The Unforgiving Minute_Quantum Physics Can Be Murder Page 3
The court was in recess, and Phillips was in a cell with Smythe.
“But what about the statement I gave to the police?” asked Phillips.
Smythe gave a slight shake of the head and shrugged.
“Rantings of a confused, innocent man. I’ll simply say you were mistaken; it was all a momentary aberration.”
Phillips shook his head more vigorously than his barrister.
“But that’s not true. I’m not going to let you make things up. I have absolutely no idea how Alan ended up hitting his head or how he got from my house to Bromarsh Woods, but I do know exactly what happened to me.”
“Look Professor, the only evidence that links you with Alan Newton’s death is that he hit his head on your table. There is only circumstantial evidence that you were even there when that happened. And there is nothing to say you were ever in Bromarsh Woods. Just let me give an explanation to your police statement and we are pretty sure to get an acquittal.”
Phillips was only half listening to his lawyer.
“What about Aldeburgh-on-Sea?” said Phillips.
“What about it?”
“You are claiming that what my neighbour heard was me wheeling my suitcase down my front steps, going on a trip to Aldeburgh-on-Sea.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Smythe agreed.
“But no one at Aldeburgh-on-Sea remembers me being there. And more to the point nor do I.”
“That still doesn’t hurt your case, Professor,” Smythe insisted. “They have nothing to link you to the death of Newton and no motive, only opportunity; that is not enough to secure a conviction. Therefore, the Judge will have to move to an acquittal.”
“An acquittal that will lead to reports of me being a mad scientist. What I said in my statement is true.”
“But it won’t help your case. In fact, it will almost definitely lose it.”
Phillips pushed his chair back and paced the cell.
“Win the case and destroy my reputation?”
Smythe stayed quiet for a few seconds. A face appeared at the spy hatch on the door.
“Excuse me Mr Smythe, they’re asking for you and the prisoner.”
“Thank you Charlie, we’re just finishing. Professor, please?”
“Mr Smythe, I am who I am; a scientist. And a scientist who is scared to face the truth, is a poor scientist indeed.”
The court was back in session. Judge Hughes addressed the counsel for the prosecution.
“Mr Premburton, do you have further witnesses?”
Premburton rose to his feet languidly.
“No M’lud, the prosecution rests.”
“Mr Smythe, will you be calling witnesses?”
Smythe, with the look of a cream-filled cat, stood, “No, M’lud.”
The judge began to address the court, but was interrupted by a noise from the dock.
“Professor Phillips; you want to say something?”
Smythe looked to the heavens and let out a deflating sigh; almost a whimper.
“I wish to give evidence, your honour.”
The judge addressed the defence counsel.
“Mr Smythe?”
“M’lud, I have instructed my client that he does not need to give evidence and I would urge him, in his best interests, that he sits down and allows your honour to continue.”
“Professor Phillips,” said Judge Hughes, “I was about to sum-up, and I can tell you that you would not have been disappointed with my conclusions. However, if you choose to give evidence, by your own volition, I must warn you that you may harm your own defence. So, are you sure you need to say whatever it is you have on your mind?”
“I am, your honour.”
“Mr Smythe, your witness.”
Smythe waited while Phillips was sworn in, then spoke.
“Professor Phillips, you are Professor of Particle Physics at Trinity College, Cambridge?
“I am.”
“And how long have you held this position?”
“Twenty-six years.”
“So it would be reasonable to say you are well-respected in your field?”
The merest smile coloured the Professor’s face.
“You may say that. I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“Were you not the leader of the London ELHC?”
Judge Hughes interrupted.
“ELHC?”
“The Extremely Large Hadron Collider, M’lud. A very advanced particle accelerator.” Smythe turned back to Phillips. “Professor?”
“Yes, I had that honour.”
“Am I also correct… Professor… in saying you have recently been involved with some award-winning advances in quantum physics?”
“Yes, the multiverse and the use of this for time-tra…”
“Indeed, Professor,” Smythe interrupted hastily. “Very interesting. Now, it is true, is it not, that science as advanced as your work can sometimes seem… how shall we put it… difficult for the average man to understand?
“I suppose so.”
“Maybe even… sometimes seeming… a little unbelievable? Aren’t pioneering scientists often lampooned for their advanced ideas?”
Judge Hughes leant forwards, “Mr Smythe, this is all very interesting, but might I trouble you to get back to the case?”
“M’lud, I am attempting to establish the credentials of Professor Phillips and the fact that some of his research may be beyond the understanding of the man in the street.”
“Well, Mr Smythe, I believe you have achieved your aim most admirably. Please move on.”
“M’lud. So, Professor, when you speak of your research into the possibility of… say… time-travel, this might be one of those ‘hard to believe’ projects?”
“I would go further…”
Smythe quickly cut him off, “A yes or no will suffice.”
