This distinction was also apparently lost on Bradshaw, who saw it as further evidence of the total irrelevance of most if not all of what scientists think and say. 'All very interesting to academics no doubt, but I can't see how it affects our police inquiries.'
'I'm saying we shouldn't narrow the field of inquiry at the University to possible suspects within the ant predation unit, my Research Centre, or indeed within my department.'
‘We haven't,' said Bradshaw stoutly. ‘We're trawling across the entire institution and across the county.'
'Good, I'm delighted.'
'Did this Walters work with the insect communication unit?'
'He did,' said Tom. ‘We have to allow for the possibility that we were led by the real killer to look in the wrong area. And the real killer has exploited the fact to cover his tracks. By implying that his obsession was with how ants attack, he offered false trails, hoping we'd direct our investigation towards Walters the technician. Or at me of course.'
Bradshaw was silent. He was irritated to find himself on the receiving end of these speculations. To him there was a strict boundary round police discussion of police work. Detection was not the business of this man, professor or not, or of anybody outside the Force.
* * *
It was after five when Chris rang again. Tom was still in his office.
'I did try social services,' she said, 'but they can't help. All their back records were destroyed during local government reorganisation.'
'That's illegal.'
'It happens legally to records before a certain date, but this was a fire in the office. Murphy's Law operates in some investigations.'
'Murphy?'
'If a thing can go wrong, then it will.'
Tom passed this over. 'Any news on the medical or school front?'
'Yes and no,' said Chris. 'I thought the doctor would be more reticent than the teacher, but in the event it was the other way around. Possibly that's because he became a bit of a thorn in the side of the school – disruptiveness, that sort of thing – whereas his illnesses were what the health professionals were geared up to dealing with and didn't reflect badly on them. Basically, at the age of nine – I calculate that this would be shortly after leaving the children's home – Thompsen became seriously ill and they thought for a while it was scarlet fever. The doctor at the time recalls that his temperature was so high that he went into intensive care, couldn't keep anything down, and was sick if he ate or drank more than a few mouthfuls at a time. She can't remember whether they eventually decided it was food poisoning or a virus, but from our point of view the main noteworthy item is that Thompsen had a further period of prolonged isolation from the usual domestic setting, possibly a month or six weeks, according to the doctor. It wasn't long after that when he made his first attempt at suicide.'
‘What, at nine? That's terrifying.'
'I think by this time we're seeing the early signs of a withdrawal from pretty well all of what you and I would regard as normal human interaction.'
'He sounds to have boxed himself into a corner.'
'Psychiatrists might say he was well down the road towards developing some very disturbed coping mechanisms.'
'I'd hardly describe suicide attempts as coping.'
'Many serial killers hover on the edge of suicide and some eventually take that option.'
'But not soon enough for their victims, unfortunately.'
'I didn't hear that remark.'
'You seem to have an unhealthy sympathy for the murderer in this case.'
'Sympathy is the wrong word. I want to understand the motivation of our man, so we can nail him before he kills anyone else. All this is purely speculative, of course. It gives the point of view of various other people about this man and his alleged disturbances during childhood. I've known many children who have been through the care system and have suffered serious illnesses, but they don't go on to become murderers.'
'I'm a bit confused. Was he fostered or was he brought up in a children's home?'
'He was shuttled about, as far as I can tell, between the children's home and Mrs Blatt. There seem to have been behavioural problems, but we've no records, merely people's memories.'
They chatted some more, mostly about inconsequentials. In the midst of it Tom reached a decision.
'I'm thinking I could drive down now and be more constructive working with you directly than sitting here.'
'If that's what you want,' she said, and although she said nothing more Tom thought her tone lightened, as though she was pleased at the prospect.
After Chris rang off Tom left the office with the very strong feeling that they would soon be going after Thompsen as a suspect. It wasn't so much a decision as a smooth flow from frustration, anger and all the other emotions associated with the killings, to action. He wanted to take positive action, whether or not it was definitively the final stage of the inquiry, as long as he was engaged rather than sitting on the sidelines. He made preparations to leave, in haste but with the deliberation of the hunter.
'I'm coming, you bastard!' he ground through his teeth while he packed the car. 'You'd better leave them alone before I reach you, or your life won't be worth giving away.'
Tom met up with Chris in the hotel on the outskirts of Cambridge where she was staying. It was one of those hotels which feel more like a country house, with lots of intimate corners, well-upholstered sofas and small coffee tables matching the light, chestnut-coloured wood panelling. As he walked into the lounge he saw her sitting in a small nook, leafing through papers. Later he recalled this moment. The frisson of pleasure at meeting like this took him by surprise. It felt like an illicit assignment during an affair. He hurriedly suppressed the thought.
'Hi.' He stood in front of her and she looked up in surprise.
'You were quick. I didn't expect to see you for another hour.'
‘We East Riding men don't mess about.'
'I didn't think you were from the East Riding.'
'I'm not, but I've worked in the county for many years. It helps to use the line sometimes.'
