The Cassandra Complex - Brian Stableford [37]
The chairs were very different, being tastefully upholstered in a smart fabric whose soft texture and maroon hue could hardly have contrasted more strongly with the old gray-plastic monstrosities, but at the end of the day, a chair was just a chair: something to sit on. The desk across whose teak-finish surface she faced the man from the Ministry of Defence was likewise just a desk, similar to any number of desks that had formed barriers between her and the world during years past.
Smith looked almost as tired as Lisa felt, although he, like Mike Grundy and Judith Kenna, must have had the opportunity to get some sleep before the alarm bells began ringing. The apparent tiredness took the edge off his interrogative manner. “For form’s sake, Dr. Friemann,” he said, “I have to ask you whether there’s a possibility that the people who ransacked your apartment early this morning could have found any classified material.” He wasn’t quite as good-looking at close range, and the harsh light of the seminar room exposed every sign of his age.
“There was nothing classified for them to find,” Lisa assured him truthfully. “Nothing in the least sensitive, in fact. Everything work-related stays at work, in the office or the lab.”
Smith nodded. Lisa was reasonably certain that he believed her; even Judith Kenna had to concede that she had a hard-won reputation for method, discipline, and good organization. “Do you have any idea of what these people might have been looking for?” he asked. He gave the impression that he was asking again purely for form’s sake, knowing exactly what the answer would be—but she knew it might be a ploy, to set her at ease while he developed his suspicions more subtly.
“I’m not sure that they were looking for anything,” she said pensively. “They may have been putting on a show. It’s possible that the real purpose of their visit was to leave that stupid message on my door.”
She noticed the ghost of a smile on the MOD man’s face. “Why would they do that?” he asked.
“I think they might have been trying to discredit me,” she said. “Perhaps they think that I’m the most likely person to figure out what’s going on here, because I probably know Morgan Miller better than anyone else in the world does and I certainly care more about him than anyone else in the world does. I think they wanted to set things up so the people in charge of the investigation wouldn’t entirely trust me and might decide to keep me on the sidelines just in case. Have they succeeded?”
“They might have,” Smith told her with apparent frankness, “if the circumstances hadn’t been quite so awkward.”
Lisa raised her eyebrows, waiting for an explanation, but all Smith said was: “Considering your record, Chief Inspector Kenna doesn’t seem to have a very high opinion of your abilities.”
“I can’t help that,” Lisa said. “It’s what we twentieth-century leftovers used to call ‘a clash of personalities.’ Does she say I can’t be trusted?”
Smith shook his head. “Not at all. She did make some vague observations about lack of objectivity—something about it not being helpful to be so closely involved—and obsolescence of expertise. I got the impression that obsolescence of expertise might be one of her favorite phrases.” He made a slight gesture with his right hand, intended to draw attention to the gray hair that an unwary youth cultist might have taken as a symptom of his own impending obsolescence.
“I strongly disagree about the helpfulness of my past involvement with Morgan Miller,” Lisa said flatly.
“Good,” Smith said. “As for the other thing… well, I find myself confronted with a desperate shortage of up-to-date expertise. Every biologist we had on call is working full time on the emergency. I need an adviser who knows her way around Morgan Miller’s field, and there’s at least a possibility that expertise as out of date as his will be the most useful kind. In