“Yes.”
“So it may be considered foolish if someone, not conversant with extremely advanced physics, were to jump to conclusions about an eminent Professor’s advanced theories?”
“I guess.”
“No more questions, M’lud.”
Premburton bowed his head to the Judge and turned to Phillips.
“Professor Phillips, did you know Alan Newton?”
“Yes, he was my research fellow.”
“Were you friends?”
“No, not really friends. We just worked together.”
“And what was that working relationship like? Did you get on?”
Phillips shifted a little.
“Yes, we got on just fine.”
“You didn’t argue?”
“Well everyone argues at times…”
“Simply yes or no, Professor Phillips. Did you and Alan Newton argue?”
“No.”
Premburton could not stop an involuntary raising of one eyebrow.
“Are you sure, Professor Phillips?”
“Yes, Alan and I got on well.”
“Okay, Professor, let’s change tack a little. Where were you on the night in question?”
“At home.”
“Were you alone?”
“No.”
“Who was at your home with you?”
“Alan Newton.”
“And what were you doing?”
“We were just chatting.”
“Just chatting, Professor Phillips?”
“Yes.”
“All evening, Professor?”
“Yes, all evening.”
“So, Alan Newton and you spent a whole evening, at your home, just chatting?”
“Yes.”
“Unusual behaviour for two people who are just work colleagues and not friends. Professor Phillips, what time did Alan Newton leave your home?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, Professor?” Premburton looked at the jury and repeated. “You don’t know, Professor? And why is that? Did you fall asleep, were you called away? Please tell the jury why you don’t remember?”
�
�Because I wasn’t there when he left.”
“So, Professor, where were you?”
“To be truthful, I don’t know.”
“Oh, come now, Professor, I think you do.”
Premburton held up some papers. He smiled at Smythe, whose eyes just stared, helplessly.
“This is the statement you gave to the police. You seemed very clear about your whereabouts in here.”
Phillips felt suddenly sick and weak. He may be committed to the truth, but that didn’t make it easy.
“Would you like to tell us or shall I read from your statement. Professor Phillips?”
Phillips breathed in and sighed heavily.
“I wasn’t there when Alan left because… because…”
“Yes, Professor, because?”
“… because I was time-travelling.”
▽
▼
▽
Part Seven
Phillips stared out between the iron bars of a small window. The cell was below ground level, and all he could see were the feet of passers-by. A few years of this, he thought, and he’d be an expert on footwear.
The grey-painted brick cell was just large enough for Smythe, Phillips and a table and two chairs. The room stank of despair, but the Professor detected another aroma; a sweet note of camphor coming from Smythe’s barristers’ gown. Liberty breeds complacent profligacy, but conversely, incarceration makes one a miser of the senses.
“So, what now, Mr Smythe?’
“Now Professor, you have backed us into a corner. I told you to leave it alone, but unfortunately I can only advise.”
Phillips sat down making the sign of the cross.
“I absolve you, my son.”
Smythe held his disapproving expression.
“The prosecution are willing to offer a deal.”
“Really?”
“As far as the charge of murder is concerned, there is no evidence of motive, and no compelling evidence of manslaughter. They could charge you with Perverting the Course of Justice; which carries a maximum sentence of life, but they are inclined against that as it is very rare to get a conviction.”
“So, what are they offering?”
“Wasting Police Time. You’ll get three years and be out in under two.”
“Two years,” said Phillips slowly, “What do I have to do?”
“You plead guilty to the lesser charge of Wasting Police Time, or they will send you for psychiatric assessment at Broadmoor and throw away the key.”
“Not much of a choice.”
Smythe’s face flashed with anger.
“And whose fault is that?”
Phillips took a deep breath, and thought about two years of the dank smell of imprisonment, and two years of staring at shoes through cold iron bars.
“Can you bring me my machine?” asked the Professor.
The barrister smiled and gasped.
“Your machine?”
“Yes, the so called time machine.”
“I know what machine you’re talking about. I can’t understand why you want it. Surely a decision about the deal on offer is a little more pressing just now?”
“As appealing as an indeterminate period in Broadmoor is, I think I’ll go for pleading guilty to Wasting Police Time.”
The sound of a key in the cell’s door prompted the two men to rise.
“Will you get me my machine?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
It was only twenty minutes before the Professor re-entered the cell as a convicted prisoner.
“You just wait here, sir,” said the warder. “The van will come soon to take you to the prison.”
They say that reality is rarely as bad as you imagine it to be. Without a doubt, this was the exception that proved the rule. Phillips’ teeth were actually chattering, and his clothes were damp with sweat, even though he could see his breath in the cold air.
“Mr Smythe left something for you. It’s on the table,” said the warder.
The cell door clanged.
