We're talking in confidence here, Professor.' She looked up and waited for his nod. ‘Can this liquid chromatography be used in illegal ways? Say, for instance, in the manufacture of explosives?'

The professor's gaze lost its focus as the question sank in. ‘Explosives?' He took off his glasses. ‘I . . . I really wouldn't know.' His eyes narrowed. ‘That article in the newspaper. You'd joined the Counter Terrorism Unit, hadn't you?'

‘That's correct.'

He looked out the window and she knew he'd put it together. The Labour Party conference. ‘Do you mean weapon grade explosives?'

‘I'm asking you.'

‘I'd need to contact a colleague. It's not my area of expertise.'

‘How quickly could you do that?'

He slid his glasses back on. ‘Couple of hours? If not before.'

Iona put her pen away. ‘Thanks for your time, Professor. Here's my card. If you can call me as soon as you've had a quiet word with that colleague.'

‘Of course, of course,' he murmured, taking the card with a troubled look in his eyes.

S
he was back in the office within an hour of setting off to see the professor, a bag with a sandwich and drink dangling from one hand. As she approached her desk, she scanned it for any yellow Post-it notes: Wallace's preferred method of leaving messages. No sign of one. A civilian worker she got on well with was waiting by the printer in the centre of the room.

She gave him a nod and sidled over, feeling like a schoolgirl sneaking back into class. ‘Hi, Euan, has Wallace been after me?'

The man looked across to the doors. ‘Don't think so,' he replied in a hushed tone. ‘Nothing stuck to your screen?'

Iona shook her head.

‘Looks like you've got away with it, then.' He gave her a wink.

She held up a hand with two fingers crossed and moved back to her desk. No Post-it note, but there was an email from the university admissions department waiting in her inbox. When she saw the subject line, she dumped the food bag on the floor, sat down and opened the attachment without bothering to read the accompanying message.

An inner box materialized, the screen blinked and she found herself staring at the face of a young man. Her immediate reaction was that the Sub-Urban Explorers were right: he looked like a lanky bowler for a cricket team. A thick fringe of black hair was swept to the side, its lower edge almost connecting with the eyebrows.

The face was thin, a mixture of adolescence not-quite-shaken-off and something else. Iona pondered what. Not eating enough, she concluded, taking in the spindly neck with its Adam's apple sticking out like a bolus of trapped food. She focused on his eyes. Dark and somehow forlorn.

‘That him?'

The voice was so close to her ear, Iona flinched. A glance to her side revealed Paul Wallace leaning in towards her screen. She caught a whiff of his stale breath. ‘Yes, the university just sent it.'

Wallace didn't move. He was invading her personal space but she couldn't wheel her chair away because his forearm was now resting across the back of it. Warm air washed across her cheek as he breathed out. ‘Shifty-looking cun—' He caught the end of the word. ‘Character.'

Her seat rocked as he pushed himself upright. She watched him reach towards the adjacent desk and drag over the empty chair from in front of it.

‘Been looking into this Mauritius connection,' he announced, plonking himself down and resting some sheets of paper across his crotch. ‘Oh, I've put in the request with the Mauritian police. The Appleton file is being sent direct to you.'

‘You're letting me run with this?'

He tilted his head. ‘Yeah, why not?'

Her fist clenched with triumph. ‘Thanks, sir.'

Wallace's forefinger came up. ‘Reporting direct to me, all right? Depending on what you find, we bring in support. Which – you realize – will be of a rank that's senior to you.'

Iona didn't care; if the threat was a genuine one, it would be her name on the report that had raised the alarm. She'd have a score on the board. ‘Absolutely, sir, I understand.'

‘Good. Now,' he lifted the printed sheets, ‘the ethnic make-up of Mauritius. Did you realize there's a sizeable Muslim population on the island?'

Iona swivelled her chair to face him. ‘No, I didn't.'

He tapped the upper-most sheet. ‘Hindu, fifty-two per cent. Christian, thirty-five per cent. Muslims? Sixteen per cent.' He gave her a meaningful look. ‘Out of a population of about one point two million, that's a couple of hundred thousand of them.'

Not liking how Wallace had phrased the comment, Iona reached for her pad. Wallace stopped her with a shake of the sheets. ‘You can have these. Looking more closely at the numbers, approximately ninety-five per cent are Sunni. Need I say who's behind most of the mayhem out in Iraq and the Middle East? Port Louis, the Mauritian capital, has the highest concentration. That's where there are loads of mosques.' He lowered the sheets and, as he glanced at Vassen's photo on her screen, she caught the look of distaste in his eyes. ‘I think it merits further investigation.'

Iona turned briefly to the young man's photo. ‘I'd say he's of Indian descent, sir. The name sounds South Asian to me, too.'

