Chapter 17
My fascination with the maze was the high point of the behavioural approach. I saw in it the degradation of the species to the level of machines. Physiological organisms may be complex, but ultimately they are simply conditioned to respond to stimuli, biologically and chemically determined. Whereas what I strove towards was a way of transcending this view. To put a rat in a maze and observe its efforts to reach a solution, a way out, was a denial of the social dimension of its being. Likewise, ants were highly collective in their everyday patterns of living.
As I stared at the ants for hours every day, observing their comings and goings around their nests, the goal dawned on me. It became so blindingly obvious that once I'd realised it, I couldn't understand how I'd failed to realise it before. Their lives, the entire survival and prosperity of the nest, depended on interaction between individuals. I must find out what that interaction consisted of. Once having achieved that, of course, I would be well placed to move beyond the behaviourally-based assumptions of the biologists.
And, I hardly dared entertain the possibility, there was the goal of cracking the code, learning the language, actually entering into transactions, interacting with his ants with my with his who are they these crawling maggots in my head. Suppurating pores. This was my maze. The journey through it to the goal occupied me now and as far ahead as I could see.'
G
* * *
Laura was on the phone: 'Hullo Helen, yes, it was my message. It would be great. The kids get so bored. I thought you might be at a loose end with Robin being away. Tom? Don't ask. That's another story. Suffice to say he's still living here, physically, but I'm a free agent at pres. See you in town at the usual place. Elevenish? Fine.'
'Hurry up, kids. We're going to town.'
'Where are we going?'
'To town. We're meeting Helen.'
'Why did Auntie Helen call Uncle Robin a wasp, Mummy?'
'When? I never heard that.'
'The other day. When you were talking in the kitchen.'
'Oh that. She didn't mean it, darling. It was just one of those things people say.'
'Wasps sting. Does that mean they're horrid?'
'They are, but Uncle Robin isn't.'
'They have bright coloured coats, Mummy. Does that mean they show off?' said Matthew.'
'No, stupid. They're easily led,' said Sarah.
'What is measily led?' asked Matthew. 'Does it mean you can follow them because of the bright spots.'
'Stupid,' Sarah said, at which point a fight started between the two children. When Laura separated them the questions began again.
'Do the mummies have different coats to the daddies?'
'I think so. Don't talk so loud, Sarah. People will hear you. No, it's not quite like that.'
'Why is it then? Do they want everyone to see them and kill them?'
'Nearly right,' she said. 'They want to be noticed. But it's so their enemies will recognise them, associate this with their stings and leave them alone.'
* * *
Chris was seriously worried. With no fresh information coming in, the police investigation wasn't exactly grinding to a halt, but neither had it enough critical mass to develop its own momentum.
She came straight from a meeting with Mary Threadgold, determined to catch Bradshaw and ratchet up the scale of the investigation. Bradshaw was unimpressed. He was sceptical of experts in general and was particularly disinclined to invest in theories generated by forensic psychiatrists.
'Dr Threadgold believes this is the lull before the storm.'
Bradshaw looked quizzically at Chris.
'The storm before the lull, more likely.' He chortled at his joke.
'The likeliest scenario is that the killer will attack with increasing frequency and ferocity as his desperation at his own position increases.'
'How does Dr Threadgold know this?'
'I explained before, sir, it's her belief, having appraised all the available evidence.'
'Don't patronise me, Inspector. I've appraised the evidence too. I've taken advice from senior colleagues. We'll soon have the killer under lock and key, without the need to panic or do anything drastic.'
'I want to bring in a specialist on ants, as adviser, sir. And I want to increase the number of officers committed to the inquiries. We can't achieve anything at the present level of activity.'
'I can't agree to your request. It's resources in part. In part, it's my feeling you've flooded us with experts and we've damn all to show for it. There's a view at senior management level that these incidents are one-offs.'
'Sir, that's ridiculous. How can successive killings using similar quite eccentric methods be one-offs? We've not had anything like this for years, if ever.'
'Don't give me ridiculous. The informed view of senior management is there's no likelihood the killings will continue. They were a one-off. They may not be related to a couple of so-called letters from a so-called killer.'
'We've had three, possibly four notes now.'
'Which proves nothing. They could be part of a confidence trick, or wind-up.'
'I can't see how a member of the public could have found out about our four victims, sir.'
'Four! In your dreams, Inspector. Who are these four so-called victims?'
The clerk to the coroner, sir.'
'The woman, yes.'
'Brandt, the university researcher.'
'You have no evidence linking that death to this inquiry.'
'The absconder from the mental health unit.'
'A quite unrelated incident.'
'The pig.'
'An animal! This is becoming a joke.'
'Brilliant. We have a management which puts murders in the same category as practical jokes.'
'You're treading near the line of insolence, Inspector.'
'Somebody needs to, in this Force. If we're to make progress, sir, I need you to confirm we're still conducting a murder inquiry. Otherwise we may as well pack up now.' Chris turned and walked towards the door.
