Brill was on guard. 'Meaning what?'
'Meaning this isn't a Kosher or Halal job?'
'As opposed to human, perhaps as well,' DC Mander interjected.
Brill gave him the evil eye. Mander put his head down to the report he was writing.
'What's so odd about not reporting a pig missing, sir?' Morrison asked.
Brill turned his icy stare on him in case he was having a dig, but Morrison didn't flinch.
'We receive plenty of other reports of disappearances and no correlated crimes,' he continued. 'There was an article in the Police Journal this month about how to use the Internet to match one up with the other.'
Brill pounced on this remark.
'I don't see the World Wide Web as an alternative to the hard graft of positive detective work. Do you, Constable?'
'Only thinking aloud, sir.'
'Then I suggest you keep your thoughts private and restrain your tongue from flapping about like a fart in a gale. If you don't use your brain before opening your mouth, there'll be an advert on the data-match page of the World Wide Web offering a supernumerary constable in exchange for some useful information. Got that?'
'Sir.'
After he had left the room, Brill jumped as though a horsefly had bitten him.
'Good God, the note.'
He picked up the phone and dialled Bradshaw's extension. As the phone rang without a reply, he replaced the receiver, hesitated, then dialled Bradshaw's home number.
* * *
Chris chewed the situation over as she set off back home in the car. She couldn't believe it. Driving a dozen miles from her cottage in Kelvinthorpe village to a God-forsaken corner of nowhere land near Wawne Road, for a half-gutted pig. No clues or explanations, nothing.
Any bright lights on the horizon? None. Except perhaps that the lads didn't seem any more laddish than where she'd been for two years. They were just the infantry, of course. The cavalry and officers would be waiting in the office. That was always the litmus test of the culture – office banter. Sex, sex, sex, police politics and sex again. Having to inhale all that testosterone. There was plenty to make a woman feel superior – men, for example. Why are you bothered now? she asked herself. You've survived fourteen years, including the Met.
* * *
Constable Bob Mander came into the office first thing: 'Am I interrupting?'
'Be my guest,' said Brill.
After a pause, Morrison tried again: 'This phone call. I'm sorry, sir, I feel quite –'
Morrison slid his chair back and shot from the room. He could be heard charging down the corridor to the toilet.
'I was interrupting,' said Mander.
Brill shook his head: 'That man should consider his position seriously.'
Five minutes later, Morrison was back. He sat down and picked up the telephone receiver.
'Put that down, Morrison.'
'Sir.'
'Before you do another thing, I want to know what this is all about.'
'Nothing, sir.'
'Nothing, my arse.'
'Sir.'
'You were upset.'
'Sir.'
'Why?'
'The state of the pig, sir. Forensics have been trying to get you. Their preliminary report. They said some of the corpse was in pieces – more like mincemeat than identifiable parts.'
'Yes. Not very nice, I admit. Go on.'
'That's it, sir.'
'What do you take me for, Morrison?'
'Signs of being eaten.'
'Well, what by? Rats, people even. Come on, man.'
'No, sir. Insects.'
'Down off your cloud, Morrison.'
'It's true, sir. The doctor found some traces of insects' legs and wings on the body.'
'First rule, Morrison, stick to your own job, then you might have a chance of becoming a half-decent police officer. Second rule, don't second-guess Forensics. They'll come up with their own analysis in the fullness of time. Anyway, how the hell can flies eat pigs?'
'Grubs can, sir, when they're dead. But I never said flies, sir. Flying ants some were, and the rest were those big ones with huge teeth.'
'Mandibles, Morrison.'
'Sir?'
'For God's sake, Morrison, use the correct term. Not teeth. You've been watching too many of those late night science fiction films. Stop getting wound up and, more important, stop wasting my time.'
'I'm not wound up and I'm not winding you up, sir. The doctor didn't say anything about the cause of death. Apparently the ants had crawled into every body orifice, sir –'
'Morrison! Cut it out.'
