Antman

by Robert V. Adams

  'I don't know,' said Tom candidly. 'I suggest you ask the police.'

  He tried to push his way through. So this was the legendary rat-pack he'd seen mobbing people on the TV news.

  'Are you helping the police with their enquiries?'

  'I am.'

  He made the mistake of stopping to engage with them. He faced it out with the patience of inexperience, thinking if he answered a few questions as candidly as possible they'd let up and go away. The opposite happened.

  'You're seconded.'

  'Special Constable?'

  'That I'm not. I'm advising the police in my capacity as a scientist employed by the University.'

  'Are these giant ants, Mr Fortius?'

  'To my knowledge, no.'

  'Are they man-eaters?'

  'No more than any other insect is.'

  'Are you scared of the ants, Mr Fortius?'

  'Not particularly.'

  'Professor,' said somebody. 'He's a professor, isn't that right, Professor?'

  'Are you more scared of the ants than of the murderer?'

  'Are these ants intelligent, Professor?'

  'How does the killer control them?'

  ‘Where do you think he'll strike next?'

  'Should the government be declaring a state of emergency?'

  'The problem with ants is that we don't know, we simply don't know what they can do once their capability for collective aggression is mobilised.'

  There was a toot. Tom looked around. Chris was in the road, at the wheel of the car. From her gestures he gathered a hasty retreat was priority. He started to push his way towards her, but the crowd wasn't giving up easily.

  'My question, Professor. You haven't answered it.'

  'Yes,' said Tom. 'Let me through. I am cautious about using emotive language. But yes, some of these incidents scare me.'

  Tom pushed and the scrum moved with him. He was an ace away from claustrophobia. A sea of cameras, held above head height, pointed down at him and clicked aggressively.

  'Has your department been earmarked for closure?' 'Is your University benefiting from the publicity attached to this inquiry?' 'Does your University accept back-handers from the police authority for seconding you?'

  He turned round and round. 'No, no, no.'

  'Is your Dean a Mason?'

  'Are you a Mason, Dr Fortius?'

  'Is it right you're having an affair with the woman leading the police inquiry?'

  He'd reached the road. There was a scrum as the car door was levered open. Chris was pushing, leaning across from the driver's side.

  'DCI Winchester. Are you with Dr Fortius?'

  'Professor –'

  'Professor – when will you be making a full statement to the media?'

  'Doctor, are you and she having an affair?'

  'Did you spend last night with her?'

  Tom was half in and half out of the vehicle. The door was pressing shut, but his legs were still on the road.

  'Did the suspected man work for your University?'

  ‘Why didn't you detect the suspect before he could kill anybody?'

  'No comment,' he said, trying to force the door open and retrieve his trapped legs. 'Move away, I can't get into the bloody car.' No-one was listening. Photographers clicked away. Reporters scribbled on their notepads.

  ‘Why aren't you scientists able to control the ants?'

  'How can the police exterminate them?'

  'Are you for or against genetic modification in insects, Doctor?'

  'Have you created these genetically modified, aggressive ants to attract extra funding for your Research Centre?'

  Chris jumped out of the car, raising her warrant card like a cross in the face of a host of vampires. 'Get back.' Her inflection was rising.

  'Can we catch diseases from them?'

  'Are they a threat to food and water supplies?'

  Tom thrust the last of the microphones out of the remaining chink left by the open passenger door of the car, back into the face of the man holding it, slammed and locked the door. Chris revved up, putting several journalistic careers at risk as she drove off.

  Chapter 25

  'Thank God you came along when you did,' said Tom. 'I thought they were going to manhandle me.'

  Chris shrugged without taking her hands off the wheel. 'I'd be more worried about what they asked you.'

  'Thanks.' Tom pulled a wry face. 'There are none following us?'

  'I can't see any.' She switched on the radio and smiled. 'You'll have to get used to them in this work.'

  'I'm rapidly being cured of any enthusiasm for a career in it,' he said quickly. In the background the music on the radio abruptly changed to the voice of the weather forecaster.

