Antman

Antman Page 19

by Robert V. Adams

  'Did the questions bother you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Couldn't you answer them?'

  'It wasn't that. They're standard debates between scientists studying the animal world – about whether there's more to non-human behaviour than behaviour. Are we the only beings with consciousness, that sort of territory. No, it's more the uneasiness I've described – déjà vu. If I'm honest, I was reminded of a period last year, when I became rather paranoid about the questions from one of my students.'

  'Who is he?'

  'She. Naomi Waterson, the student I mentioned before and the lad she goes about with. I saw them both. You remember, I said she has had a thing about me in the past and she went through a period of following me about.'

  'And the lad, where does he fit in?'

  Tom shrugged.

  'I couldn't say.'

  Side by side, they stared across at the opaque water.

  'The river looks forbidding.'

  'That's Hull. All the accumulated muck from half a million lives, from more than a thousand years of excretion and chucking rubbish away, concentrated in one filthy stream,' said Tom.

  'How to spoil my illusions in a sentence. I was going to say trying to penetrate through those murky depths to what's in the river is like trying to guess what's in your mind.'

  'I'm sorry,' said Tom. 'I'm so wrapped up in myself. I should have asked, what about you? You look as though you've had a basinful.'

  'Don't talk about it. I'm recovering from a meeting with Dr Threadgold, our forensic psychiatrist. Any comments could tip me towards saying something I'll regret,' said Chris moodily.

  'She was rude?'

  'Nothing like that. We get on very well as it happens. But the phone kept ringing, people came in and out, her bleeper went off half a dozen times. It doesn't make for productive discussion.'

  'Where did you meet her?' asked Tom, trying to turn the conversation in a less fraught direction.

  'Her office is at Castle Hill Hospital, almost next to the psychologists. That's only a base, of course. She works all over the place. They don't have a forensic psychiatry department as such.'

  'So no progress as far as profiling suspects is concerned.'

  'That word profiling! I'm sick of hearing it. Mary Threadgold is very good, but apart from confirming that she has suspicions about what we suspect already – nothing.'

  'What did she say?'

  'Her advice was to look for someone suffering from schizophrenia. The chaotic thoughts in among the philosophical and scientific details in the notes, apparently. For starters, we're left with the task of checking about ten thousand current and former psychiatric patients in Yorkshire and Teesside. Beyond that her comments could apply to any case. They don't provide us with the kinds of specific factors which could be incorporated into a computer programme to enable us to eliminate people from the investigation. That's on the assumption this person is already known to the authorities. What if he's a recent arrival in the area?'

  It was Tom's turn again to stare reflectively into the muddy water.

  'They're all victims really.'

  'Who exactly?'

  'I was reading this article in a criminology journal – some psychiatrist writing about the triangle of victimology – to do with the common bonds between a murderer, the people who victimise him and his own murder victim or victims.'

  'Geometrically neat but so what? He could be anybody.'

  'Or she.'

  'I meant to say that.'

  'What did Mary say about gender?'

  'It was on the lines of that argument about most abusers and bullies having been abused and bullied themselves.'

  'Sounds like the old record which ignores the reality that for every one person who's been abused who goes on to do it to others, there are many who don't.'

  'Record! Thanks, Chris, you've broken my block. I had an idea but couldn't recall it later. There's a link between those of us who have stayed on in the laboratory and our suspect who left. Two links actually, or more than two, who knows?'

  'Why is it that men don't listen to women, but women are expected to listen to every wittering sentence of every wittering man?'

  'The more obvious link first. The aspiring but failed scientist who becomes the frustrated technician working alongside the successful researchers he did not equal, in whatever way. You understand I'm not talking about merit here. He may have been equally deserving, but for whatever reason, we know he didn't make the grade.'

  'You don't even know he would have wanted it,' Chris interposed, before she even knew who Tom was talking about.

  'True, but every hypothesis has to start somewhere.'

  'You said two links.'

  'The other link is less obvious but more interesting. Probably also, it's unknown to anyone apart from myself and our suspect.'

  'I wish you'd stop applying your pseudo-scientific jargon to the plain speaking world of detection. Not suspect, murderer. Forget the innocent till proved guilty. We're failing to find a murderer here.'

  He stayed silent.

  'I can't see where this is leading,' said Chris.

  'You keep interrupting.'

  'Don't push me,' she said grimly. 'We're on a bridge over a fast-flowing river. I'm beginning to see why he became frustrated enough to commit murder.'

  He smiled. She was pleased.

  'That's good, your face has cracked.' He laughed a little this time and continued.

  'The less visible thread linking us is the music. Our suspect, sorry, murderer, mentions music and conducting. I think he's a failed performer. I'm not saying he wasn't good, but for some reason he didn't make the grade. Perhaps he had an accident and became disabled.'

  'How do you know this?'

  'Little scraps here and there, odd comments he's made about his early life. As a rather mediocre musician myself, I can recognise the signs.'

  Chris didn't pick up on this remark. She was impressed, and was preoccupied with this new line of investigation.

  Tom was following his own train of thought.

  'The core of the conundrum is how these various barriers to conventional success have affected him and their relationship with the content of his scientific interests.'

