In the end, I don’t bother waiting for Si to come back with a number. A quick Google search reveals that Professor Austin Mansfield is still a visiting lecturer at UCL, where he was Si’s tutor. The email I send him from my work address is not so much misleading as elusive in terms of the nature of my enquiry, whilst massaging his ego in just the right way. His reply is almost instant.
I’m terribly busy, but I could manage twenty minutes tomorrow morning if you could come to me …
We arrange to meet at the gates to the university, on Gower Street. At the flat, I pull on jeans and a pale blue shirt. Through the window, there is a blue sky and a light wind brushes the tops of the trees.
It is just past 9.30 a.m. by the time I leave, my hair still damp. Deciding to make my way on foot rather than take the bus, I walk past Mornington Crescent, turning left past Euston, avoiding the more direct route along the endless grey and brown façade of Hampstead Road.
We arrive within a minute of each other, his linen suit weaving precariously across the busy road towards me. He has that unmistakable whiff of academia, old books and stale coffee.
‘Shall we go to my office?’ he says. Once inside, he directs me towards a studded green-leather chair. Sweeping across to the other side of the desk, he assumes his position with his fingers crossed over each other, his elbows jutting out to the sides.
Following his cue, I reach my hand into my bag and pull out my phone, as well as my laptop and a USB stick. A few minutes later I turn the sound on my computer to full volume. As the fuzzy sound of the recording fills his office, ricocheting off a wall-to-ceiling bookshelf stuffed with thick leather spines, there is the distinct sound of men talking in the background of the recording.
A few seconds later the man’s voice kicks in and at this volume his low growl makes my flesh crawl. From the timbre, it is almost certain that he has used some sort of voice-distortion technology.
Professor Mansfield’s eyes move in my direction as the recording stops. ‘Interesting,’ he says after a moment of silence. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘It’s a long story, it’s to do with a piece I’m working on,’ I lie. ‘The thing is, I really need to know what language they’re speaking.’
There is no point embroiling him in the truth of it. In my experience, too much truth has a way of making people feel uncomfortable; the trick is to give them just enough.
‘May I listen again?’
The enthusiasm in his voice makes me sit straighter, and I nod, smiling, as I drag the cursor back to the beginning of the recording.
Again, there is a low hissing sound and then the men’s voices, which seem clearer with every listen.
‘Well, I have an idea,’ he says eventually, rubbing his chin with his fingers. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’d like to seek a second opinion.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘I can download a recording directly to your computer.’
‘Very good. I’ll have a word with a colleague and I’ll be in touch,’ he replies briskly, once it is done, before showing me the door.
I am back in Somers Town, half-heartedly attempting to get residents on Tariq’s old estate to talk to me about the problem of knife crime in the area, when I get the call.
‘I’ve conferred with a colleague,’ Professor Mansfield says as soon as I answer. ‘It turns out my suspicions were right. Of course, the Balkans aren’t strictly my speciality, hence the need for corroboration …’
He leaves a dramatic pause. ‘The language you heard on the tape, it is Gorani. I’m assuming you won’t have heard of it? The speakers are Slavic Muslims, little known to us over here. They come from the Gora region in southern Kosovo between Macedonia and Albania. Over the years the poor fellows have been claimed by Albanians, Bosnians, Bulgarians, Macedonians and Serbs, but the general view is that they should be treated as a distinct minority group, indeed that is how they see it. Rather primitive folk, really, had a tricky time of it during the war, in the Nineties.’
I can picture him expanding, in his element.
‘In the main, they sided with the Serbians during the war, then when it officially ended they were left bedded between Albanian territories with much of their culture swallowed up. Most of them fled, all over the place. I believe there is quite a community in London, actually – relatively speaking. Haringey, mostly. Left rather a ghost town back home, I’m afraid to say. Not much there now, though still terribly beautiful, of course …’
He clears his throat and when he speaks again his tone is less self-assured. ‘As for what they are saying … I’m afraid that’s rather harder to say. There are very few words we can pick out, it’s all very garbled. The recording is terribly unclear.’
There is a moment’s disappointment, but then I feel my spirits rise again. I may not know what they are saying, but I am ahead of where I was this morning. I have a language. I know where they are from. Feeling a strain of hope, I speak quickly.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you so much – and if there’s anything I can ever do to return the favour …’
‘Actually, I do have a new book coming out next year. If you fancied giving it a write-up in the paper that would be extremely satisfactory …’