'Including the mouth. Sir, do you think that was after the death or was the death caused by choking?'
'It's not your job to speculate.'
'Not very pleasant, sir, asphyxia from insect congestion in the mouth. And the partial dismemberment was due to ant attack as well.'
'Look, Morrison, if you get pleasure from revelling in the gory details, transfer to Forensics and reduce my problems a hundred percent.'
'I haven't got the background, sir.’
'The man's a genius. Right, Morrison, if you're staying here, remember this isn't science fiction fortnight. This is Yorkshire.' He banged his fist on the table. 'We Yorkshiremen keep our feet on the ground, in the here and now. I've told you before. Wait for the report from Forensics. You can safely ignore any other speculation.'
'I agree, sir.'
Brill shook his head: 'God help us, if we carry on recruiting cloud-niners from University.'
'Hull Grammar School, sir. I only registered in higher education recently, as a mature student.'
'Registered! Mature! Is that what they call it? God help the Force, that's all I can say. I'm going for a slash, Morrison. When I come back, I want you to have a list of all pig farmers within a ten-mile radius of here. Find out whether any of them have missed an animal or two in the past week or so. Look snappy man, get practical. I expect to have a normal conversation with you. No fantastic fiction, no surrealism, no academic argy-bargy. Understood?'
'Sir.'
Brill left the room. Morrison added under his breath: 'Silly old git. Wouldn't know a surrealist painting if it was tattooed on his –'
Brill must have heard him speak without being able to make out the words:
'Did you say something, Constable?'
'No, sir.' Morrison lied with conviction.
* * *
At the very moment Chris stepped through the doorway and slammed the door shut before setting off for work, the phone rang. She had overslept and was late. She sighed and waited a few seconds for the ringing to stop. It went on. With an even longer sigh, she inserted the key, walked back into the hall and picked up the receiver.
'Hullo, 49789,' she said without enthusiasm.
'Is that Inspector Winchester?'
'Speaking.'
'This is Sergeant Brill. We've found another body, or rather a retired army chap found it. He's an officer, Major Ransley. He was walking his Labrador and spotted it in the bracken on Beverley Common. The dog chased off the path and started barking. He followed it and saw some light-coloured clothing in the undergrowth. The major sees a body in a right state, goes to the other side of the path and starts throwing up. You wouldn't have thought it of a major, I mean, with being in the army. By the time the major's finished throwing up, the dog is playing fetch with certain essential body parts which don't affect identification but –'
'Thank you, Sergeant.'
'I was going to say when you come in –'
'I'm not in today,' she answered.
'I didn't know you were on leave, Inspector. I don't know if Superintendent Bradshaw will like that,' said Brill, embarrassed. 'I was ringing to let you know the Superintendent is looking for you, in a hurry.'
'Thank you,' said Chris. 'For the record, Sergeant, I am not on leave. I'll be clearing up the last of my former duties. I'm technically off today but on duty at Bramwell, clearing my desk in my last office
. This was arranged when my secondment was agreed. Please inform Superintendent Bradshaw I may be in later, depending on the situation at Bramwell.'
Chris drove off, seething at this unreasonable pressure. How dare they squeeze her from her previous role and into her present one, without allowing sufficient time and space for her to clear up necessary business.
* * *
At the Police Station, the tension was rising. Bradshaw knew his competence was on the line. He had to demonstrate to top management he could manage the investigation. He was determined it would go like clockwork. He wanted to put DCI Winchester in charge immediately.
'Where is that woman?' he seethed down the phone.
'Having a day at her previous post, clearing up, sir,' said Deerbolt's secretary. 'She'll be with you shortly.'
'Shortly! What use is that?'
'Tomorrow morning at the latest.'
Bradshaw tried to distract himself. He walked down the corridor to the office. Morrison and Livesey stood poring over some papers with Brill.
'Sergeant Brill, I'm off to this scene of crime. I'll take another officer with me. Who have you got?'