‘Your point being?'

‘That would make it more likely he's Hindu. What are the stats on that part of the population?'

Wallace didn't look down fast enough to hide the irritation on his face. ‘Hindu? Let's see . . . says here, like the Muslims, brought in as indentured labour by the British in the 1800s.' He looked up. ‘That means slaves?'

‘Bound to a specific employer, I think.'

‘Right. Thousands were shipped over to work the sugar plantations, core of the island's economy—'

‘That's what Bhujun's tutor –' She stopped speaking. Shit! A glance at Wallace. His eyes were fixed on her. ‘When I spoke to him just earlier . . .' She waved in the direction of her phone. ‘He said Bhujun's thesis was about making cheap chocolate; the sugar for it being locally produced.'

Wallace eyed her for a moment longer. ‘Well, this is your shout, DC Khan. We need to know exactly what our boy here – and his little sidekick from outside the library – are all about.' He dropped the printouts on her desk as he stood. ‘Don't need any more help, do you?'

Iona looked up at him hopefully. ‘What are you offering?'

‘Fuck all,' he laughed then pointed at the screensaver on an adjacent desk. ‘Not with Operation Protector going live in less than twelve hours' time.'

I
ona immediately reached for the sheets of paper Wallace had left. As she looked them over, she couldn't help frowning. A yellow pen had been used to highlight every mention of the word Muslim, Islam or mosque. Where the figure stated the size of the Muslim population, exclamation marks had been added. Nothing else on the printout seemed to have interested the man.

A sense of uneasiness was nagging at her as she looked around the room full of empty desks, picturing the person who normally sat at each one. I'm one of three female officers, and the only one – male or female – who isn't white. Maybe Jim did have a point when he said . . . no, she told herself. Don't start thinking like him.

She'd finished off her tuna and sweetcorn sandwich and was screwing up the wrapper when the phone on her desk started to ring. Focusing on a waste-paper basket three desks away, she lobbed the ball of paper into the air. It hit the bottom of the bin without touching the sides.

‘Get in!' Euan called over from his corner desk.

She flashed him a smile as she picked up the receiver. ‘Iona Khan speaking.'

‘Detective Constable Khan?'

Male voice with a vaguely continental accent. She guessed belonging to someone well into their forties. ‘That's correct.'

‘This is Superintendent Veerapen, Major Crimes Investigation Unit, Mauritius Police Force.'

She sat up. ‘Hello . . . Sorry, I wasn't expecting your call.' She frowned. ‘And I didn't quite catch your name.'

‘Superintendent Harish Veerapen. Harish is fine.'

Similar accent, Iona thought, to the female inspector's. Just a touch more French. ‘Thanks for getting in touch, Harish.'

‘That is my pleasure. I have sent the Appleton file to your email address, as requested. But I find it always helps to discuss a case rather than rely on the notes alone.'

‘Absolutely,' Iona replied, clicking on her inbox. No sign of the file as yet. She reached for her pen. ‘So you were directly involved with the case?'

‘Senior investigating officer.'

‘And what were your impressions about the murder?'

‘Monstrous. And a tragic waste of a life. I think my colleague mentioned the thief had already gained access to the safe.'

‘Yes, she mentioned Appleton was killed when he raised the alarm.'

‘That's right – the maid was woken by it. She saw the suspect running from the scene.'

Iona put an elbow on the table and rested her forehead on the tips of her fingers. Something seemed odd here. ‘Why kill him?'

‘Pardon?'

‘I'm just wondering, why kill him?'

‘Who knows what goes on in this type of person's mind?'

‘True. But that would have taken up valuable time, surely? Why not just run when the alarm went off?'

‘Rage. Anger at Appleton raising the alarm and forcing him to flee the scene sooner than he wanted to. Many items of great value had been overlooked.'

‘What were those?'

‘The murder weapon, for one.'

‘Really?'

‘A stone sculpture – an early one by a British artist. Henry Moore?'

The name was faintly familiar. ‘Expensive, I take it?'

‘Well, we've had to take special precautions in storing it as evidence. It is currently in a vault here at our headquarters in Port Louis.'

‘And this was used to bludgeon Appleton with?'

‘Yes – there are plenty of crime-scene photos with the file. They are not pleasant.'

Fingerprint ID of the body, Iona thought. Yuk. ‘So whoever murdered him was then seen leaving by the maid . . .'

‘Yes. She turned on the lights in her rooms at the side of the villa and observed a single male, who was carrying a bag, running across the lawn. The first officers arrived at the scene within ten minutes.'

Iona still couldn't shake the feeling something was out of place. ‘How do you know it was Appleton who raised the alarm?'