  'It's straightforward enough. He's a frustrated scientist.'

  'It's a little more complicated than that. The theory is that our person – okay, our murderer – is driven to each further crime partly by an intensified anger – an urge to destroy, if you like – after each previous killing. At the same time, those same feelings of frustration, failure and anger which feed into this cycle of aggressive acts also fuel ever increasing guilt and self-disgust. The means by which our murderer chooses to commit each crime will relate closely to the themes which link him with his setting – the scientific focus, the music, or whatever – and the series of killings into which he is apparently locked becomes ultimately self-destructive. He's a sort of black hole in our universe, at an individual level, the alter-ego – probably the unacceptable side – of the people with whom he's interacted and at the group or social level, the negation of basic values of decency and humanity.'

  'I hope he does kill himself if that's what you're working up to.'

  'On the way, he's becoming an angrier person and the incidents have the potential to be more destructive.'

  'You could be describing a mass murderer, in the right circumstances, rather than a serial killer.'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'And we still haven't the remotest idea who he is.'

  'That's why we have forensic psychiatrists.'

  'Dr Threadgold probably wouldn't agree with you.'

  'The problem is we have loads of information but no leads,' said Chris.

  'So what's the next step?'

  'My lords and masters are baying for blood. But the investigation is – it's at a dead end. All we can do is review all the evidence.'

  'Where are you off to?’ Tom asked.

  'Back to the office, to st
art all over again.'

  'Before you go, I've had a look at those insect remains your pathologist passed on. They're not run of the mill. Army or driver ants from the genus Dorylus not found anywhere in this country, or in Europe. They're found in parts of Africa.

  'Africa. Does that include rain forests?'

  'The sub-Saharan regions, savannah and tropical rain forests, would be among their main habitats.'

  'Presumably some zoos here will have them.'

  'I doubt it. Someone would need the expertise to manage them. They need so much attention. It wouldn't be worth it, when you can set up an observation colony of harvesting ants for so much less trouble.'

  'The implication of this is – what?'

  'The only place you're likely to find them is a laboratory where such ants are being used for research.'

  'Which is where?'

  'There aren't many. Ours certainly. It could be the only one.'

  'Right.'

  'Who's working on these fellows? That's the question.'

  'The person best placed has just left.'

  'Perhaps we should have a word with him, or her.'

  'It's a him. Robin Lovelace. It will be difficult. He's abroad.'

  'Let me guess where. Sub-Saharan Africa.'

  'Come on, Robin can't be a suspect. He's halfway across the world.'

  'You're asking me to treat this as pure coincidence.'

  'It has to be.'

  'Even if not, I suppose there isn't enough to justify chasing after him to interview him. When did he go?'

  'A few days ago.'

  Chris pulled a face. 'Would you regard him as potentially homicidal?'

  Tom laughed. 'We're back to that. Robin wouldn't hurt a fly.'

  'How would you describe him?'

  'An argumentative but otherwise harmless womaniser.'

  'A crisp case study if ever I heard one.'

  'Robin’s not complicated, nor violent, nor even aggressive. Immoral, untrustworthy in matters of matrimony and the heart, disorganised, emotionally unstable even. But first and last, a harmless intellectual with the libido of an adolescent.'

  Chris ruminated. 'People do kill for love, you know, eighty percent of the time. Most murders are by spouses or cohabitees. There could be a connection.'

  'Even if he was implicated in the earlier killings, which would be ludicrous, he's hardly carried out this last one, not at several thousand miles distance.'

  Chapter 19

  The police investigation had ground to a halt. Bradshaw called Chris in. Even before he spoke, she anticipated what might be in prospect.

  'We don't need to waste time pussyfooting about.' He paused and gave her a long look.

  She shrugged as non-committally as possible.

  'If there had been any significant developments in the past twelve hours, you would have informed me.'

  She nodded.

  'Look at these headlines.' He shoved lurid page one spreads in two tabloid papers across the desk.

  Chris stared in silence.

  'Well?' asked Bradshaw, abrasive as ever.

  'Do you expect me to say I approve of these?' she asked.

  'Good gracious no, Inspector. Perhaps the time has come for you to gain more varied experience of this Force.'

  'You're sending me back.'

  'Don't jump the gun.'

  'It's tantamount to sacking me.'

  'That's rather over-dramatic, before you've even heard my decision.'

  'You're drafting me to other duties.'

  'You've called in all these experts. Despite this, it could be argued that the investigation is going nowhere.'

  Chris was aghast. 'You can't say that.'

  'I haven't said that. I said it could be argued.'

  'This is necessary preliminary work in an investigation where the circumstances are eccentric.'

  'That's where you're wrong. In an investigation like this, the one thing we can't afford is eccentricity. The media will accuse us of dabbling in fringe sciences. They'll make us a laughing stock.'

  'You're referring to consulting the graphologist.'

  'And the rest.'

  'Forensic psychiatry is a well-respected branch of Forensics. So is forensic entomology.'

  'Bloody mind-readers and palm-readers. And as for insect men, people will accuse you of having let them into your brain.'

  'I'm taking over the investigation myself,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Aspects of it need someone of my rank to head it up.'

