Chris had never seen her fellow officers so rapt in concentration. A pin could have been heard dropping, as Morrison placed the final transparency over the map.
'There,' he said triumphantly, 'that's the area within which the killer is most likely to have carried out the killings, based on these calculations.'
It was an extraordinary moment. Neither Chris nor Bradshaw had realised Morrison had carried his theorising this further step. Bradshaw was open-mouthed.
'You're asking us to search an area of the Wolds which consists of nothing more than a few upland farms.'
'No, sir,' said Morrison. 'I'm not asking anything. The precise area doesn't matter. There has to be a margin of error of, say, ten miles.'
Bradshaw seized on this. 'Ah, that would bring us to the outskirts of Beverley. So we're no further forward.'
'I'm just saying we'd be well advised to start with the rural locations, sir, in view of the likelihood the killer needs a good deal of space to house these ant colonies.'
Bradshaw turned to Tom Fortius. 'Is this correct?'
Tom didn't expect to be brought in at this stage. 'It sounds very plausible.'
A voice came from the officers in the audience. 'You mean the killer's living on a farm on the Wolds.'
'Nothing's for sure,' said Morrison, 'but it's the most likely working hypothesis, in my opinion.'
'So where would we start?' asked the same anonymous voice.
‘We could do worse than visit estate agents and find out who's been buying and selling in this area within the past couple of years.' Morrison denoted a larger area with his finger.
'I must be missing something,' said Bradshaw. ‘Why bloody estate agents for God's sake? We aren't buying property.'
Chris judged it was time to rescue Morrison, before the session became dangerously diverted. 'I'd like to thank DC Morrison for his thought-provoking analysis,' she said.
'Hear hear,' someone called and the blushing Morrison retreated to his seat among his colleagues amid an anarchic chorus of appreciation. 'The main point,' continued Chris, 'is that we need to comb through the huge mass of evidence already accumulated. We shall be following up these ideas and concentrating one of our searches on the Wolds.' She turned to Morrison. 'Incidentally, I think we may be able to short-circuit estate agents and go to the local Land Registry office to find out about recent changes in the land holdings in the area.'
'Perhaps I can come in here,' said Tom.
Chris was embarrassed. 'My apologies. I should have introduced Professor Tom Fortius from the Wilberforce University of Hull, who's acting as our forensic entomologist on this case.'
'Thanks, Chris. I've been thinking about what Mary and Sheila have been saying. There are some links between MPD and a large mass of literature written over the past century or so, about parallels between insect societies and various human societies. Some people have gone the other way and talked about the ant colony as though it was a composite animal. Others have seen it either as showing similarities with an ideal form of democracy, or as an extreme example of the fascist state.'
‘With our murderer seeing himself as the fascist dictator, manipulating the masses?' Chris asked.
Sheila responded. 'It's quite common for psychotics such as schizophrenics to develop fantasies involving themselves with well-known dictators. Sometimes they identify with the dictator, at other times they report being ordered by them to carry out certain crimes.'
Tom continued, warming to his theme. 'To return to DC Morrison's thoughts about our antman using a rural location such as a farm, these are speculations, but they're not only valuable but likely. He could have a farm, literally, an ant farm. The North Yorkshire Wolds, or indeed the North Yorkshire Moors, would be ideal in some ways – secluded, large expanses of relatively flat ground and some brilliant south facing slopes where ant colonies could flourish, providing food stores were adequate. If our antman knew what he was doing, he could import food and keep it supplied fresh. Not every species would be amenable to this free-range approach, though. Wood ants and their Formica relatives such as Sanguinea – the blood red slave-maker – and Excecta, an aggressive relative of the wood ant, could cope, provided there were no human dwellings close by and few people to disturb them. They're indigenous to Britain as well, so they could cope with the rigours of the climate. In summer, especially with recent global warming, many sheltered spots could support semi-tropical species. Army ants would probably prove too nomadic and would soon be lost, unless the whole farm could be enclosed with a water-filled ditch, which would be prohibitively expensive and would make it too visible to surrounding landowners. Harvester ants would be right at the extreme of colony size and unmanageability. I can't see our killer leaving them in the wild. It would be impossible to keep tabs on one of those nests. Eight million and impossible to monitor, since there may be a thousand nest entrances. Quite difficult to keep in as well. They're mega-burrowers. You'd need to dig down eight or nine metres to insert a barrier deep enough to keep them in.'
