Visibility by Boris Starling Read Free Book Online

hurried off, delighted to be of service. Herbert turned back to Rosalind.
    “And when did you last see him?”
    “Yesterday afternoon. Around five o’clock.”
    “Here?”
    “No. At a conference.”
    “You, too, Dr. Wilkins?”
    “Yes, indeed.”
    “What was the conference about?”
    Rosalind reached down to the workbench, picked up a pamphlet, and handed it to Herbert. He read the front page.
    THE LONDON BIOCHEMICAL CONFERENCE THURSDAY, 4TH DECEMBER 1952
    Held under the joint auspices of the Royal Society
and the International Congress of Biochemistry
(Hon. Chairman: L. C. Pauling)
    THE ROYAL FESTIVAL HALL, LONDON S.E.
    Herbert remembered the Royal Festival Hall from the previous year’s Festival of Britain, with its Skylon and its Dome of Discovery; ostensibly harbingers of a new age of scientific progress, but with rationing higher than it had been during the war and the conflict in Korea at its height, the Festival had felt less like a genuine national celebration than a lollipop jammed in Britain’s mouth to keep the grumblers quiet.
    Shame the conference hadn’t taken place today; the Hall had been the first building in the country to have air-conditioning integrated into its construction, andwith that air being washed and filtered however many times an hour, it was probably the only genuinely fog-proof place in London.
    “What was he doing when you saw him?”
    “Eating.”
    “Tea?”
    “Leftovers. He said he hadn’t had time for lunch.”
    “Do you remember what he was eating?”
    “Shepherd’s pie, I think.”
    “You’re very observant.”
    “It’s my job to be.”
    Five o’clock, Herbert thought. Stensness had been found dead at eight, possibly killed as early as half past six, according to Rathbone’s calculations. Whatever he had done in the intervening period, it could not have been much.
    The library was not far away, for Elkington was back with
Who’s Who
within minutes, his thumb marking the page featuring Sir James Stensness.
    Herbert laid the tome flat on a table and skimmed the entry for Stensness Sr.
    Sir James’ gong had come, like so many, after a lifetime in Whitehall playing dresser to an ever-changing cast of ministers: private secretary and undersecretary at the Ministry of Education, deputy secretary at the Ministry of Public Buildings Works, permanent secretary at the Ministry of Supply during the war, and then at the Board of Trade, his last stop before retirement. Educated at Charterhouse and Brasenose; married Clarissa Carter; one son, Maximilian Aloysius; a member of the Travelers’ Club; a keen racquets player; and an address in Kensington.
    “Is there a phone anywhere?” Herbert asked.
    “Down the hall, third office on the left,” Rosalind said.
    Herbert beckoned to Elkington, and together they found the office and the phone. Herbert dialed the Yard.
    “Murder Squad.” It was Tyce, the senior officer.
    “Smith here. I’ve got the dead man’s name: Max Stensness. And listen, I don’t know what Tulloch’s told you, but Stensness’ father is Sir James; quite a senior mandarin, by the look of things.”
    “I don’t give a stuff if his father’s the king of Siam.” If there was ever a serious republican movement in the country, Tyce would be at the vanguard, Herbert thought.
    “I could really do with someone else to help me on this.”
    “Smith, I haven’t suddenly magicked a squadron of detectives into existence. We’re as stretched now as we were last night. Get some of the bods from Hyde Park to do your legwork.”
    Herbert looked at Elkington. “That’s what I’m doing.”
    “Good. Keep me posted.”
    Tyce was as curt as Tulloch, but without the latter’s vengeful bile. It was not that Tyce actively disliked Herbert; more that he regarded him as being on some sort of eternal probation, where every case was a test not only of his skills but of his character. If he was to impress Tyce enough, Herbert thought, he would be in.
    There were several