Antman

by Robert V. Adams

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  'I'll make myself crystal clear,' said Chris. 'If you don't give your verbal agreement now, to each other and to me, I will be in to see your superintendent to ask to return whence I came. You can take pot-luck then who replaces me. So, your answer please.'

  People looked at each other, then at Chris. Gradually the nods came, to each other and to her.

  'Better the devil you know. That's all for today. Back to your duties,' she said. 'I want all those on duty back here tomorrow morning for a full run down at 8:00 a.m. Be prepared to give a verbal report on everything you've been doing to date. I gather today a woman's body has been found. I'll see the officers involved in finding this latest body, in my office in fifteen minutes time.'

  * * *

  Chris returned to the Station desk, unaware that Bradshaw had been in the doorway and witnessed the proceedings, withdrawing at the last minute to go to his own office.

  'The Super's in,' said Brill.

  'Thank you, Sergeant,' said Chris.

  She knocked on Bradshaw's door.

  'Come in. Ah, DCI Winchester. Close the door.'

  'I took the liberty of introducing myself to the team,' said Chris.

  'I know,' said Bradshaw, 'I was there.'

  'I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean – you could have introduced –'

  'Introduced, nothing. If I'd spoken, you'd have been knocked off your perch till I chose to pick you back up and put you on it. Even if I hadn't spoken, you might have been put on the defensive by them. For reasons best known to them perhaps, they chose not to go onto the attack. This meeting between us is better held in private.'

  Chris looked shocked.

  'You took a chance there. You aren't heading this team by permission of your officers. You realise that.'

  'Perfectly.'

  'Why the hell create that impression?'

  'To make a point.'

  'I want you to understand your authority comes from the Police Force, through me, and not through your charisma, personality, charm or any other feminine or other personal qualities. As it happens, over and above heading the team, I'm appointing you to head this inquiry into the finding of the two bodies: the woman and the, er, pig. You haven't been voted in. You're seconded from another place, by higher authority. The other side of the equation is that you don't need to seek the approval or support of your colleagues. This is a disciplined service. You tell them what to do and they'll do it. Their job is to carry out orders. They're responsible for the work they do. Is that clear?'

  'Yes, sir. Very.'

  'I don't want any sarcasm or irony either, Miss Winchester. I know you're highly educated. Without doubt the most educated woman in this Station, and probably the person with the highest qualifications of anyone – men or women – as well. I don't doubt they've taught you well at Oxford, and at Bramshill. One word of warning. Don't misuse your gifts. The men here, and the women,' he added hastily, 'won't tolerate it and neither will I. Understood?'

  'Understood.' She made as if to leave.

  'Hang on. I've one final thing to say, before you rush out and start filling in complaints forms against me.'

  Chris stared hard at him.

  'I was impressed with your handling of that meeting. I admire your style, even if I don't agree with it. They're an awkward bunch. We haven't a lot of experience of women in charge, as leaders or managers. You've some good people there. To be frank, I despair of how to rescue them and stop them being sucked into the rather negative, cynical undercurrent in this Station. Your introduction could have gone either way. My hope is that if you play it straight with them, they'll give you their best. But there's no guarantee, even if you don't mess them about.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Don't thank me. We'll wait and see and for your sake we'll hope for the best.'

  * * *

  'How's it going in there?'

  'Bradshaw's still with her. Eleven minutes and he hasn't thrown her out yet.'

  'Local record, going now for the Force record.'

  'Fancies his chances with a woman after all these years being beaten by his old lady. Can't imagine anyone fancying him.'

  'He'll be trying the look at me, the most eligible single man routine.'

  'Silly bastard. That look in her eye. Like a spider. She'd shag him, eat him afterwards and spit out the rough bits.'

  Chapter 11

  After her meeting with Bradshaw, Chris drove to the scene of crime. She took DC Morrison with her. DC Livesey was already there when they arrived and briefed her.

  'Female, guv. Young, signs of clothing being disturbed. We found this in the bushes near the body. Forensics haven't confirmed yet, but it could be that missing person from Beverley. We're checking the details in the driving licence.'

  'So whoever it was doesn't mind us establishing the identity of the dead person,' Chris observed.

  'We found this as well, ma'am.'

  Chris took the transparent plastic wallet from him and held it up to the light, illuminating the single A4 sheet of paper it contained.

  'Thank you, Constable. I assume this has been to Forensics.'

  'To be strictly accurate, er, guv, I should have said the original is with Forensics. My best estimate is that their report won't be back for forty-eight hours. The one you have in your hand is a photocopy someone's just brought back. Superintendent Bradshaw's instructions. We had it delivered here, but he's returned to the Station.'

  'Thank you, Constable. I'll see he receives it.'

  'M – er, guv.'

  Chris peered at the scribbled writing, most of it surprisingly legible despite the smudges.

