"I was feeling unsettled and I didn't know how to calm myself. I felt like watching the film I'd made of the experiment in the barn.
"I turned on the video. The camera was placed in the rear corner, below the spotlight. It was primitive but it worked for my purposes. The pig was jittery from the moment I pulled aside the bale of straw and shoved it across the sheet of chipboard I used as a bridge across the moat. The island was about six metres square. It had taken months to dig out the ditch round it and line it with butyl rubber, but I was quite pleased with the result.
"(I'm nearly there. Push me, push me and I'll do it.) I'd gone to such trouble to produce an imitation of a corner of the rain forest on the island, with reasonable accuracy. There were shortcomings in the tree department, but the undergrowth surrounding the small clearing, some at a much higher level over a rocky outcrop, was pretty convincing. The lean-to conservatory enclosing the whole was pitched up against one wall of the barn. It was of plain design with panels of double-glazing down to within a metre or so of floor level. It was the largest building project I'd ever undertaken and had taken some assembling. I had to do it on my own, though. I didn't want strangers prying.
"Below the surface of the soil, of course, was where the conditions had to be absolutely ideal. Here the detailed planning followed everything I'd learnt over years of keeping ant colonies in the laboratory. Not too cool, not too dry, not too moist. Above all, not too warm, or they race so fast in confined conditions they overheat and die. To achieve the right climatic conditions, I installed a mister which automatically sprayed very fine droplets of warm water in infrequent but regular bursts from a strip along the inside of the roof of the conservatory. The final two touches of which I was particularly proud were first, the connection between the activator for this and a humidity tester. Second, there was the little windscreen wiper I had taken from the front headlight of an upmarket car at the scrap-yard and installed at the front of the camera, after some early attempts at filming which only gave me a few seconds before the lens steamed up.
"Take deep breaths to regain control. (You see how candid I can be. With such insight and self-awareness, I can't be insane.) The pig stood still, not squealing any more, but panting slightly from the exertion of resisting his prodding towards the barn housing this contraption. It was the size of a large Labrador dog, not fully grown but by no means a piglet either. It weighed a good thirty kilos. I had to keep glancing back at the screen while leaning over to switch on the kettle at the other side of the kitchen worktop. I could just about reach the coffee jar and a mug without moving from my stool. There wouldn't be much happening for a while, I knew that. But then the action would move quickly, and I wanted to be ready. My stomach was wobbling, my head slightly woozy – sometimes the stuff helps. I can't say what, in case this record goes astray.
"Can't keep this up. Body won't take it. Got to though. Deep breaths now, so as not to be sick at the crucial moment. (You won't believe this, but watching anything die excites me, but cuts me up rotten. I feel so physically sick I could die myself.) There was a rustling in the thick carpeting of leaves on the island. My pulse quickened. I knew where to watch. It was the shadowy patch half hidden from view by a large-leafed pitcher plant growing over a rotting log. I rubbed my hands together unconsciously and then gripped them tightly together at a flicker of movement from the shadow. It was a tiny flickering body, no larger than a blow-fly or large earwig, scuttling so fast from the shadows that he lost sight of it immediately under some leaves. Then another and another, till half a dozen of the darting insects had emerged. One or two stopped, clearly sensing the slight movements made by the pig. The animal scuffed up leaves as it moved nervously. The tiny insects were too small though, to make any impression on it. They couldn't even climb up its shiny hooves to gain a purchase on the coarse hairs of its slender legs.
"Despite this apparent stand-off between beast and insects, the effect on the small number of wandering ants was surprisingly uniform. Three or four of them immediately became very excited, running round in circles, waving their heads and exercising their considerable mandibles as though willing to bite any object within range. Several times it looked as though they were about to bite each other. Then they made off at great speed towards the prone tree trunk, continually criss-crossing each other's path.
"I leaned forward in anticipation. I knew that the shadow where they had disappeared was really an elliptically shaped object like a giant rugby ball which hung from the underside of the tree trunk. It was made up of hundreds of thousands of army ants clinging to each other's legs to form a protective ball around the young ants, brood and queen within. This was their bivouac whilst on the march. The few ants which had emerged were foragers with particular sensitivity to possible sites of food, acting as scouts on behalf of the main body of ants in their temporary nest.
"I took a deep breath as the ball of ants literally began to drip onto the earth, each drip hissing as it landed, like hot, black pitch. This is the only way I can describe the combined effect of the clattering of myriads of tiny legs and mandibles. It reminds me of when I once dreamt of the sound a giant made when he shook up a handful of bones. Great clumps of insects fell off the nest as the excitement of the scouts spread rapidly through to its interior. Within minutes, a thick living lava of ants flowed across the forest floor. One stream took a path up onto a rocky outcrop from which bushes and creepers were arranged so that they overhung the clearing beneath. The pig, still unaware of the coming catastrophe, still stood hesitantly, facing the other way. By the time the ants were piling up against its hooves so that those on top had easy access to run up its legs, those on the overhang were already falling in thousands onto its neck and back. Ten thousand simultaneous bites threw the animal into a squealing convulsion from which it landed on its back and in its terror, never succeeded in rising to its feet again. (Red. Red on black. Can't bear it. Can't stop this shaking.) It was steadily reduced over the next ten minutes to a suppurating mass of wounds, the blood from which was never allowed to congeal but was sucked up eagerly by crowds of workers, each replaced by another as soon as one was replete. By this time the animal was so weakened by shock and loss of blood that it was unable to resist the macabre carving up of its living flesh which accelerated. After thirty minutes it was at its last gasp and three hours later most of the flesh had been removed by its remorseless and utterly tireless assailants.
