‘We're talking about a relative of Walters?'
'I seem to remember something about Thompsen and Walters being brothers.'
'Right,' said Chris slowly. 'Is that all for now? I need to talk to people at this end.'
She rang off. ‘Where's Morrison.' She called, 'Morrison.'
After a pause, a faint voice replied, 'Boss?'
'Morrison, where are you?'
'In the toilet.'
'I want to speak to you, urgently.'
Morrison's response indicated the problem was the curry he'd eaten last night. Chris was undaunted.
'I can't wait. If you aren't coming out, I'm coming in.'
* * *
Tom's mobile was signalling an incoming call and when he came off the phone to Chris he checked it. It was a message from his brother Basil, saying his mother had been taken ill, but was all right, and asking him to return the call. Christ, thought Tom, I can't ring back at present. I'll do it as soon as there's a space. He went through into Jean's office.
'Is everything all right?' Jean asked, thinking he looked drained.
'It never rains but it pours. My mother's ill. My brother's been on the phone, telling me the doctor's been and it's all in hand. I don't need to do anything. Let me know if he rings the office. I'll see you later.'
Strange, thought Jean, how some men live totally separate lives from their wives and families. She would have expected Tom's wife to be the one phoning with this news. It wasn't hard to pick up that Laura wasn't in Tom's universe at present.
Shortly afterwards, Chris emerged from the male toilet and rang Bradshaw. She outlined the situation, saving the punch line till the last moment.
'Morrison believes the file contains the name of a father for Walters. We need to interview him. The problem is that the only location we can trace is in the USA.'
* * *
'They talk about the victims of abuse feeling guilty,' said Tom.
'I don't know what you mean,' said Luis Deakin.
He was so quick to reply that Tom looked at him sharply. I've offended you, he thought.
'I once watched a television programme,' said Chris. 'This woman was talking about the lives of people who are victims of abuse, how they need to move from experiencing it to surviving it and then dealing with it, in a therapeutic sense.'
'They ask for it,' said Luis suddenly.
'I beg your pardon.'
'I said the bastards often ask for it,' Luis repeated mechanically, as though speaking in his sleep.
‘What did you say?' asked Tom. He was aware of the intensified silence from Chris's corner of the room.
Luis started as though coming out of a reverie: ‘What? Sorry, I thought I was hearing a bell.'
Tom and Chris were both staring. Tom spoke. 'Are you all right, Luis?'
'Yes, yes. Why do you ask?'
‘What did you think I said, Luis?'
'Did you ask me a question?'
'Actually I didn't,' said Tom. 'But you answered one.'
Luis passed his hand across his brow. 'I'm sorry.' He seemed confused. 'It's been a long day. I am overtired. I reach the stage where I imagine things.' He laughed nervously. 'Overactive brain. You know. That sort of thing.
Tom laughed with him, slightly hesitant, but smiling nevertheless. 'Perhaps it's time to call it a day, Luis.'
'Probably it is,' Luis answered, speaking rather slowly as though surfacing from sleep. 'I'll pack up. It’s been rather a long session.'
'Too true,' said Tom. 'See you tomorrow.'
'Yes, see you. Farewell.'
After he had gone there was silence for a minute or so. Chris broke it first. ‘What was all that about? Presumably you knew about him being prone to hearing things.'
Tom shook his head. 'I don't know what's going on here. I honestly don't know.' He sat for a while and eventually spoke. 'Let's put it down to tiredness. We're all tired. We've all had enough.'
They sat in the car park talking. Chris left the car to go to her office and Tom drove back to work. A couple of hours passed. He was packing up when the phone rang. It was Laura.
‘Where have you been? I've been ringing for ages.'
'Sitting in this office for the past few hours.'
'Tell that to whoever you like, but don't try fooling me. Anyway listen hard, your mother's critically ill.'
'How can you say that? She's been ill but she's fine.'
'How can she be fine? She's in intensive care.'
'She can't be. Basil rang and left a message saying she's fine.'
'Are you sure he said "fine" and not "dying"?'
'I didn't actually speak to him.'
'For God's sake, listen. She's in Hull Royal. In your absence we did what was necessary. It's the Infirmary.'
Tom stood up, grabbing his pen and diary and his coat from the back of his chair. 'I'm on my way. What ward is she in?'
'I'm not certain. Ask at the desk when you arrive.'
After putting the phone down, he spent a few minutes assembling the papers relating to the investigation. He crammed them into his already bulging briefcase and walked out of his office. Five minutes won't make or break it, he thought. What will be will be.
Tom raced from the hospital car park to Reception. The clerk gave him directions and he pushed past the queue for the lifts and ran up the stairs. He left the stairwell and saw the ward to his right. Just through the double doors, Laura appeared and in an instant all the haste and energy drained from his body. From her tear-stained face he knew he was too late.
'I tried,' he gasped, 'but the traffic – delayed me – the investigation – it's very important.'
'So this is what it's come to.' She shook her head, disbelieving. 'You couldn't even make it to your own mother's deathbed.'