  'The weather centre has issued a severe weather warning for the East Midlands, East Anglia and the north east of England. Thunderstorms are severely affecting road conditions on the M62. Heavy downpours and surface flooding are making driving difficult. Drivers are warned to slow down and expect the hazard of slow moving or broken down vehicles. If at all possible, drivers should delay their journey or seek alternative means of travel.'

  'They always make it sound so dramatic,' said Chris. ‘What alternative do they propose that won't run into similar weather? Tunnelling or time travel perhaps?' The radio crackled unpleasantly loud in the confined space and she turned it down.

  'Hell!' said Tom.

  Chris hadn’t noticed. She had enough to focus her mind on. Tom was thinking about the implications for the ants of this unusually warm, thundery weather. When thunderstorms were in the offing their response could be catastrophic. They tended to move into top gear – usually fighting and swarming. Activated to excess, with the guaranteed availability of warm, moist conditions for queens and offshoots from the parent colony to build new nests, triggered the impulse to attack linked with the instinct to procreate. The aftermath of a storm in summer weather was about as good for ants as it could get.

  As Chris drove through the traffic, she related the main points from her conversation with Mrs Blatt. 'One of the advantages of being a police officer is that you can get access to less public areas of people's lives.

  ‘Whilst I was visiting Walters' former foster home, I asked Mrs Blatt if she'd kept any of his belongings. She said she'd put them all away. I persuaded her to let me have a look through a chest full of clothes, toys and even some books and magazines, which were not of the Enid Blyton variety. His taste in literature, for want of a better word, was definitely towards 18 Certificate.'

  'Didn't the adults responsible for him exercise any sort of supervision?'

  ‘You'd better ask Mrs Blatt that.'

  'All this is very interesting, but it doesn't amount to evidence of a disturbed state of mind. Even taking into account his childhood health problems and disrupted schooling, I don't see him as further off the rails than any other child of his age.'

  'In which case I guess you'd like to see what I found. Open my bag and pull out the black notebook. I found it among his belongings. I don't suppose the adults in his life knew it existed, or they probably wouldn't have left it there. It's a child's notebook, hardly even a diary, but I don't recommend it as bedtime reading.'

  Tom delved in her bag, produced the notebook and read the cover. 'My childhood, by John.'

  'He might at least have given us his family name.'

  ‘What's this? Date of birth 11 May 1944.'

  'Perhaps he's Friday's child,' Chris offered.

  'Impossible, it was a Thursday,' said Tom after a few seconds pause.

  'How the hell did you know that?'

  'I didn't know it. It's just a little party trick.'

  ‘What? You can tell the day of the week from a date years ago? Some trick.'

  'One of those things,' he said awkwardly. 'Everyone has one.'

  'Not like that. You should be on that TV programme. What is it? The one where you bet you can successfully beat some impossible target or adversary.'

&
nbsp; 'No thanks.'

  'I'm serious. You could win a holiday in Barbados.'

  'Definitely not, then,' said Tom.

  'Stick in the mud.'

  'I'm choosy about where I spend my vacations.'

  ‘Where would you rather be?'

  'At this moment, not here with this tedious task on hand.'

  'Snap, but stop avoiding the question.'

  'As to preferences it's more a matter of who with than where.'

  'This is where I get off.'

  He held up a hand. 'Okay, I shan't say more.'

  'Feel free. I didn't want to inhibit you, so long as –'

  'So long as it doesn't embarrass you?'

  'Something like that, yes.'

  ‘We'll stick to the job and set the personal stuff to one side.'

  It was late afternoon. Morrison was in the corridor. He'd looked for Chris and she wasn't in her office. He could hear the blurred sounds of Bradshaw speaking on the phone and he considered waiting for him to finish before knocking on the door. In the end, he decided to take a chance and ring Tom Fortius at the University. Jean was very helpful.

  'Dr Fortius is away for the day, but he can be contacted on his mobile.'

