'You feel a strong sense of ownership.'
'I more or less set up the Centre, a few years ago now. It's absorbed a good deal of my time, more than I care to think about.'
'If we went through that list of people currently linked with your Centre, would that exhaust the number of those who've been associated with it, say, in the past five years?'
'It depends what you mean by associated. We don't have any undergraduate courses. The department does, of course, but that's another story. The Centre only attracts postgraduate researchers. Although our graduate research programme is small – dwindling annually, thanks to fewer government grants – there is quite a large body of people floating around at any one time, say another thirty or forty – either post-doctoral or transitional to a doctoral programme. Then there are former staff. Is that what you mean?'
'That's exactly what I mean.'
'I'd say there's quite a large category of peripherally-involved people, in contrast with the relatively small number of full time registered research students. That's one of our problems, from the University's point of view, because they don't bring in any revenue. Last year we registered only ten new students. This year it was eight.'
'Do many drop out?'
'Ah, I see, you think this could be a disaffected student. Well, most of them complete the two-year Masters programme. Some register at the outset and transfer to the MPhil. Most doctoral students register first for the MPhil and then transfer to the PhD programme once we see they're on an acceptable track. The successful ones tend to be around for three or four years. The less successful often hang around for longer. That's one consequence of our examining system. It gives students the right to several bites at the cherry, short of the ultimate rejection of failure.'
'So a failing student could be on the books for five years or more?'
'Easily.'
'Tell me about staff in the Centre.'
'That's easy. There are so few. Myself, Robin Lovelace my deputy who's just gone off to Africa on a field expedition, Luis Deakin our senior research fellow, plus a handful of contract researchers on our different funded projects.'
'You mean only three of you are permanent full time academics.'
'Well, Luis isn't permanent but he's full time.'
'It's a lot of plates to have in the air. What happens if one of you goes sick.'
'We don't. The odd suicide maybe, but no sickness.'
'Meaning what?'
'Detlev Brandt, our research fellow.'
'Sorry?'
'According to the inquest the other day, he committed suicide.'
'I'm afraid I'm not familiar with this. You'll have to explain.'
'I thought you'd have known. Well, we had another permanent staff member, Dr Detlev Brandt. He took a shotgun to a hotel room near here, went out and shot himself.'
'When was this?'
'Last November.'
Tom saw her expression. 'Do you think there may be some link?'
'It's all new information. I can't tell at this stage,' said Chris.
There was silence for a few moments before Chris spoke again:
'How long would it take someone in your office to knock us up an address list of all these people?'
'Not long I guess. When do you want it? You're going to say yesterday.'
Chris laughed. 'That would be preferable.'
'Give me your fax number. We can probably have it with you tomorrow morning. I'll ask Jean, my secretary, to update copies of our current lists of academic staff and students.'
'Brilliant.'
'We'll probably need to go through the list subsequently, so I can fill you in on the details.'
'I'd appreciate that.'
'What about other people?'
'You tell me.'
'The whole army of people who work in the Department, not only full-timers in the Centre, but secretarial, clerical, administrative, computer support, laboratory technicians, porters, gardeners, domestic cleaners, canteen, it's endless.'
'As full as you can, would be my suggestion.'
'I can't speak with any authority about this aspect. Your best guarantee of completeness in that area is through Personnel. I'll give you the number to ring.'
'Thanks,' she said.
'One further query,' said Tom. 'Has Ms Wistow's family been contacted?'
'She lived alone. The only known relative is a brother in South Wales.'
At that moment Tom's phone rang. Someone knocked on the door, opened it and peeped round. He threw his hands up.
'I know,' Chris said. 'Time's up. It's been a great help. I'll ring you. We can have another chat?'
'Anything I can do,' said Tom.
* * *
Tom arrived home after ten, still preoccupied. Laura had turned to the flip side of arguing – denying any problems and not questioning him about where he had been:
'What's the matter?' she asked eventually. 'You were so quiet during tea, even the kids commented on it.'
He found himself going along with this novel game. As though it matters what we say, he thought. Nothing will bring back what we had.
'Oh, nothing,' he said.
'That's a classic. On your way to your first bout of stress counselling, or even a heart attack, are you? Not work? Pull the other one.'
'For goodness sake, I give in. Now shut up,' said Tom. 'It's a really stupid thing, hardly worth the time of day.'
'But it's still got to you.'
'I've agreed dammit, so give it a rest,' he almost shouted.
'Are you going to tell me, or leave us all in suspense.'
'For God's sake. If you must know, the dratted equipment we developed for the social insect communication experiments has gone missing.'
'You mean someone has walked off with it.'
'I didn't say that. It's missing.'
Her voice was rising. 'Why are you in such a stew then, if as you say, it's only missing?'
'Because I don't know. I can't bloody remember, can I? I could simply have mislaid it. That's why I'm so angry. I'm mad with myself really. It's several years since we used the prototype gear. I should have had it destroyed. For all I know that's what one of the technicians has done. You know what my memory is like, especially when I'm working under pressure. I think I'm getting worse each year that passes. I may have asked one of the staff to store it in a particular cupboard or cellar.'