* * *
Jean was having tea in the bay window of her lounge, on the phone to her friend Cynthia. To her great relief she had a weekday off. It wasn't that she disliked her University job, but it was good to have a break now and again.
Cynthia was sitting on a hard chair in the dining room of her bungalow in the next village. She was slowly recovering from an operation on her arthritic hips, and found it impossible at present to use the settee and easy chairs; once sitting down, she couldn't lever himself out of them.
Jean stared at the frieze of black bordering the wall, just above the skirting board. The only problem was that there hadn't been a frieze a quarter of an hour ago.
'Cynthia ...' Jean's expressive voice invested this word with full concern and a hint of anxiety.
'Be with you tomorrow, darling. Some time in the morning. I'm off to the doctor now. Having a spot of bother keeping the joints running smoothly these last few days.'
'I say, Cynthia ...'
'Yes, you're going to tell me tomorrow is too late.'
'I think – this sounds silly but I really – yes, it is. Little brats! I do believe they're stinging.'
'You'll be saying next that they're doing it deliberately.'
'They are. I've put that poison down, but it hasn't made any difference.'
'It will, darling, they'll be gone by morning. Mark my words.'
The following morning came and the ants had not disappeared. Far from succumbing to the poison, the concentration of ants was even heavier than before. They formed a black film over almost the entire carpet. Their criss-crossing of the walls in regular rectangular shapes created the effect of half timbering. Round the doorframe, the ants flowed up, across and down in a living stream.
* * *
Tom was expecting Chris to be on her own in her office, but he walked in and found Bradshaw with her, in sombre mood.
'Have a look at this,' said Bradshaw.
The note was brief. Chris scanned it and passed it to Tom.
Colleagues:
You may like to visit 4 The Leys, Lund near Beverley, the site of my latest experiment. Be careful how you gain entry. I transported some formicas to the home of my unwittingly co-operati
ve subject, who has installed double glazing and has a fully carpeted lounge with no chimneys. Once the doors are closed and blocked, there is no way out for ant or human. As you can see, the experiment was successful, my only regret being the sacrifice of a colony of somewhat rare Formica Excecta, which you will doubtless agree with Donisthorpe, in 1927, with the right stimuli can show extreme aggression.
G
Bradshaw looked at Tom. 'You recognise the address?'
'Not offhand. It doesn't ring any bells.'
‘Where does your secretary live?'
'Jean, she lives alone, somewhere out of the city. A small village. Oh my God, you don't mean –'
Bradshaw nodded. 'I'm afraid so. Forensics are there now. As you say, she lived alone. We've traced an elderly aunt who's identified the body. We'll need your help later, Doctor, with identifying and dealing with the ants.'
Chapter 27
Chris went back with Tom to the University. He ignored her hints about whether he should go home. She was concerned about his state of shock and accompanied him to Jean's office. Luis Deakin came in while Tom was trying to collect his thoughts and make temporary arrangements to cover Jean's work. Tom's head was in a whirl. He was distracted from the practicalities by thoughts about the gruesome mode of killing.
'There could be as many as 100,000 ants in a nest of Excecta. That's only a guestimate.'
Deakin agreed. ‘When it comes to numbers, ants are in there with worms, beetles and Apteragota – sorry, springtails to you.' He nodded to Chris. 'Pretty primitive. You can ignore them in present circumstances. But add ability to communicate to the equation and Phwww!' His hands came together and flew up in an explosive gesture. 'Their power to succeed, overwhelm, increases exponentially. In crude mathematical terms, they must become the most powerful living force in most of the more fought over territories on this planet. Eight thousand plus species – we're still discovering new ones – and still diversifying, evolving. Their capacity for mutation based on evolutionary principles may be minimal – the so-called cousins of specimens preserved in Baltic amber still live today – but their ability to learn from experience and move on is untested and for all we know, considerable.'
Tom shrugged as Deakin reflected further. ‘We're talking mega-numbers here. Approximately one sixth of the entire bio-mass of this planet is Formicidae and their cousins. Bio-mass is right.'
He still looked puzzled.
'Formicidae means ants?' interrupted Chris.
'Yes,' said Tom.
‘Why choose ants as instruments of death?' Chris asked.
'There's the pathological aspect,' said Tom. 'I can't comment on that. As far as the variety of ant species is concerned, though, the choice of Excecta is a good one. They're aggressive, persistent and very social. There are ants in almost every imaginable habitat. You name it, ants attempt it. There are ants which swim. I remember hunting in Matley Bog in the New Forest as a boy, for the black bog ant, Formica Picea which lives in clumps of Tussock Grass and climbs down stalks under the water as a means of defence. They may be rare, but if you step on them or put your hand in the nest by accident, they'll give you something to yell about. There is even one species which can sew, a rare case of insects using artefacts. The most efficient and highly developed of these so-called Weaver Ants are probably Oecophylla. They live in extremely populous communities – perhaps as many as half a million. They pull together sprigs in the crowns of trees and use their larvae as shuttles to sew nests from the foliage. A large colony will occupy several trees and contains several of these nests on its periphery, as barracks for the ants, who attack any intruder to their territory. They don't sting, but have large mandibles and an extremely painful bite. They're very effective communicators, so watch out anyone who comes within their range.'