  Less than a minute later, Morrison was through. 'DC Morrison here, Dr Fortius. Sorry to bother you, but do you know where DCI Winchester is?'

  'She's sitting beside me in the car, two minutes from your Station,' said Tom.

  'Is she calling in?'

  Chris nodded. 'She certainly is.'

  'Could you tell her Walters is a no-no.'

  They had stopped at the traffic lights round the corner from the Station and Morrison's voice came over clearly. Chris found herself shouting past Tom. 'That's rubbish.'

  Tom held the phone to Chris's ear and Morrison continued, 'I've found a death certificate. He died two years ago.'

  Chris and Tom were stunned into silence.

  'Hullo, are you there? Do you want me to tell Bradshaw, boss?'

  'Leave it with me,' said Chris. Morrison rang off as the lights changed. She drove at speed into the car park, skidded crazily to a halt between two Panda cars and ran into the Station, leaving Tom to slide across to the driver's side and get out of the car.

  Chris marched into the investigation room and with Morrison watching, picked up the phone and dialled Mrs Blatt's number. Two minutes later, she put down the receiver.

  'I don't believe it,' she said.

  ‘Why did she pretend?'

  'She won't say. The only comment I can extract is that I wouldn't understand and she can't tell me over the phone.'

  There was silence in the office. A phone rang in the corner. Eerily a fax machine started to print out.

  'What a complete waste of time,' said Chris. 'She even pretended to be worried in case he's in trouble. All the time he's dead.' She sighed. 'This gives me a really weird feeling.'

  'Fancy a hot drink?' asked Tom. Leaving Morrison to brief her on his work to check the accuracy of the report, Tom walked down the corridor and made three instant coffees. He returned just as another phone rang, near Morrison's desk this time. Morrison leaned across to pick it up. He cupped his hand over the receiver and spoke quietly. 'Are you in, boss? The Super is looking for you.'

  Chris nodded with resignation. 'Tell him I'll be there immediately.' She turned to Tom. 'He probably looked out of his office window at precisely the second we drove in. Are you coming in with me?'

  'I'll stay here. You know something, she spoke about him in the past tense. I remember thinking at the time it was odd.'

  Chris walked towards the door and turned back. 'Hang on here for me. I shan't be long. I'll drop you back at work.' She gestured in wonderment. 'That man's nose for locating his staff never ceases to amaze me.'

  Chris knocked and without waiting walked straight into Bradshaw's office. ‘Walters isn't our man, sir.'

  ‘What are you talking about? First it wasn't Martin John, then it wasn't Robin Lovelace. I've only just caught up with Morrison's latest information about Walters and now it isn't him.'

  'The real Walters died two years ago from a heart complaint.'

  'How the hell can you be so certain?'

  'I've just come off the phone to the person you might call his maternal carer, the person who’s acted almost like a stepmother to him. She was there when he died.'

  'She could be lying.'

  'She might be. Stepmothers may be wicked in fairy stories, they may even lie, but medical records don't.'

  'Medical records?'

  'Morrison's been in touch with the local hospital. Walters was in hospital at the time.'

  'And you, I suppose, know who the real murderer is,' said Bradshaw sarcastically.

  'I'm working on it.'

  'Might be.' Bradshaw's sarcasm was unbridled. 'Put the rest of us out of our misery and tell us, Chief Inspector.'

  Chris was seething, but Bradshaw's unwarranted dig made her even more determined not to approach too close to him. 'I intend to find out.'

  * * *

  Late the following morning the atmosphere in the investigation office was sepulchral. Chris stood in the doorway looking round at half a dozen detectives beavering away at their desks. None of their work had so far yielded a single positive lead. She had some phone calls to make and returned to her office. Between calls, there was a knock at the door. It was Morrison. She was in the middle of replacing a box file on the shelf behind her desk.

  'This might be something and nothing, boss. I've just returned from a stint with the team trawling through local men. I've come across another former employee who may be worth following up. His address of origin was a children's home.'

  Chris looked at him sceptically.

  'In Cambridge, boss.'