'You'd find it very difficult to fool anybody, apart from a blind, deaf person perhaps, into thinking you were from the East Riding.'
Chris ordered a beer for Tom and a glass of dry white wine and they sat chatting. There was a good deal of detail from her interviews which she hadn't been able to give him over the phone.
'Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go and sort out our accommodation. I assume you're staying here.'
'If they've room.'
'There's rather a lot going on in town this week, so if you don't check in here you'll be sleeping in the car, believe me. I had a huge job finding this when I came down.'
She was back from Reception in five minutes.
'Slightly tricky. They've no vacancies and their linked sister hotels and B&B addresses are all fully booked.'
'I'd better start trekking.'
'I've already told you, it's a waste of time.' She looked at her watch. 'Anyway, it’s seven-fifteen. It'll be dinner soon. Are you hungry?'
'I will be once I've sorted out some accommodation.'
She looked him in the eye. ‘Well, Professor, I've taken the bull by the horns, so to speak, and told them my partner will be checking in shortly. It's a large room. There's a huge sofa and enough spare bedding if you're too squeamish to squeeze in on the far edge of my super king-sized bed.'
He was speechless.
'Don't read anything into it,' she said. 'Just tell me whether or not you're staying.'
‘Well … yes.'
She smoothed the table top with one hand and poured a fresh cup of tea so she didn't have to see his expression. ‘We're mature adults and I'm sure this is the lesser of many evils, so the less said about it the better.'
* * *
By the time they'd had a late dinner and speculated at length on the details of the case, it was after midnight. Tom dutifully bedded down on the sofa. In the middle of the night he had a d
ream in which he was being disturbed in bed by an apparition leading him to a banqueting hall in which revellers were celebrating an unknown occasion. In the morning, he came to consciousness early and was confused at first by his surroundings. An arm lay across his bare chest. He turned his head, opened his eyes and, before memory kicked in, was astonished to find he was lying in bed with Chris. She was already awake and gave him a wickedly knowing smile.
'Good morning, Professor.'
'Good morning, Chief Inspector.'
'I hope you slept well.'
'I did, thank you. And did you? I hope I didn't disturb you.'
She grinned mischievously. 'Quite the opposite. I found out professors aren't as boring in bed as they are in the office.'
He was blushing. Her directness reduced him to speechlessness.
Chapter 26
Over breakfast they considered the implications of the past few days' investigation. Chris summarised the position as she saw it.
'Our main difficulty is in deciding who these two men are, or were. Is it as simple as Walters is dead and innocent whilst Thompsen is alive and guilty? Our killer signs some of the notes G and some J. That could be either Walters or Thompsen, since they're both called John. Assuming the notes were written within the past two years, we're agreed it's not Walters, so it could be Thompsen. It could also be somebody else. They're very common initials and on their own take us nowhere. We don't know the location of Thompsen, so it's one step forward, two back.'
'I need to know how he controls the ants,' said Tom.
'You're a few jumps ahead of me. My first question is who the murderer is, and some way down the line might be a question about whether he controls ants.'
'He does something, be assured. The question is how sophisticated it is. At a basic level, he might just be manipulating temperature, light and humidity to maximise movement and response to external stimuli such as a plentiful supply of potential food.'
'You mean in the form of flesh, a body.'
'Preferably a live one, unfortunately.'
'Too macabre for me. How important are the other factors?'
'Temperature is important because it directly governs the metabolic rate of the individual – speed of movement, response to stimuli. The effect of increasing it only a few degrees can be dramatic. Watch your average comatose nest of wood ants in their conical heap come to life when the sun moves round and falls on the sloping side of the heap on a cool day in early spring. If humidity increases to some extent with temperature, it prevents ants desiccating in the increased heat.'
'I thought they flourished in dry climates.'
'Some are adapted to deserts and do quite well. But I'm talking about extremes. The entire colony can overheat if it dries out at a high temperature. Then, of course, remember different species react differently.'
'So, what device are we looking for?'
'I'm convinced he uses a mechanical device for bringing the ants to the desired pitch of excitement.'
'In effect, to use them as instruments of execution.'
'Yes.'
'Is it a box?'
'I doubt it,' said Tom. 'Some stimulus or other. A physiological trick perhaps, based on knowing what stimulates ants to act in predictable ways.'
'Trickery?'
'Yes, creating a false light source using mirrors, for instance. Ants respond to different strengths and colours of light rays. And incidentally, they perceive red light as black, which has its uses when you want to observe them inside the nest, under laboratory conditions.'
'Sounds like your experimenters have a real fun time in your red light district.'
'An absolute ball,' said Tom ironically.
Chris looked at her watch. 'It might be politic if I paid the bill.'
'Do I sense we should be setting off?'
'If I'm to head off an inquisition from Bradshaw, about half an hour ago I guess.'
* * *
The journey back to Hull was smooth and speedy. Tom arrived at work just before ten. He spent the next hour in the main office sorting out various administration matters. The phone was already ringing as he walked back into his own office and picked up the receiver.