  'You can't do that. It doesn't make sense. On one hand you're telling me the investigation should be lower down our priorities. On the other, you're implying it's become too high profile for me to direct.'

  Bradshaw waved a hand. 'No, no, Inspector. You're misrepresenting the situation. We've a difficult situation here, politically sensitive. Another aspect I'm unhappy with is the involvement of that fellow from the University.'

  'You want Professor Fortius off the case as well, sir?'

  Bradshaw stared at her and nodded. He can't even bring himself to say it, thought Chris. Her eyes narrowed. 'Are you being pushed, sir?'

  'If you mean Jack Deerbolt, this view resonates with that held at the top, yes. You may as well know it, although at this moment the decision is mine.'

  'You've already consulted the ACC?'

  'Not specifically, but in general terms. The detail is irrelevant.'

  Chris guessed Bradshaw was retreating to incomprehensibility when under pressure, as now.

  'We need these experts to advise us, sir, in a case as bizarre as this.'

  Bradshaw ignored her and continued his train of thought.

  'Let's look at it positively. I thought it would be an opportunity for you to see at first hand some of our other work, before going back to your ivory tower.'

  'I am not an academic, sir. I am a police officer.'

  'Yes I know. But you have to admit, your background isn't exactly average.'

  'At times like this I wish I'd left school from a secondary modern at sixteen and never gone back.'

  'In that case, we wouldn't be having this conversation,' Bradshaw breezed urbanely.

  'You no doubt would be highly relieved.'

  'That's a presumption.'

  'It's a conclusion in the light of experience.'

  'Inspector, you're a talented woman and I'd hate anything to happen here which blighted the prospect of a long, successful career.'

  'But you'd be obliged if I'd go quietly. I tell you, I won't.'

  'You're putting me in an extremely awkward position.'

  'Between the two of us, sir, I intend to. I want the extra time on this case. I assessed the situation, came to you with my plan to set up three teams of investigating officers so as once and for all to eliminate all but our main suspect from our inquiries. You were around at the time of the Yorkshire Ripper and Barwell inquiries. You must know that if the police had completed their systematic checks against the forensic profile, the criminals in these cases would have been apprehended more quickly. You owe it to me to allow this phase of the investigation to take place and, until it's run its course, to head off the media and your bosses. We both know it's complex and there are no prizes for this kind of slogging detective work. There are no short cuts to doing a quality job on the checks either, and there isn't anybody who could have done any better than us, faced with what we're up against in this case. That isn't to say we won't, if you give us more time.'

  'We, Inspector?'

  'Yes, we. I've got the team behind me.'

  'You hope.'

  'Ask them.'

  The phone rang. Bradshaw ignored it and waited. It rang on and on, insistently. He picked it up.

  'Bradshaw. Yes.'

  Bradshaw's face became sombre. He listened for three or four minutes. He pulled a notepad towards him and scribbled quickly. Then he spoke, one eye on Chris.

  'Give out nothing. I'll ring you back, in two minutes.'

  He put the receiver down and spoke to Chris.
'That was our press officer. Arnold Westrop wants to interview me in connection with a feature he's running in the Yorkshire Post on unsolved murders.'

  Fifteen minutes later, Bradshaw rang Chris.

  'I'm giving you more time.'

  'How long, sir?'

  'A few days.'

  'Days,' she exclaimed.

  'A week at the most. I'm giving you time, Inspector, totally against my better judgement.'

  'Five working days.'

  Chris snorted. 'That's impossible, sir. Two weeks.'

  'A week.'

  'Ten days.'

  'This is ridiculous. We're in an office of the Police Force, not bargaining at a market stall, Inspector. I'll have you remember that.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I haven't finished. Keep Westrop and his rat pack out of it.'

  Chris raised her eyebrows.

  He continued: 'Two weeks. Not an hour more. Not one single hour.'

  Chris was relieved at the extra time, but didn't want to give Bradshaw any credit. She guessed he was under pressure from top management and politicians to produce results and she was his best bet.

  'Right, sir.'

  'I'm watching you. One foot over the line and I'll make sure one of us never visits Bramshill again. This part of the conversation never took place. Understand me?'

  She forced a nod. He continued to watch her from under the dark arch of hooded eyebrows.

  'Understood, Inspector?'

  'I understand only too well, sir.'

  'Keep me fully briefed from now on. Retain that University fellow on for the time being. It looks as though he may be needed for this one, but keep an eye on him. I'm not convinced all this insect business isn't a red herring. I don't like outside people trampling all over police affairs.'

  Bradshaw tore the top sheet off the notepad. 'Here's the number. Liaise with Inspector Gowthorpe.'

  Bradshaw didn't look up as Chris left the office. She was spitting blood, only constraining her tongue by the certainty it would play into his hands. That was the illusion people like him clung to, she thought.

  Power held by custom rather than competence, less a Police Force, more scouting for boys.

  * * *

  Tom was in his office. He sat at his desk, full of thoughts and able for the first time in a couple of days to apply his mind to the day to day business of running the department. His eye fell on his notepad. The word apparatus was scribbled there, with the word lost beside it. He leapt to his feet.

 

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