Tom paused. 'My questions are about how he managed to transport the ants to Jean's house. It seems a departure from bringing the victims to where he houses the ants, which presumably is where he carries out the killings. Obviously, it's far less complex if he brings the intended victims to where the ants are, rather than vice versa.'
'Surely you know what species from examining the bodies.'
'That's only possible when we can put our hands on one or more reasonably complete pieces of the ant concerned.'
'It seems grotesquely academic in any case. The fact is, these people have died in appalling circumstances.'
'I'll be going now,' said Luis, 'if you can manage.'
'Thanks for all your help, Luis.'
'It's nothing,' said Luis. 'If you need anything further, ring me.'
* * *
Chris was in the car on her way to work, when the car phone rang.
It was Morrison from the Station. 'There's a casualty in A and E at the hospital, ma'am, with unusual injuries.'
'I'll go down and take a look,' she said.
Chris was shocked at the woman's appearance. She could speak, though her face was a mess. She was off the critical list, though the medical staff seemed cagey about talking about recovery, due to the possibility of secondary shock. Chris decided to bring in a photographer, so they could give the media a photograph to try to identify the person.
Bradshaw called her a couple of hours later, as she walked past his office. 'DCI Winchester, I was looking for you.'
'I had to visit Forensics on my way back from the hospital.'
'Ah, I thought for a moment you'd lost your taste for the job.'
She ignored him.
'Do you want the good news or the bad news?' asked Bradshaw.
'Try both, I'm in a hurry.'
'The good news is here's your photo. The bad news is it's looking like a horror story.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Somehow Bradshaw had picked up what was going on and had intercepted the photograph. She had neither time nor energy to take this up. Nevertheless, Bradshaw wasn't mistaken to note the slight emphasis on the sir. He continued. 'Don't go just yet. More bad news, I'm afraid. The hospital phoned ten minutes ago. The victim of the attack died this morning.'
‘What? She was recovering.'
'Secondary shock, apparently. It's even more of a risk where some unusual incident precedes the injury.'
* * *
The fact that there was no progress with apprehending a main suspect contributed to the downbeat atmosphere in the Station, despite the investigation having become higher priority. The focus was more intensely on the University. Because it had become general knowledge that Tom's secretary was the latest casualty meant academics and students were noticeably more jittery. Press and TV didn't lessen the atmosphere: interviewing on the campus, interspersing coverage with scare stories about killer insects – killer bees, killer wasps, and of course, killer ants. The Hull Arts Cinema put on a showing of a pulp classic film about army ants on the rampage. It showed to a packed audience and a second screening was organised.
'How is the search for Thompsen going?' asked Tom when he rang Chris.
Chris's voice was flat. 'Every available officer in the county is on the case. More than two hundred are combing every record, every known link.'
'Two hundred?'
'The Chief has approved it, for a short period. We have to show results.'
'How long have we got?'
Chris shrugged. 'Twenty-four hours, maybe thirty-six, or slightly more.'
Morrison and a small group of officers worked through the night pursuing more contacts with the childhood of Walters and Thompsen, in the hope of tracking down Thompsen's recent whereabouts. Nearly eight hours later Morrison gave a shout of glee. 'Yes!'
After talking to him briefly, Chris rang Tom. 'It's been something of a coup. We've been following up staff in the religious order who used to run the children's home where Thompsen was once placed. We've tracked down a former nun who used to work at the home.'
‘Where does she live?'
'Somewhere near Pocklington.'
'Coincidentally near.'
'I'm n
ot quite sure of the exact location, but we're running a check to see if she's on the phone. Whether she's ex-directory or not we should be able to trace her.'
'Not if she's married and the entry is under her married name. Don't nuns use a surname, then take a New Testament Christian name when they move from being Sister to Mother?'
'Fortunately, our informant remembered the name this woman goes by.'
* * *
When Chris drove out to interview Sister Ruth, she took Tom with her. It wasn't protocol, but she wasn't in the mood for observing that.
Sister Ruth now called herself plain Miss Ruth Craig. She was older and more frail than Chris had expected, with thin silver hair and wizened features. Chris thought it was the face of a woman who has endured, or witnessed, severe pain. The reason for her change of title wasn't clear. Apparently, several years ago she'd retired from her last job as housemother in a private boarding school, and now lived alone in a tiny maisonette in a relatively new housing development. She seemed friendly, more than willing to talk and surprisingly frank.
'I fell out with staff in the local authority soon after I met Ian – he was cook at the Home at the time – and made my application to leave the Order.'
'They made it difficult for you?'
'It wasn't the Order that raised problems. They were very accommodating. My problems arose from having admitted to a relationship with another member of staff. In the service manager's eyes, that was a major crime.'
She went through to the kitchen to make the coffee.
'Can we trust her?' Tom mouthed.
'She wants to get her own back on the employing local authority. I think it's worth talking to her.'
Antman Page 27