  He sounded weary and doubtful.

  'Cambridge again.'

  'He has a link with the University, as an employee.'

  ‘Where exactly did he work?'

  'He was a lab assistant in the science faculty, several years after Walters from what I can tell.'

  ‘Would that be where Tom Fortius is based?'

  'Haven't had time to check, boss, but I'll be finding out shortly.'

  It took Morrison a further hour to establish that the man – his name was Thompsen – had been employed in Tom's department, though not actually in the research unit. Morrison rang the number given by Thompsen as one of his references and went straight to Chris's office.

  'Boss, I've been talking to a Hilda Barker who worked as cook in the children's home where Thompsen lived before he was fostered by a Mrs Blatt. She remembers Thompsen and remembers him having a best friend – she thinks Thompsen's name was John.'

  ‘Walters was called John. We've already seen Mrs Blatt.'

  'She probably got them mixed up. Probably talking about the wrong lad. Damn.'

  * * *

  At three o'clock Tom received a phone call from Chris.

  'Is that you, Tom? Chris here, ringing from Cambridge. I decided to drive down last evening. It's so much easier on the spot. I've spent a fascinating hour with a Mrs Barker, lovely woman, round and jolly. She should have been a parent for these kids. She used to cook at the local children's home near where Walters and Thompsen were fostered from time to time. She thinks the two boys were friends. She remembers them bringing Thompsen back from when he ran away from the children's home. It could have been the first time, she isn't sure. He was in a right state, no coat, no shoes, soaked to the skin. They put him to bed but he developed a chest infection and finished up in hospital with something, she isn't sure what. Could have been pneumonia from the sound of it. She says she can't remember whether the Sisters beat him, but says corporal punishment was the usual punishment for kids who ran away. Apparently they used to lock them in the back room upstairs with no mattress and just a night-shirt on. There was always a prayer book though.'

  'Typical Christian child care,' muttered Tom.

  Chris ignored this and continued: 'The same ro
oms in that wing served as infirmary and isolation rooms, which may be why she isn't sure what treatment he received. Normally though, she says, kids in the isolation rooms didn't see anyone except when they brought their meals up for them to eat alone.

  'Apparently he ran away a few times after that. She can't remember much, except that he didn't respond to the usual methods of persuasion. On one occasion he caused a stir by visiting the gardener's outhouse in the grounds first, taking his jacket as well as a pair of boots. This was probably what kept him going a couple of days longer before being picked up.'

  'Do we know any more about how and when he left that establishment?' asked Tom.

  'Not much joy on that front,' said Chris. ‘Apparently, after a while – it could have been about six months, she isn't sure – a woman who said she was a nanny came to collect him and take him away, without any explanation. She presumed he was either going home or to a foster home. Those were the usual options.'

  ‘Where does that leave us?'

  'I might try the local doctor,' said Chris. 'She's practised in the area for thirty years. I'm still following up the primary school. Mrs Barker mentioned which head teacher was there at the time and she lives locally in retirement.'

  Tom's phone rang almost as soon as he had replaced the receiver.

  'Bradshaw here, from the police.'

  A less likely caller Tom couldn't have imagined.

  'You're probably wondering why I'm ringing, but I can't seem to raise DCI Winchester. I wondered if you knew where about in Cambridge she might be.'

  'No idea, I'm afraid.'

  'By the way, Professor, what's your take on all this, now we're back to square one?'

  ‘We aren't quite at square one,' mused Tom. He didn't want to start naming names. That would indicate he'd spoken to Chris recently. He attempted to distract Bradshaw by taking the conversation off at a tangent. 'At least we know now for certain who we're not looking for. Incidentally, as far as the insect side is concerned, I think the solution lies with communication, not predation.'

  'You've lost me,' said Bradshaw.

  ‘We've been looking at the problem from the wrong direction. It's not a question of ant predation we're addressing, but one of how ants communicate. Whoever is using them to kill people relies on their ability to communicate rapidly and attack en masse rather than simply on their aggression as hunters.'