Giles looked around the room. ‘Hell’s bells. Last time I came in here it looked sort of tidy!’
‘Sorry, sir… Things have sort of mushroomed. We found a link between Jameel and a venture capital business,’ replied Kate. ‘The link has taken us all over the place. They have a wide range of business interests. They’re into security, fish processing, have a large property investment company… And one of their businesses runs various public sector services – hospitals, prisons, schools, government buildings…’
The door swung open and Jeremy walked in, looking pleased. ‘Sorry to interrupt – MI5 have found that Jameel and Basel both did their PhDs at the London College of Finance.’
Kate glanced across to Giles and David. ‘Would there be any chance of borrowing DCI John Dowsing to visit the London College of Finance with Jeremy?’
‘Good idea. As the officer in charge of the Bishopsgate bombing, it would be sensible to have him involved with your enquiries,’ said Giles. ‘Do please keep me informed of your progress. We have to leave you now, David and I are late for another meeting.’
‘My MI5 colleagues,’ said Jeremy, as the door closed behind Giles and David, ‘Tell me they’re expecting another series of bombings. The consensus of opinion is that the target will be a transport hub. Security levels have been increased and leave has been cancelled. Rafi, they now think you’re a bit of a red herring. Talking of food,’ said Jeremy, ‘Would you like a cake?’ The food had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and been put on the top of a couple of filing cabinets next to Kate where it had been forgotten.
Jeremy tucked in. ‘Yum, I must give Luigi a ring and thank him.’
Emma looked across at Kate and smiled. She was about to add something when Jeremy caught her look. ‘If you’d spent two months living off Pot Noodles and black coffee…’
‘Sorry, I forgot. It’s just that we are not used to this,’ apologised Emma.
‘Now that I’ve topped up the food levels, where’s this London College of Finance and what’s the low down on John?’
Emma, on the ball as ever, had found the vice chancellor’s address and that of the administration department. She walked over to the printer, collected the sheet and passed it to Jeremy.
Kate picked up the phone. ‘Hi John,’ she said in a friendly tone, ‘Would you have a spare moment? I need some help, please. We’ve unearthed something that has a direct bearing on the Bishopsgate bombing. I could do with a seasoned brain to give Jeremy Welby, our MI5 friend, a hand. Yes… Yes, I know you’re very busy and dislike spooks.’
She paused and listened. ‘Yes, I appreciate everyone thinks it’s going to hit the fan. But we’ve come up with an angle which opens up a whole new dimension. I need your input and not that of a sidekick, please… Fantastic, thanks. Jeremy’s on his way down to your car. He will brief you on the way. I owe you.’
Kate looked across to Jeremy. ‘John will meet you downstairs. Don’t be put off by his manner. He can be a bit of a gruff old codger, but he’s got a great nose for information and has a good sense of humour once you get to know him.’ She smiled. ‘One other thing, Jeremy, time may well be of the essence… So be as quick as you can, please. And good luck’
Jeremy nodded and left.
‘Let’s see what we can dig up and reconvene at, say, 5 p.m.,’ said Kate.
John and Jeremy had an uneventful drive to the London College of Finance. Initially, though, John had been somewhat taciturn. Jeremy had decided that it was best to take the bull by the horns. ‘What in particular do you dislike about spooks?’ he enquired.
‘Basically too bloody secretive by half and treat the rest of us as if we couldn’t run a frigging whelk stall.’
‘Fair point,’ said Jeremy. ‘Do me a favour; if you think I’m freezing you out then tell me… No excuses, but from time to time we have to watch our backs. Cock-ups put people like me in danger, so we can get a bit obsessive.’
John’s frostiness thawed as Jeremy brought him up to speed on Rafi and the leads that Kate’s team had uncovered.
They drew up in front of a smart, white, Georgian terrace and made for the vice chancellor’s office. The reception hall could have graced any palace. No expense had been spared – the crystal chandeliers, ornate ceiling cornices, the large, period, gilt-framed mirror, the old grandfather clock and an array of oil paintings gave an air of refinement.
John walked over to the reception desk. ‘The vice chancellor, please. He is expecting us.’
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector John Dowsing, Special Branch, City of London police.’
The smartly dressed, forty-something receptionist looked uncomfortably at John and imperceptibly squirmed in her seat. ‘Sir Gerald Staniland is rather busy at the moment. If you could please sit over there, I’ll find out when he can see you. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?’
‘He is expecting us. How long do you think he might be?’John looked displeased. He didn’t like to be given the runaround.
‘I really can’t say. Unfortunately, he’s left strict instructions not to be disturbed and his meeting could go on for quite some time.’
‘Tell the vice chancellor we’re here and it’s not in his best interests to mess us around.’
The receptionist picked up the phone. ‘Margery, I’ve two policemen to see the VC. They don’t like being kept waiting. Can you help? Thank you. Gentlemen, if you could go upstairs Sir Gerald’s PA will look after you.’
Margery looked a formidable gatekeeper. Her anteroom dripped with antiques. John guessed that few students made it this far. He approached the ample, well-manicured PA.
‘Sir Gerald is expecting us,’ he announced waving his warrant card under Margery’s nose.
‘There may be a bit of a problem…’ she started.
‘Too bloody right! If he doesn’t see us here and now, he’ll spend the rest of the sodding afternoon in an interview room and he won’t be offered flaming tea and biscuits!’ exclaimed John.
Jeremy had moved in front of a pair of tall double doors. ‘This his office?’
‘You can’t go in.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jeremy as he opened the doors and beckoned John to follow him.
The vice chancellor’s office was huge. He was sitting behind an antique desk at one end of the room; in between him and the door was a set of comfortable-looking armchairs in front of an ornate fireplace to one side and, on the other side, a boardroom table which would not have looked out of place in the dining room of a stately home.
The VC looked up from his paperwork. ‘I’m busy, go away.’
Undeterred, John and Jeremy entered, closed the doors and walked towards him.
‘If you cooperate this won’t take long, or would you perhaps like to see where we work?’ said John.
Jeremy took up the running. ‘We’re here to get information on two of your former PhD students: Jameel Furud and Basel Talal. What can you tell us about them?’
The VC stalled. ‘When did they study here?’
‘About ten to fifteen years ago.’
‘Ah! We’ve a problem there – we archive most of our old student records; data protection and all that, you know. It doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of the law.’ He looked at John over his half-moon glasses as if he were a student who had just had an appeal turned down.
‘We’ll come back to your former students in a moment. Tell us about the college’s PhD programme,’ said John.
‘We offer one of the largest PhD programmes in the field of Finance. The college takes on between fifteen and twenty-five new applicants each year. We have over 100 PhD students coming from more than fifteen countries.’
‘And how many non-EU students are there here?’ asked John.
‘Nearly 500 out of almost 850,’ came the reply.
‘So, roughly speaking, I guess your college earns, say,?10 million a year from its overseas students… And without them would it be fair to say that you wouldn’t have a business?’ enquired John.
‘Er… Yes, I suppose so, but that’s not relevant,’ snapped the VC.