"It's over. Head shaking and retching. I sat and watched with tears (If you don't believe me, you can get lost now) running down my cheeks, cupping my mug of cocoa in both hands.
"There is a further step. The thinking part takes over the rest of the body. This is found out through killing the pig first, before the next stage. One step at a time.
"The hypothesis to test now is whether the equipment will significantly speed up the interaction between the excitement centre ants and the rest, thereby hastening communication and hence the death of the victim. Thinking about it, I will wind the tape back and press PLAY to watch my little drama all over again. This time I will have the bucket and towel ready. I hate the smell of stale vomit, especially my own. G"
'Killing the pig before the next stage,' quoted Berringham out loud when he'd read this document twice through. 'Jesus, we're going to need some help with this one.'
He picked up the phone and dialled the number of Detective Superintendent Bradshaw, who happened to be the last person in the world with whom he wanted to share any information, speculation, thoughts or feelings. But he was Berringham's immediate boss while he was working at Wawne Road and as such was his first point of reference. As he waited for him to reply, Berringham was trying to suppress his intuition that like a geyser, the situation was about to blow sky high and scalding hot, right in their faces.
It was while Berringham was in Bradshaw's office, waiting for his reaction to the document, that the pain stabbed him in waves whose intensity increased alarmingly beyond what he'd thought was possible. The pai
n catapulted him out of the seat, leaving him grey-faced and sweating profusely, in a doubled up contortion on the floor. He couldn't speak. He thought he could see Bradshaw dialling. By the time the ambulance came, he'd rather have been dead.
After they'd shipped Berringham off to the Infirmary and Brill had done the necessary with his family, Bradshaw was in touch with Assistant Chief Constable Jack Deerbolt.
'I must have a replacement – I don't know. The paramedics wouldn't make a diagnosis – but they agree with me he's not coming back in a few days. Reading between the lines, it could be a duodenal but appendicitis is more likely. I've rung the Infirmary. They've done an ECG or whatever and ruled out a heart attack.'
Ten minutes later, the ACC rang back:
'I've a recently promoted detective chief inspector you can have on an open-ended basis, until Berringham's back. Experience includes time in the Met. fraud, some vice, murder squad, that sort of thing.'
'Sounds like a good all-rounder. Starting when, sir?'
'With immediate effect, give or take tidying up a few loose ends. Winchester. Chris Winchester. I'll do the necessary at this end. Ask your office to liaise with Personnel.'
Bradshaw was highly relieved. He'd been operating below strength as it was. At least he now had a man to put straight in charge of this team who would take responsibility for the rest of Berringham's work and the latest investigation – which was probably a storm in a tea-cup.
* * *
Tom walked briskly across the cobbled square of Saturday Market in Beverley. He stood still, looking around for a minute or two before heading for the bar and restaurant on the far side.
He didn't worry too much when his visitor was ten minutes late. By twenty minutes, he was becoming slightly fidgety. After thirty minutes, he was wondering if he had the right time and place. Forty-five minutes after first sitting down in the restaurant, he went to the payphone next to the entrance to the toilets and phoned the coroner's office. No reply, just the answerphone: "The office is now closed until Wednesday 16 March. If you wish to leave a message …"
Tom went back to the counter, ordered a scone and another coffee, went back to his table and spent another twenty minutes eating it. His mind was numbed, as though a crucial thinking process was blocked. Nothing could be done now. He'd have to wait and phone the office in the morning.
There wasn't much point in waiting any longer. He got up and left the restaurant. The train wasn't due for another forty minutes, so he took a longer route back towards the Station. He needed time to think, or rather, to try to jog his mind from its paralysis back into reflective mode.
Habit took over. Tom was an inveterate walker, especially in unknown territory, whether town or country. His return route involved two or three side streets. Reaching the end of one street and turning into the next, he had the rather odd sensation that someone was following him. 'I'm imagining this,' he told himself out loud and didn't look round. But at the next street turn, it happened again. 'You're watching too many late night films,' he murmured. This time, he half turned his head and was in time to catch a glimpse of a figure far behind, probably too far away to be in pursuit and certainly too far away for him to be able to pick out features for later recognition. By the time he reached the cavernous redbrick shelter of the Station building, he had other more practical preoccupations – confirming the train time, crossing to the platform, choosing a drink from the snack-bar retailing various unappealing liquids, and facing the prospect of the journey home.