Phillips was comforted by seeing something familiar resting inoffensively on the table. The Device, even though it was the instrument of all this tragedy still appealed to his sense of cognitive ease. Sitting down, he pulled the machine towards himself. He stroked it affectionately, then adjusted the date on the device’s display.
The machine made no noise as he flicked the switch to on. There was just the usual LED glow, casting a blood red hue across the grey walls. Phillips put his finger into the device and within seconds felt the prick of the needle. But that was all that happened. He was not transported to the end of his prison sentence. A key rattled in the door, and he hastily pushed his finger into the machine again. This time there was no sensation from the needle.
“If you’d come with me, Professor Phillips?” said the warder.
The Professor did not look up. He pulled his hand back to try the machine again, but a strong grip on his wrist prevented him from doing so. He gazed at the kindly face of the warder.
“It’s Charlie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir, Charlie. If you could just put that thing on the table, we’ll get you processed and on your way.”
“It didn’t work, Charlie.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“The one time I really needed it, it didn’t work.”
“Well let’s not worry about that now… Come on, Sir… Best not keep the escort waiting.”
Phillips stood, held in the firm hands of the warder.
“You’re a good man, Charlie. Do you know that?”
“I do my best, Sir.”
▽
▼
▽
Part Eight
Julie had been back in England for nearly six weeks. As she had been in Australia for the last two years, her memories of a cold climate had all but faded. As she climbed out of her car and walked from the carpark, she was reminded again, by a bitter gust of wind, that she had still not acclimatised to the northern hemisphere.
Her move to Australia had been motivated by a job offer that would have been career suicide to turn down, but it had meant a long separation from her husband. He had been very understanding, possibly because he worked in the same field, however, it had proved very difficult for both of them. On any other occasion, this impromptu return to England would have been a godsend for her marriage, but not this time.
This was an open prison, so security was no more than one would expect to find at the average local airport, and therefore not too tedious. She had arranged everything in advance which further speeded up the procedure, yet her internal nervousness conspired to make the process seem far too long and left her patience far too short.
Julie recognised Professor Phillips the moment he walked into the visitors’ hall. The old man stood at the entrance and scanned the space apparently recognising no one. Julie waved to him, and Phillips moved towards her with trepidation. He stood tight-lipped next to the table at which she sat.
“I’m told that you claim to be a physicist,” said Phillips.
Julie looked up at the Professor and nodded.
“I am. I’ve been working at Sydney University.”
“Sydney?” echoed the Professor. “What’s your name?”
“Julie, Julie Taggart.”
“And what brings you back to England, Miss Taggart?” asked Phillips.
“A family bereavement.”
“I’m sorry,” said Phillips softening a little. “Why did you want to see me?”
“Won’t you sit, Professor?” Julie said. “I’m getting a sore neck talking to you like this.”
Phillips sat down, and looked hard into Julie’s eyes.
“Are you a journalist?”
“No, I told you, I’m a physicist from Sydney University.”
“I’ve had a lot of journalists trying to get an interview with me. Apparently, I’m a good story. So far, three of them have claimed to be physicists.”
“Professor Phill
ips,” Julie pleaded, “I’m not lying. I really am a physicist.”
“Then a little test should be no problem.”
Julie’s insides churned and gurgled. She berated herself for being so naïve, that he would just take her at her word.
“What sort of test?”
Phillips sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes.
“Okay, what is the Haber Bosch Process?”
Julie snorted lightly through her nose.
“It’s a process to fix atmospheric nitrogen… but that’s chemistry not physics.”
“What’s the Pauli exclusion principle?” continued the Professor.
“That two or more identical fermions cannot occupy the same quantum state.”
“What’s the Fourth Law of Thermodynamics?
“There are four Laws, but there isn’t a fourth Law,” Julie answered.
A glow was beginning to lighten the pallor of Phillips face as if asking these questions were transporting him back to the lecture theatre.
“That sounds like a contradiction,” said Phillips.
“Well,” Julie sighed, “there are Laws One, Two and Three, but the fourth Law isn’t called the forth Law.” Phillips stared at her with a poker face. “It’s known as the Zeroth Law.”
“Yeah,” said Phillips dismissively, “this is all schoolboy stuff. How about something really difficult.”
“Go ahead, Professor.”
“Explain the Rodriguez maximum peak principle.”
Julie narrowed her eyes and sat up in her chair.
“The what?”
“If you are a physicist, there is no way you don’t know the Rodriguez maximum peak principle. So, go ahead ‘not-a-journalist’… explain.”
Julie sat silently studying the prisoner opposite her. Phillips suddenly got up.
“Next time you want a story, young woman, do some research before you try to bluff.”
The Professor turned and started to walk back towards the entrance.
“Professor?” Julie called out, “I am not a journalist.” Phillips continued walking and did not turn around. “Professor, there is no Rodriguez maximum peak principle.” Phillips stopped. “You just made it up!”