'Why does it matter, if it's obsolete?'
'Like our marriage,' he said under his breath, but loud enough.
Her voice was lower, dangerously low. 'What did you say?'
'Nothing.'
'You said something about our marriage.'
'I did not.'
There was a pause.
They sat watching television. The silence went on. As it lengthened, Laura felt increasingly unable to break it. Neither had spoken for nearly an hour. Tom seemed totally abstracted. Laura gave a deep sigh, between frustration and resignation. She suddenly found herself speaking:
'Luis Deakin rang.'
'Oh?'
'He wanted to speak to you. I said you were already at work. He said you'd not been in all day.'
'Hm.'
'I wondered where you were.'
'I don't remember.'
'That's the kind of remark which really annoys me. A man of your intellect pretending to forget where he's been all day.'
'It happens.'
She tried to pursue this, but Tom was still immersed in his own worries.
'Where were you, Tom? You're insulting my intelligence. Who were you with?'
'You know what I'm like. I'm forgetful when I'm in research mode.'
'Don't treat me like an idiot. I'm so bloody angry with you. I can't predict what I might do.'
'It's like all these things. If the equipment goes to the wrong place, it could get into the hands of the wrong people. Time, and that includes equipment, is money. Someone could use it to duplicate the work we're doing and bang goes our lead, and wi
th it a research grant or two worth one, three, five hundred thousand pounds.'
'Have you heard what I've been saying?'
'I was thinking about the lost equipment.'
'If it's so damned important, why not search systematically through all those places? Then perhaps people could live with you again. I could never work with you. I'd have to start at one end of the job and work through to the other. I would go through every storage area one by one, and turn everything out until I found it.'
'We can't do that. You're talking about six months work. We have equipment all over the building, in fact, all over the University. We simply can't spare anyone for that length of time. We shall have to hope it turns up.'
The equipment did, but not in the way he would have intended or wanted.
Some time later that evening, while she was soaking in the bath, Laura finally decided to leave Tom. The unspoken question was when to do it.
Chapter 13
Bradshaw was right about there being more to this story, but he was some hours late. While Brill was having a late breakfast, the telephone rang. It rang on and on in the CID office at Wawne Road Police Station. Eventually somebody heard it.
'I'm coming, I'm coming. DC Morrison speaking.' As Morrison listened, his frown deepened.
It was a short call. Morrison put the receiver down, picked it up immediately and dialled Bradshaw:
'DC Morrison here, sir. Another dead person, sir.'
Bradshaw couldn't resist a quip at Morrison's expense. 'Well? Happens all the time. People die, not in every Yorkshire village every weekend I'm pleased to say, but we've had our share over the years.'
'Sir.'
'Stop farting about, Brill. Either give me real information or don't waste my time.'
'Sir.'
'And stop sirring me.'
'Yes, sir, there's something else. It's the body.'
'Come on, man, where is it? Up a tree, down a sewer?'
'Not so much where is it as what was it, sir?'
'You mean it's too old for identification. It's been in the water too long.'
'Not underwater, sir. More a case of not much left.'
'The killer has dismembered it and scattered the parts.'
'Not scattered, sir, but a lot has gone.'
'Gone?'
'Yes, sir. It looks as though someone, or something, has eaten it.'
'God! As if I haven't enough problems with the staff. Now I've got a bloody anonymous cannibal running round the county. You're telling me our mystery carnivore has struck again.'
'I suppose so. Yes, sir.'
As soon as Bradshaw put his phone down it rang again.
'Bradshaw,' he intoned mechanically.
The voice at the other end was crisp and on the ball. 'ACC here. Is that Bradshaw?'
Bradshaw jumped to it. The last thing he wanted at this moment was a conversation with Assistant Chief Constable Jack Deerbolt.
'Yes, sir. I was intending to ring you.'
'Save your breath. I gather another body has been found.'
'Yes, sir, but everything is under control.'
'Correction, Bradshaw. Everything is bordering on out of control.'
'We're doing everything we can, sir. We have it all in hand. We're close to having a suspect.'
'All this time, all these bodies? You'll soon have half a football team in that mortuary. "Close to having a suspect?" I don't recognise the expression. Either you suspect a person or you don't.'
'We do, sir.' Bradshaw wriggled on his chair.
'Good. That confirms what I picked up on the grapevine. Who is it?'
'We're not revealing the identity of the person at present, sir. Media attention, cock-ups and so forth. Comprendes?'
'I'm not the bloody press for God's sake, I'm your line manager. Who the hell is it?'
'Nobody you know, sir. We think he absconded from Cortham RSU, the mental health one, not the children's secure unit at Cortham Grange.'
Deerbolt was irritated. 'I know the bloody difference. What's his name?'
'Er, I don't have the name. We're still checking.'
'I'm a busy man, Bradshaw. Don't play silly buggers. Ring me back ASAP with the details.'
'It will be soon, sir, but not immediate.'