  'God, whoever wrote this has good eyesight.' The A4 sheet was covered in tiny scrawled writing in four vertical columns, the entire length of the page. She read out loud and shivered, not from the cold:

  Miss Greenhill. She's one good reason I turned from performing to conducting at an early age. She used to stand too close and the breath from her mouldy body used to settle round me like a cloud. I imagined it infecting both of us, with her venomous impatience at my slowness to grasp the mechanics of playing the violin. Then when the rays of the sun came shafting through the window at a steep angle, I narrowed my eyes and saw the specks dancing in front of them. I realised they were bacteria from her breath, which teased me before diving towards my mouth and down into my throat. The realisation of all parts of my body as separate entities overwhelmed me. J

  Chris spoke to herself: 'What the hell is this? Recollections of a schizo?'

  'Something like that I guess, guv.'

  Chris continued to read out loud:

  I used to giggle when Miss Greenhill said "your fingers have minds of their own." But I wasn't giggling inside. The thought made me shiver. "Are you cold, boy?" she asked, in a tone which said you can't be. (Nightmare: Lying in bed with a huge monstrous insect bearing down on me, unable to move my legs or arms to get out of the way. Screaming and screaming in terror, yet not able to escape.) The grip of her hand on my fingers hurt sometimes, as she clamped them onto the fingerboard of my little violin. Not that it made any difference to the notes. They never played in tune and the bow used to slide across the sweaty strings where I had held them with my own grimy hands. Once she caught sight of me picking it out of the case, lost her temper, which was bigger than the rest of her tiny body and swiped me with her arm. But even at nine I caught it and held on tight, so she lost her balance and cannoned into a desk. "You wicked boy!" she screamed. "You tried to hit me", I replied. Naturally, she ignored me and continued: "I'll see you punished. This is the last lesson you'll have from me." She did and it was, providing further evidence that what children say counts for nothing whilst what grown-ups say comes to pass, regardless of the truth. But I got my own back.

  'What's this?' The last column of writing was even smaller and much harder to read.

  Music has the advantage of blanking out the sound of the maggots. I don't like to think of t
hem advancing slowly, but always advancing. It's better not to be able to hear the low vibration of their rippling muscles against the tunnel walls.

  '

  'This person's in serious trouble. Psychotic, would you say?'

  The constable shrugged:

  'Dunno, guv. Unless the author is this Miss what's-her-name music teacher. Head cases aren't my strong point.'

  'Not mine either, thank God. Listen to this ending though, something, something – I can't quite read – then in a quiet, meditative way, infusing the music with emotion welling up I can't say where from. A first essay in the aesthetics of death, you might say. The quicker we find this nutter the better.'

  'It's different from the first.'

  Chris was alerted. 'The first what?'

  'The first letter, guv.'

  Chris leaned towards him.

  'There's been another of these?'

  'Sorry, guv, I thought you knew.'

  'When?'

  'Just before they found the pig.'

  'Come on, Constable, you'll have to explain. To whom was this letter sent?'

  'I don't know, guv. It arrived. The sergeant had it, then the super.'

  'Bradshaw?'

  'Yes.'

  'Thank you.'

  * * *

  Back at the Station, Chris was incandescent with rage. Heads turned as she marched down the corridor, straight to Bradshaw's and in without knocking. Bradshaw looked up in astonishment from the papers he was reading.

  'Good day, Inspector, I didn't hear you knock.'

  'I didn't knock, sir. Why didn't you tell me about the first note from our suspect, before the pig was found?'

  'Ah the note. It wasn't germane to the case. Superseded by more important events, I'd say.'

  'It's damned important, sir, if you hand me an investigation and don't brief me fully.'

  Chris's raised voice was clearly audible down the corridor, and in the main office. Office staff exchanged meaningful glances. Then came the sound of the door slamming shut. Fifteen minutes passed.

  Heads raised as the door opened and Chris's footsteps could be heard, rhythmic, confident, less angry now. She passed the door, head high, a slight smile on her face, reached her own office and went in.

  * * *

  Chris took Sergeant Brill with her when she visited the mortuary. It was a long time before anyone came to the door.

  'I thought you were –' said Brill.

  'Dead?' Rathbone smiled at his joke. 'No, I'm all alone at present, so it's difficult to break off. In the middle of a cut and paste job, so to speak.'

  'Spare us the messy details,' said Brill.

  'Nothing messy to it,' said Rathbone, 'no mess anyway. How's tricks?'

  'We're nowhere on this one,' Brill continued. 'No suspects, no leads, no particular pointers. This is DCI Winchester, by the way.'

  'How are you? Tim Rathbone. You can guess what I do. I won't shake hands.'

  'That's why we've come to see you.'

  'I should be flattered. Everybody always says Forensics will come up with something.'

  'I wouldn't put it as crudely.'

  'I would. You'll no doubt be wanting a full profile of the killer and to know whether this person has killed before and is likely to do it again.'

  'I was wondering what sort of person would do this,' Chris said.

  Rathbone gave her a grim look: 'A very disturbed one.'

  'I wasn't expecting to put you on the spot. I realise it's more the kind of question for a forensic psychiatrist.'

  'It is. Mary Threadgold was in earlier.'

  'Dr Mary Threadgold?'

  Rathbone nodded. 'You know her?'

  'I worked with her on a case in East Yorkshire – a man who'd cut up his wife and run off with his mistress.'