Brill thought quickly. 'DC Livesey, sir.'
'Excellent. If DCI Winchester calls – no, on second thoughts it can wait.'
After they had left, Morrison spoke up.
'I've an idea I know of a number one suspect for that pig, sir.'
'Let's hear it,' said Brill.
'That absconder from the secure unit, not the young offender one but the regional mental health unit.'
'What makes you think that?'
'The dates, sir. He was in for violence.'
'Good thinking, Morrison. You may even have the makings of a half-decent copper when we drum that criminology out and inject some practical policing.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Another thing.'
'Sir?'
'I've seen enough of you for one day. Take yourself off. Bugger off and pester your wife and kids.'
'Haven't got any kids, sir.'
'Have an early night and your luck might change.'
A little later, a voice was heard in the office: 'Sir, goodnight, sir.'
'What's it take to become a creep-arse,' muttered Mander as Morrison walked past the office.
Morrison stopped and stuck his head round the door. 'You say something?'
'Not me, mate,' said Mander. He kept his eyes down on the report he was writing.
Chapter 9
'Ouch', said Laura. She slapped her ankle. 'These damned red ants. I'm sure they know you're an ant person. Our garden seems to have masses more than any others round here. They bite like mad.'
'Sting,' Tom corrected. 'The small black ones, Anthomyops Niger, can nip but rarely do. They have no stings. The others are Myrmeca ruginodis, I expect. They rely on their stings whether they're on the defensive or the attack.'
'I don't care what they rely on. There are times when I wish you were a Dalek.'
'I can believe that,' muttered Tom.
She peered at him askance. 'You look a bit like Dr Who, with your wild hair and eccentric scientist manner.' She imitated the metallic Dalek voice. 'Exterminate the ants on the lawn, exterminate. This is an ultimatum. Wife and kids to professor of antomology.'
'Entomology,' said Tom.
Annoyance welled up from deep inside her. 'Stop correcting me, as though I was one of your students. I find it very irritating. Either you exterminate those biters, stingers or whatever they are from those parts of the gardens we humans wish to use, or I shall attack and I shan't care who's in the way. Bleach or bulldozers, I'm not fussy. Is the car usable? I want to take the kids into town.'
'Yes. How long will you be?'
'I'll come back when the garden's habitable.'
'Darling, I am rather busy today.'
'Don't condescend, you're always busy.'
'I wasn't,' he rapped, uncharacteristically of him, but entirely in keeping with their interactions of late.
She looked at his face. She hadn't the energy to fight over every word, but the impulse was there. That alone was serious. She shrugged.
'You're damned snappy, but what's new? Anyway, we're meeting Helen. We'll probably have a walk in the Old Town or by the Marina and finish up with a drink and ices, at say four-ish. You might deign to take a break around then from whatever's preoccupying you.'
* * *
As Tom turned the car towards the outskirts of town he addressed passers-by as though they were passengers. So clear was his enunciation that at the traffic lights on Cottingham Road the man driving the car which pulled up alongside him looked extremely puzzled to see Tom talking volubly to empty passenger seats.
'You can't talk love into existence. And you can protest too much about it,' he announced in the intonation of a great conclusion, as the lights turned green and both cars accelerated. He turned onto the ring road whilst the other driver sped southwards. 'I know there are poems. But love can't be spoken, not adequately. It can be made, but even that is imperfect. It can only truly be felt'. As he said this, he knew that in Laura's case, he didn't feel it. He had done once, but didn't any longer.
* * *
Tom hummed the tune of the song on the car radio. The voice of the DJ broke in as the music faded.
'There we are, a lovely song about love. As the poet says, love is a many splendoured thing. Ring us or e-mail us if you know which poet. John Donne spent time sharing his lover's thoughts with the rest of the world, good for us. I wonder what his parishioners thought about the wicked wonderings of the Dean of St Paul's Cathedral, in the City of London. What was it? When lying on this bank with you, We fix our gaze with eyebeams two. I am the page, the book you read, You are the food my soul does need. First person who can ring us to correct me, we'll give you a free book of –'
Tom snapped the radio off. 'For pity's sake, we all know what love is,' he muttered. 'The problem is finding and keeping it.' He drove on in silence.