Bradshaw must have realised he'd gone too far. He called out, 'Inspector.'
Chris stopped.
'All right, I may have over-played my scepticism.'
Chris turned to face him. He continued: 'I'm not suggesting we halt the investigation. But I'm not willing, the Force is not willing, to have the entire budget thrown into disarray at this point in the financial year, on an eccentric whim. As from this evening, I'm putting four fifths of the murder investigation team back onto regular duties.'
'You've been dying to do that ever since – well, the world's back in its place, me being the eccentric, presumably.'
'It's not about that. I value the work you and your colleagues have done.' Chris's expression was scepticial. 'I have to respond to a wide range of demands. Police responsibilities are wide-ranging. Bring me results and we'll have another look at the situation.'
This time Chris really was on her way to the door. She opened it. Bradshaw called after her:
'We're all part of the decision-making process.'
'That's why nothing will happen till too late,' she muttered as she left him alone.
* * *
It was nearly lunchtime. Tom's secretary Jean smiled almost imperceptibly.
'Thanks, Jean. Worth your weight in gold,' said Tom, as she brought him the stack of trays loaded with the various letters and packages which had arrived in his absence, sorted into action/no action and urgent/not urgent.
When Tom returned to his desk, the fax, e-mail and voicemail were all signalling urgently, seeming to conspire against him getting on with his own work. In a characteristic mood of rebellion, he showed his irritation at this concerted display of crass irrelevancies.
He caught sight of a folder containing his lecture notes for Peterborough and inspected it. She'd done a fantastic job. The disk and printouts of the stills were in the folder with the typescript.
Jean called through. 'People have been trying to cont
act you.'
'I'm out if anyone rings,' he said crossly.
'What do I do about Professor Apthorpe? He has been trying to reach you all morning.'
'Damn! Ring him back and say you just missed me. The vice-chancellor called me to an urgent meeting. No, say I've a conference in Stockholm for the rest of the week.'
Storms often blew around Jean at work. She coped with her job by keeping a cool head. 'Stockholm? Is there something on? He might ask.'
'No, yes, I mean no. Nothing of interest to him I suppose. No conferences or high profile ministerial meetings. Though you can say I'm spending time with our Swedish collaborating partners in the insect parasites project. I'm meeting a former colleague, and in the evening my aunt who married into the family of a prominent firm of Stockholm lawyers.'
'Are you actually going to Stockholm? I don't recall buying the tickets. I thought you were in Peterborough.'
'Don't ask,' said Tom. 'Then you won't be lying.'
* * *
Church bells pealed noisily in the Old Town of Hull. It would be somebody's celebration, probably a wedding, thought Laura, and sighed.
Helen and Laura sat at one of the tables on the fringe of the market place outside the cafe and sipped at cups of piping hot coffee.
'It's busy,' said Helen, not feeling able to respond adequately to Laura's sigh.
'Only till graduation week,' said Laura. 'It'll be just tourists then, for three months. Like a respectable English town with something to offer foreign visitors. Off season, in a way.'
'That's an unusual twist,' said Helen. 'Most people view the summer as the on-season.'
'It's an academic view,' said Laura. 'Tom's view. It rubs off on me. I can't help it.'
Helen topped up their coffees from the cafetière. 'So Tom was seeing that clerk to the coroner they found dead.'
'What do you mean?' Laura's heart was racing.
Helen peered at her. 'Darling, are you all right? I hope I'm not creating problems.'
'Fine, thank you.' Helen was silent while she digested the information. It was a shock, even though she tried to shrug it off.
'You can love a man without being in love with him,' said Laura casually.
'You can also love more than one man simultaneously.'
'That applies to men as well as women.'
'Unfortunately,' said Helen, thinking of Robin.
'You love your friends, but you're in love with your partner,' said Laura.
'I hate that word partner,' said Helen. 'It sounds as though living together is a business.'
'It can be, whichever way you use the word. Tom's been a good husband,' she added thoughtfully, à propos of nothing in particular. 'But he's also been a selfish, self-centred bastard.'
'Snap.'
'He's in the past tense, as well?'
'Afraid so.'
Helen leaned forward and put her arm round Laura. 'I'm so sorry.'
'Don't be, not for me. I passed that stage some time ago.' Laura remained sitting stiffly. She couldn't soften to emotions, not in public, not in front of the world.
Helen leaned back slightly. Laura continued. 'There are compensations.'
'In Robin's case, tell me about them.'
'I thought things had improved.'
'In theory yes, but now he's abroad I can see more clearly. He's become bad news for me, in a big way.'
'You don't think –'
'With Robin, you don't think. That's it. What I mean is it's quite difficult to repair your relationship at a distance of a few thousand miles.'
'Looking on the bright side, distance sharpens desire,' said Laura.
'Or extinguishes it.'