Chapter 7
Bradshaw called Brill into the office. 'I'm not asking for a response to this, Sergeant.'
'No, sir.'
'I haven't finished yet.'
'Sorry, sir.'
'This note –'
'From the nutter. Yes, sir, we're onto it.'
'I'm not sure what that means, Sergeant.'
'Well, sir, it means – it means we're onto it, sir.'
'Quite. Well, Sergeant, there are several possibilities when we receive a note like this. It could be a complete nutter. In that case we'd best put it away in a drawer and forget about it. On the other hand, it could be a communication from a criminal we're already investigating. I don't think that's the case.'
'No, sir. Is that all, sir?'
'It isn't, Sergeant. There is another possibility. It could be from a particular type of dangerous person, who has a need to communicate with the authorities whilst committing extreme crimes. You see what I'm driving at.'
'You're saying the person has written us a note saying he's about to commit a crime.'
Bradshaw sighed. 'Something like that, yes, Sergeant. You'd better return to your duties.'
Brill leapt to his feet and almost ran out of the door.
'There goes the reason for our low detection rates,' Bradshaw muttered.
Brill stopped and turning back, stuck his head round the door.
'Did you say something, sir?'
'No, Sergeant, nothing of importance. Thanks for the thought.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll be off then.'
'Good idea, Sergeant.'
* * *
Graver sat reading, this time from a book he'd kept at home since he was eleven:
'Ant society is almost exclusively female. The requirements of queens dominate the nuptial phase, whilst the entire economy of the colony rests on the labours of the neutered females, commonly called workers. Males live less longer than females. In many species, their sole function and purpose in life is to fertilise a queen, which they do in a single nuptial flight, after which they are unceremoniously ejected from the nest. Sometimes the neutered females, the workers, turn on the males, attacking them, injuring or even killing them. Unable to feed or defend themselves, one way or another the males inevitably die within a short time.'
He spoke, in his head at first, to the hordes inhabiting it. At the first syllable of his voice, they turned their heads, waving antennae towards him. He was King, the Emperor, an anomaly in their matriarchy.
Chapter 8
'Reason to believe, sir, it isn't a human body but the remains of a pig,' local PC George Tenant stated in his pedantic way.
Dr Lonsdale, the pathologist on call, vented the tiniest sliver of his annoyance:
'A pig? Speak up, officer.'
'That's correct, sir. A pig.'
'Let me get this straight. You've called me out on a weekend to carry out a preliminary examination on the body of a pig?'
'Not a weekend, sir, it's Friday night.'
'I've started my weekend, I don't know about you.'
'Yes, sir. I didn't know it was an animal before I called you.'
'But you did by the time you rang?'
'Not absolutely definitely, sir.'
'I don't believe this.'
'If it helps I'll say I didn't, sir.'
'It doesn't help one little bit, Sergeant.'
'I'm not a sergeant, sir, only a constable.'
'Show me the way, officer.' Lonsdale's irritation was boiling over. Constable Tenant took him to where the body lay. Lonsdale knelt down, opened his bag and looked round in suppressed fury. Tenant withdrew several yards, to what he judged a safe distance.
Detective Chief Inspector Chris Winchester had parked her car a distance down the road in the lay-by, walked up and witnessed this exchange:
'Am I hearing right? No body, just a pig?'
Tenant looked round in surprise. She held out her identification. He glanced at it and raised his eyebrows. 'No, ma'am.'
'It isn't a code word for copper, or –?'
Watch your step, Constable, Tenant thought. You don't know her. There's humour within limits and there's pushing it too far. He restricted himself to muttering under his breath, 'It isn't my fault it's only a bloody pig.' Out loud he added, 'It is the genuine, four-footed specimen, ma'am.'
There was the sound of a motor cycle approaching round the bend, seemingly from nowhere. It roared straight up, not far from where they stood, died to s
ilence and the rider switched off all the lights. Another constable, motor cycle patrol Bob Mander, appeared out of the darkness:
'Bloody Norah, someone's cracking up here.'
'As long as you make sure it isn't you, Constable,' offered Chris.
'Yes, sir, er, ma'am.'
'Let me know as soon as the scenes of crime officer arrives,' said Chris.
'Who the hell was that?' asked Tenant as Chris left the scene.
'DCI Winchester, apparently. Bloody confident. I thought you knew her.'
'Where's she from?'
'I'll find out. Hang on.'
He went to the patrol car and made a call to base. He was back in a couple of minutes.
'That's your replacement for Dave Berringham.'
'It can't be. Bradshaw says we've got a bloke – Chris somebody.'
'She said that. Chris Winchester. First name's Chris.'
'Bloody hell, Bradshaw will go potty. Doesn't mind women in the Force as long as he doesn't have to work with them.'
A sudden afterthought struck him.
'Unless –' He pulled a face and mouthed a kiss in the air.
Late that evening at Wawne Road Police Station, information trickled through. The mood was edgy.
'Strange,' said Sergeant Brill, 'we've a body, but no reported disappearances.'
'Am I right in thinking it's definitely pork, sir?'
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