The day wound up with a focus on the next steps in the investigation. Afterwards Bradshaw approached Chris with a few uncharacteristic compliments about how it had gone.
'We should have held this event earlier,' said Chris. 'It helps to clarify where we're up to.'
'Well and good,' said Bradshaw, 'but will a talking shop help us catch Thompsen?'
Bradshaw's mobile rang. A couple of minutes later he was hurriedly taking his leave in order to carry out the ACC's bidding at a media circus at the Hull City Hall. Chris was relieved. She was specifically addressing the core team of detectives charged with tracing Thompsen, rather than the larger group over which she had less direct authority, several dozen of whom were still present.
'We need to find out where Thompsen is. I'm going to revisit his childhood. I'll be back in the office as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Morrison, look on my desk, in the file marked University Staff. Find out what you can. If you need me, ring me on this.' She tapped her mobile. 'And don't tell Bradshaw where I am.'
At that precise moment, Chris's mobile rang and she looked disbelievingly at the screen. It was Bradshaw. She pulled a face. The officers exchanged glances as Bradshaw's voice blasted from the phone and she held it away from her ear.
'That you, Chief Inspector Winchester?'
'Sir.'
'I want you to find Thompsen, and when you find him, watch him. If you are lucky enough to locate him, don't pull him in. Find out where he's living and leave him there. And find out about him. I want to know everything about that man – what he looked like as a baby, whether he wet his pants as a child, what he did at school, what were his habits, whether he picked his nose, bullied other children or was bullied by them, whether he argued with his parents, who were his parents and what were they like for God's sake, what he did when he left school or college if he got that far and with how many certificates in his hand.'
Bradshaw rang off. Several officers pulled faces at the phone.
'The University will have a personnel file with all that stuff, boss,' said Morrison.
'That'll be our next port of call,' said Chris. 'For now, I want you to search for everything about his background and activities. Even which girls and boys he played with, whether he went out with them, who he slept with, whether he took drugs or whatever –'
'I'll be off, boss,' said Morrison, realising that the longer he stayed the more the list would grow.
Chris pointed to the large-scale map behind her. She indicated the trio of officers near the door. 'I want all the detail collected on these items. Mullins, Todd and I'm sorry I can't remember your name?'
'Tenby, boss.'
'Tenby, you take the pig incident. You two and Morrison, the Faith Wistow killing. You two, Brandt, DC's Lounds and Moran, Mr and Mrs Mackintosh. And the rest of you by the window, Sister Ruth. I'm going to concentrate on the biographical detail in the various communications from the killer.'
There was a murmur from the back
of the room. Chris picked it up.
'We should have done this before?' Her voice shook. 'Don't tell me. It's a great gift, hindsight. I know only too well. If we don't catch this bastard before anyone else is harmed –' Her voice dropped. 'We have to catch him.'
Someone asked how long they had. 'Till tonight, perhaps.' Chris looked at her watch. 'Tom Fortius tells me that in thundery weather ants' behaviour becomes more volatile and aggressive. The killer may be affected by the weather in a similar way. If one of these threatened thunderstorms breaks, that may be several hours too late.'
* * *
Bradshaw arrived back at his office at the speed of lightning. The secretaries in the office eyed him curiously as he walked in rubbing his hands up through his hair then down his face as though washing something dirty off it.
In his office he sat with his hands over his face, his forehead resting on the half-metre pile of files brought in since early that morning when he'd left for the hotel. It was a while before he responded to the insistent ringing of his telephone.
Chapter 33
Once the conference room was cleared of police, the hotel staff moved in. Chris turned to Tom, sitting in a corner and filling a notebook with his small, neat handwriting.
‘We need more information about the two boys, Walters and Thompsen. Mrs Blatt knows more than she's let on.'