'I bet when he returns he'll be all over you again. I'm the one with the burnt-out marriage.'
'Why say that? I see you as one of life's winners, whatever the defects in your marriage. Married to one of the most eminent academics in the field.'
'Unfortunately,' said Laura, 'you can't have a relationship with a research grant, or make love by e-mail.'
'Some academics seem to manage it,' said Helen.
'That's precisely the problem. They live in their bloody heads all the time.'
'Virtual reality.'
'Virtual death.'
Talking about Helen's situation chewed Laura up. There was so much she couldn't share with Helen, not least that she, too, had fancied Robin for some time. It was terrible to feel a conflict of loyalties. There was one question she had to ask, to help her resolve a particular uncertainty.
'Would you be devastated if Robin did stray again?'
Helen considered. 'In some ways I'd be relieved another woman had taken the decision out of my hands.'
'That's what I felt about Tom,' said Laura, 'though the situation has gone beyond that.'
Laura dropped Helen off on her own way home. She was mopping her eyes with a tissue as she drove up to the front of their own garage and parked.
'Why are you crying, Mummy,’ asked Matthew.
'Mummy isn't crying,' said Laura. 'She's got a fly in her eye.'
'Hmm! Both eyes, I suppose,’ snorted Matthew.
'Shut up, Matthew,' said Sarah, assuming the role of protector.
'I must have a cold coming as well,' explained Laura, vainly seeking an escape from further inquiry. I'll look such a terrible mess now, she thought. Please don't let there be any phone calls or visitors, certainly for the next hour, but preferably for the next two or three years, till this is sorted out. What am I thinking of, she chided herself. Then she was annoyed. It only took a few remarks by Helen to bring on a severe attack of self-pity.
* * *
Laura picked up the phone. Before she met Helen she had no intention of contacting Tom. Now she dialled his number. She had to clear the air.
'What is going on, Tom? You didn't tell me you were seeing the murdered woman.'
'Who's that?' Tom was astonished, playing for time.
'The clerk to the coroner.'
'Who told you that?'
'Helen told me.'
'How does she know?' He regretted the words. They sounded like an admission. He tried to recover the ground. 'I had a bad feeling about Detlev. I arranged to meet her. The meeting never took place.'
For an air-clearing conversation, this is going averagely badly, she thought grimly.
'Someone's circling round, doing people in,' Tom explained. 'I wonder if it's connected with me and my Research Centre in some way I can't fathom at present.'
'You're having an affair.'
'I'm not.'
'You were at the time, even if you've finished it.'
'I wasn't, I never was.'
'You didn't tell me you were seeing her.'
'I wasn't seeing her, not that way. I had an odd feeling about Detlev's death, that was all. After the inquest, I rang her.'
'I fail to see why.'
'To see whether my doubt was shared among the court officers, I suppose.’
'I can't believe you'd be so naïve as to expect they'd be prepared to comment to a complete stranger on such a delicate matter.'
'I wasn't a complete stranger.'
'So you did know her.'
'I didn't.'
'But you'd spoken to her.'
'Yes.'
'When?'
'When I phoned.'
'Why did you phone?'
'To ask her to meet me.'
'You fancied her?'
'No.'
'Don't try to bluff me. I know you. What did her husband think?'
'I've no idea whether she even had one.'
'She'd have worn a wedding ring.'
'I wouldn't notice that day in the courtroom, would I?'
'It's the kind of detail women notice all the time. She was married.' Laura was thinking, why shouldn't I lie? She wanted to make Tom squirm. 'I've seen the husband on the telly. He's completely devastated, be in no doubt about that.'
'You think I don't feel guilty about it.'
'What time ar
e you back for tea?'
Tom cursed inwardly. 'I won't be back till later this evening. I forgot to tell you I'm giving a lecture at Peterborough University.'
Laura slammed the phone down.
Chapter 18
Graver's looking across the table at the person opposite.
Can't see who it is.
It may be the Queen.
She's replicating herself in my head
nonsense says the larva.
nonsense says the voice in my head.
Is it a voice or a suppurating spore
He's repeating 'no' and deliberately not turning his head. But he can see his old man moving round behind and he knows what's coming, but this is part of the escape from the trap. You have to build up sufficient pressure, he tells himself, to break through. It's like the kids shaking those fizzy bottles, the big ones, and then unscrewing the tops real quick. Whoosh! Except that now he's said the word there's a further bunch of hurdles which weren't all there before, or at least some were, but weren't visible.
Even what you've rehearsed many times never turns out quite how you expect. 'No', he says, and looks around in amazement, as in the total silence which follows, all the clocks don't stop and the gas goes on making the pans on the stove bubble and as far as he can tell his heart is still beating, only now it's more like a massive drum. And his father's face, the cause of this global pause, is draining slowly from red to white and then back to purple as the blood pounds back, attempting to break through every vessel and failing by the whisker which would save Graver even now from the beating of his life.
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