He heard Deerbolt banging the desk. 'Don't split hairs with me. I say ASAP, that's what I mean. Nail this suspect. Another thing, when you make the arrest, make sure you inform me immediately. I don't want half the reporters in the county banging on my door with me unable to tell them a dickie bird. Got that?'
'Will do, sir.' Deerbolt didn't hear him. He had put the phone down.
Bradshaw picked up the phone and dialled. Morrison answered.
'I must have an ID done on that body. You had it sussed. Any confirmation? I need it, one way or the other.'
'Forensics say it'll be forty-eight hours, sir.'
'We haven't got forty-eight hours.' Bradshaw was almost shouting with impatience.
'I'll check with them and find out if they can speed it up. We'll be as quick as possible.'
'See you are. Deerbolt'll have our guts for garters if we can't find out today.'
* * *
When Brill returned, Morrison briefed him. Brill pulled a face. He knew DCI Winchester would not be back for two or three hours. After a couple of attempts, he was through to Forensics.
'Hi, it's me.'
'Who's me?'
'Don't play with me. You buggers don't answer the phone.'
'It's a bit difficult when you're up to your elbows in it.'
'Any luck on that ID?'
'Haven't the least idea, lad.'
'Stop arsing about.'
'We've a good set of dentures, but no other distinguishing features.'
'You could start by checking the records of all the dental surgeons in the district – say, within ten miles of Hull in every direction.'
'And you could start by appreciating we've no staff, not like you lot in CID, mob-handed.'
'Don't take your frustrations out on me, mate.'
The other man was unabashed. The banter was normal. 'Anyway, we're hoping for a stroke of luck with the prints, provided nobody interrupts us for the next couple of hours.'
'I'll see what I can do to restrain myself.'
* * *
Chris had made space to visit the University. The phone rang as Tom was preparing to go for some lunch. He was surprised to find how pleased he was to hear Chris Winchester's voice.
'I'm ringing partly to thank you for the list of names your secretary faxed me. I'd like to take up your offer to go through them with me, some time soon.'
'I'm about to have a bite to eat,' said Tom. 'How soon is soon?'
'Is that an invitation?'
'It could be. It depends how far away you are.'
'Not too far.'
'I could drive halfway.'
'Don't put yourself to any trouble. I'm the one causing the inconvenience. I'll be with you in ten minutes.'
'I'll wait in my office.'
* * *
Chris was a further half hour, but Tom didn't notice the time.
'We can pop across to the restaurant for a hot meal. Or I can ask Jean to bring us a sandwich from the senior common room.'
They walked into the University restaurant. Tom guided her to a table on the terrace overlooking the lake at the heart of the campus, where Chris sat and scanned the extensive menu. A thought occurred to her. She flashed a quick appraising glance at him and was almost relieved to confirm her initial judgement. He wasn't her type. Not only were academics bad news; she could quote numerous scare stories from Oxford about their oddities. More immediately, he was so incredibly scruffy. His hair was too long, his clothes were a disgrace. He looked as though he could do with a good valet to go through his wardrobe and smarten up his –
Stop it, she said to herself. That's a dangerous road.
After the meal, they moved to an area of easy chairs, down steps near the water's edge
.
'Why are university campuses so much more civilised than Police Force headquarters?' Chris asked.
'It's a veneer. It enables the academics to behave like animals without anyone noticing.'
She smiled. 'Give me a veneer any day, rather than crude reality. Is this how you eat all the time?'
'It's my main meal on days like this.'
'No meal waiting on the table at home.'
'Those days are over,' he replied cryptically.
Chris broke the awkwardness of the silence.
'First things first,' she said, with pen poised over the pad. 'What are you professor of?'
'Don't even ask. I have no desire to be pinned down on paper before I even start.'
'This isn't about pride or conceit. It's for the record. If you make a statement, you have to provide these details.'
* * *
Chris had worked through the preliminaries. She was warming to Tom, now that he was talking in a more relaxed way and less like the walking brains she was so prejudiced against.
'As a researcher I haven't found it easy to fit into a university environment. I'm not into the culture of the new universities, all those strange rituals and preoccupations, giving people who are basically administrators high academic titles like Dean and Professor.'
The political context Tom worked in was unexciting, with some fairly predictable personalities. He told her about his particularly abrasive relationship with Apthorpe, the rat professor as Tom called him, whose behaviourist inclinations clashed predictably with the entire trajectory of Tom's own work. As for Hugh Mackintosh, the Dean of Studies, he took the line of least resistance, being near retirement and a political appointment himself from after the late 1970s, when some genuflections towards the New Right seemed appropriate. So they offered the chair – he later became Dean – to an established economist with a preference for free markets. He'd outlasted his usefulness after 1997, when Labour swept into power with a huge majority, and pretty well everyone awaited his replacement. The new culture of devolved budgets for departments and research units brought with it a new vulnerability to the exigencies of the competition to win research grants. This made for an enhanced mutual dependence between academics in the department and emphasised the value of good administrative support.
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