* * *
Tom reached his office in a flat mood.
He picked up the phone and dialled. 'Hullo, is that the coroner's court?'
'It is, sir.'
'Could I speak to the coroner's clerk, please?'
'Speaking.'
'Is Mrs –'
'This is Miss Cannock. 'The regular clerk is still away, sir. Can I ask who is speaking?'
There was a knock at Tom's door and it opened a fraction. Jean put her head round it. 'The missing equipment,' she mouthed.
'It doesn't matter,' said Tom and put the phone down.
'Sorry,' said Jean. 'Was I interrupting?'
'No, no,' said Tom, 'only the library. They can wait. Do come in.'
'I've been making a few enquiries,' said Jean. 'It's quite interesting. When you start asking questions and looking for equipment, all kinds of other objects which had gone missing start to turn up.'
'Amazing what the fear of the auditor and charges of stealing from work will do,' said Tom. 'And I never even mentioned them.'
'You didn't have to,' said Jean. 'As usual, you left it to your faithful female secretary. Another prime example of men leaving the dirty work to women. From the nappy to the bedpan, it never stops.'
Tom held up his hand. 'I agree,' he said. 'I surrender to the overwhelming combined forces of feminism and equal opportunity.'
'If you try sarcasm,' said Jean, 'I shan't tell you what I found.'
Tom made a further gesture of compliance.
'Right,' she said, 'Item one: you didn't lose the equipment. Item two: it was loaned to, or rather borrowed by, the Department of Oceanography nearly fifteen months ago. Item three: it's never been returned.'
'I'll be damned,' he exclaimed. 'What have they to say for themselves?'
'Hang on,' said Jean. 'I haven't finished. I contacted Oceanography to ask for its return. Guess what?'
'They sold it to pay for the Christmas dinner?'
'It was never received.'
'How can they
tell?'
'They're adamant. I spoke to the administrative officer who registers the movement of all equipment. They're far more rigorous about it than we are. They have to be, remember, because they work with so many outside bodies. Some of the marine exploration equipment they use costs as much as our entire laboratory.'
'Where is this going?'
'What is more, they never requested this equipment.'
'In other words –'
'In other words, someone probably half-inched it and laid a false trail, relying on the fact that nobody follows up most of these items in any case.'
'Why would somebody do that?'
'I don't know,' Jean said. That's your department.'
'Jean, you're a wonder. You'd put Sherlock Holmes to shame. Take the rest of the day off.'
'It's four o'clock already,' said Jean, 'Having spent time sorting this out, I've still the post to do. But thanks for the thought.'
'And you,' said Tom thoughtfully. 'Thanks for the thought, Jean. Something's going on here. I'll get to the bottom of it.'
'Even if it means swimming into dirty water,' said Jean.
'That too. I really don't care, as long as the reason for the dirt becomes clear. I'll start by asking the technical staff. They're the ones who really know what goes on in this place.'
She smiled at him as she left. Her smile said, I know you, Tom Fortius. Something else will overtake you. You're too busy to concern yourself with every detail of what goes on in your department.
Chapter 10
'Weather's turned cold.'
'Super's boiling hot, though. That temporary transfer's arrived to replace Dave Berringham,' said Paul Morrison.
'How is he?' asked Bob Mander.
'The new guy? We haven't met yet.'
'Piss-ant! I meant Dave.'
'Dave? He was in intensive care for a while. But they've taken his appendix out. It was knackered. He's back on the ward now.'
'His missus will be relieved. Who's the replacement? Do I know him?'
'Her. An inspector on temporary duty, from out of county, just been appointed in this Force to chief inspector.'
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