  'She's been reading the notes left at the scene of crime and sent through the post.’

  'Both of them?'

  Rathbone nodded.

  'My impression is she's pretty worried about the risk.'

  'It would help if she communicated with us direct.'

  'You can say that to her yourself. She'll be back in a few minutes.'

  * * *

  Less than two minutes later, Mary Threadgold arrived. In response to Chris's query, she shrugged:

  'I'm not into offender profiling as such, but I've had a look at what you have so far. It's a pity you didn't call me straight away. I like to visit the scene of the crime – in a case like this where the body was found at any rate.'

  'I'll put you on the list for next time,' said Chris.

  'Next time,' Mary exclaimed. 'What makes you think that?'

  'I was going to ask you that question,' said Chris.

  'Anybody in my line of work tends to be a hostage to fortune. No predictions can be made about a case like this. But subject to further analysis as we say, this person has a very out-of-the ordinary mind, in several senses. You've read the notes he or she – probably he – has been writing?'

  'I've seen two.'

  'Here are my thoughts to date. First, our killer may be working to a programme. We don't know what it is, but the notes indicate that the pig was killed as some kind of experiment and I wouldn't mind betting that the first body found after that was also part of an experiment. Unfortunately for us, and for the victim of course, this might mean she was selected opportunistically, which reduces our scope for inferring anything from that set of circumstances.

  'Second, the killings contain a ritual or fetishist element. We don't have much to go on. I've asked around and my colleagues and I have no knowledge of any murderer past or present allowing insects to eat a body after death. The written material gives some clues but doesn't tell us why this person has done this. Nor does it give any real insight into what's going on in the mind of the killer.

  'Third, we know from the notes the killer leaves that this person wants to communicate with us, or with somebody. This is even more unusual than moving the body from the scene of the crime, which only happens in a minority of murders. Perhaps the body was dumped on an ants' nest. The killings could be suicidal, not physically but in the sense that the killer wants to be caught. People do strange things.

  'Fourth, the notes are signed with different initials, J and G, but at this stage I can't tell if this is significant.

  'Finally – and this is what you're asking about – I believe the killer is likely to strike again, in pursuit of some personal agenda. We don't know what this is. It could be a vendetta of some sort against a person or family, selected for a reason the killer understands clearly but no one else is likely to.'

  'You can say that again,' said Chris. 'All very interesting, but does it give you any ideas about where we should be looking?'

  'Unfortunately not,' said Mary. 'Except the fairly obvious comment that there may be a strong link between the killer and the victims. This could apply to the experimental victim – the first one, or it might not. I can't say at this stage.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Only the thought that this is an intelligent killer. The way the notes are written – style, vocabulary and so on. I'd plump for a professional person. The emphasis on experiments could be a clue, or a deliberate red herring, to put us off the real scent. One way or another, I'd go for a person with a university background, even possibly someone who's employed as a researcher. This is pure speculation, but the obvious extreme case would be a person whose job involves experimenting on ants. If there are such people within travelling distance of Hull, I think it would be worth eliminating them from your inquiries. Unless our perpetrator really is wanting to be apprehended straight away, it's most unlikely this will produce anything.'

  'One way or another, he sounds like an eccentric monster,' Chris observed.

  'I tend to collect them,' said Mary.

  'Eccentrics?'

  'Monsters,' she replied with a bland smile.

  * * *

  Chris was back at the Station studying copies of the two documents found so f
ar. She'd left Bradshaw a copy of the second note. He was out at a Rotary Club lunch. Forensics were still doing their stuff with the originals. There were similarities between them: the notepaper, the blue ink, the smudges. It was odd, though; now that she put them close together, the handwriting was distinctly different in each sample. The first, longer piece was written hastily, almost scribbled and sloping noticeably forward, the script marked by long straight lines for b, p, t, l and h. The second note was penned with large neatly formed, rounded letters. Had they even been written by the same person? Mary Threadgold clearly thought so. Chris doubted it, though she thought there was a chance she could be fooled by a careful counterfeiter. It was definitely a case for some expert advice.

  'You busy, guv?'

  'No, come in.'

  DCs Mander and Lounds stepped into Chris's office to report on their preliminary inquiries at the coroner's office, Beverley.

  'A Professor Fortius phoned the coroner’s office a couple of times. The last occasion was just before Faith Wistow left the office on her last day alive,' said DC Lounds. 'I could find out where he's from and pay him a visit.'

  'Good. In the meantime I want you here,' said Chris. 'Find me a handwriting expert. Get back to Forensics and see which of their own people is available. If not, ask their advice about who else to bring in. Don't give away the samples. Put them in touch with me.

  'DC Mander, contact the University. Find out whether this professor is based there. If not, try Leeds, Hull, Bradford, Teesside, Sheffield.'

  'What if he's not there either?'

  'Check with me before you take off anywhere pretty, like Edinburgh or Dublin. Otherwise, work your way round the country till you locate him. Don't talk to anyone who is likely to link your call with us. Come back to me. Then perhaps you and I can go to university. It'll do one of us some good, I reckon,' she added cryptically, keeping her face so straight he couldn't tell in which direction the irony was directed.