'Chris here. How are you fixed for red wine?'
'Pardon?'
'I asked because I've some cold meat here.'
'Someone fancies herself as the reincarnated Philip Marlowe,' Tom said archly.
'Eh?'
'Raymond Chandler, you know, The Big Sleep.' Tom exaggerated Bogarde's drawl from the side of his mouth: 'Don't play the innocent with me, sister. After this is over maybe we can pick up on the wine tasting, when you're no longer carrying the cuffs and I'm not a scientist.'
'Okay, wise guy. I give in. Are you interested in meeting?'
'To be honest I haven't put my bags down yet. An hour ago I returned to the University from a forensic entomology meeting at Peterborough University, would you believe it?' He waited for her response and, true to expectation, she followed his lead.
'I never would believe you. Here was I thinking you were away with some scarlet woman. I hadn't thought such a thing as a flock of forensic entomologists would exist. Do you call them a swarm?'
'A convention.'
'Very good. Any other group of forensic experts is called a body,' she said with a grim snort.
Tom groaned out loud. This conversation was degenerating rapidly.
'Okay, I shouldn't have said it. What I meant was, surely a crowd like that has the potential to be pretty macabre.'
'There isn't so much of the macabre about most of them. I think you might have the wrong idea about entomology of whatever kind.'
Chris was amused by the irony: 'So here we are, a policewoman who's had enough of policing and an academic who finds detection fascinating and doesn't object to being recruited to work for the police.'
'I didn't know you were so brassed off with detective work.'
'I'm not. It's the Police Force which brasses me off.'
'There isn't that much difference between us then. It's the approaches of those fictional detectives which interests me. And their lifestyles, I suppose,' he added as an afterthought. 'I used to want to be a private detective. When I was about to take the plunge into research, I made a resolution that if ever that world crashed, I'd set up a detective agency.'
Chris giggled. 'It'll look a bit of a come down on the business card – Private Eye.'
'Private Investigator,' he corrected. 'We aren't part of the USA yet.'
'Sorry.' She paused to scribble an imaginary alteration in the air. 'Big difference.'
'Not any old investigator, though.'
'Of course not. It wouldn't be dignified, an international academic snooping on adulterous spouses.'
'I don't intend to get into that.'
'That's where the money is, sunshine. Jealous people pay well.'
'I shall set strict limits to what I get involved in.'
'High principles, unemployed, but ethically sound. Very impressive.'
'There's a whole raft of stuff with a scientific or research edge to it, equally as significant as all your adulterers. Environmental issues, industrial espionage, that kind of thing.'
'Don't pin the adultery trip on me. I never said I was interested in people who are adulterating.'
'No, not like that. I thought you said that's what your agency would be doing.'
'I never said that. I said keeping your principles intact is the way to insulate yourself against growing rich.'
'Growing rich at all?'
'You're pushing me. I'll stick at too quickly.'
'That's what I find endearing about you Chris, your flexibility.'
* * *
Bradshaw had found out a little about Chris's recent unapproved travels and was not amused. She stood in his office.
'I'm putting it down the line, Inspector Winchester, that unless you obey orders you'll be out of this office, out of plain clothes and out of the Force altogether. Do I make mys
elf clear?'
'Perfectly clear, sir.'
'Never mind the fancy answer. Yes or no?'
'Yes.'
'Get on with it, Inspector.'
‘With pleasure.'
‘What did you say?'
'I said, sir, I'll be very pleased to leave this room.'
Bradshaw leaned across the desk and lowered his voice.
'This is not an ordinary room, Inspector Winchester, it is my office. And in my office, the business is done by me. I decide when it is complete and when people come in and go out. Now you will leave my office and carry out this Force's orders without further ado, or there will be serious repercussions.'
The phone was ringing as Chris walked into her own office.
'Hello, is that Chris?'
'Yes. What is it?'
'Christ!' She heard the sound as Tom slapped his forehead. 'Two things. I know the mechanism used to rouse the ants to kill and I know where Thompsen fits in.'
'Slow down, I've had my boss shouting at me. I can only take one more piece of news at a time.'
'Okay, the mechanism first. We've lost a fairly sophisticated device we named the Antennator, which was developed in my Research Centre to explore communication between ants. Now the other matter ...'
‘Wait a moment. When did this device go missing?'
'I'm not sure, but I'm kicking myself. It's been missing for months, possibly longer.'
'Sounds slack to me.'
'I know, I know, but it's universities. They're very federated organisations, which means people can be left to their own devices for years, unless what they're doing or not doing infringes upon somebody else's territory.'
'Bizarre.' She was very unimpressed. ‘What's your other discovery?'
'Not a discovery so much as a thought.' He paused and took a deep breath. 'I've remembered something going on at the time Walters was here. He was on sick leave after a serious accident and we'd had several temps in and were looking for a permanent replacement. He said he could find us a candidate from a local technical college who'd been employed as a technician for several years. I think I recall some discussion with our personnel department about whether relatives of staff could be employed on this basis.'
Antman Page 26