Tom closed the notebook and put it in his bulging jacket pocket. ‘When do we start?'
* * *
Mrs Blatt peered suspiciously at her two coatless visitors standing on the exposed front doorstep, trying to protect themselves from the driving rain and wind. The door, held by a security chain, was open only a few centimetres. Chris started to explain.
'I know you,' said Mrs Blatt. ‘Who's he?' She nodded towards Tom.
'His name's Tom Fortius,' said Chris. 'He's helping me.'
Mrs Blatt's eyes narrowed. 'I thought you just asked questions.'
Chris couldn't begin to guess what was going on in Mrs Blatt's mind. ‘We're getting very wet. Could we talk inside?'
A gust of wind helped her argument. The door closed, then opened again with Mrs Blatt peering down at the sodden, weed-strewn path. 'I'm busy. You can come in for five minutes. He'll have to take his muddy shoes off.'
She led them through to the back parlour. 'You sit there,' she said to Tom, indicating the chair by the blazing fire. 'I like to see a man relax in an armchair.' Mrs Blatt kept glancing at him. He stretched out his legs to enable his trousers to dry and wriggled his toes in the heat from the flames.
Chris sat in the smaller chair on the far side. 'I can see there's more to pleasing you than meets the eye,' she whispered to Tom as they waited while Mrs Blatt fussed in the scullery. After a good deal of clattering and chinking of crockery, she emerged laden with a tray piled with teapot, teacups, plates, scones and Bakewell tarts.
'You caught me on a baking day,' she explained.
To say Mrs Blatt was talkative was an understatement. Chris saw a totally different side to her. It was ten minutes before she managed to slip in a few comments and eventually the question she wanted to ask.
'What puzzles me, Mrs Blatt, is why you didn't tell me about your son, and about Mr Blatt.'
Mrs Blatt was taken aback. 'You found out.'
'I was bound to,' said Chris.
Mrs Blatt sniffed, as though to announce her upset feelings. 'I thought if you found out about the father, I'd be in trouble and if you found out about the boy it would be even worse for me.'
'I'm not here to get you into trouble,' said Chris more softly. 'It happened a while ago.'
'I won't be in court for not telling you.' Mrs Blatt produced a tissue and dabbed her eyes.
'Of course not. It will save time, though, and save us bothering you or the court if you can tell us everything you remember.'
'I will, oh yes ma'am and you, sir, thank you so much.' She took an appreciative look at Tom as he tucked into his third Bakewell tart. 'I don't mind you bringing him again. I like to see a man fill his belly with good, honest food.'
'Have you an address for John?'
Mrs Blatt looked embarrassed. 'I haven't been in touch, like, recently. I did send him a Christmas card last year, or maybe the year before.' She reached across the table for a well-thumbed address book, flicked through the pages and pressed them down. She put it in front of Chris, who scribbled the details in her notebook.
'Thank you, that's very helpful,' said Chris. 'Now, the story, Mrs Blatt, if you can, please.'
'Oh yes, I saw this card in the newsagents. "Cook Wanted." At first I went once or twice a week, baked and followed the written notes he left, either putting it in the fridge or the freezer. He was a busy man, away a lot, you see. After a bit, he said he wanted a housekeeper.'
'You moved in?'
'No, he was renting. It was a poky little flat. I said why don't you lodge with me instead. I was on my own. It made sense.' She stared at the floor before continuing. 'I didn't live with him properly, not at first. He wasn't one of them, you know, men that attracts women physically. He was smart though, professional, something high at the University I think. I still had me figure then.'
She looked at Tom again, smoothing her skirt over the rippling fat where her waist had been.
'Was his son living with you?'
Mrs Blatt shook her head. 'He told me about the boy later. I didn't mind him living with us. It happened gradually.'
'Was the boy treated badly?'
Mrs Blatt's voice cracked. 'I can't swear he hit the boy.' She started to cry. 'He threatened John, though, I know he did. When I tried to stop him, he –'
Her sobs became uncontrollable and she left the room to go to the toilet. When she returned, Chris thought the conversation would be over, but she continued as though there was no interruption.
'Sometimes when it was really bad between them he'd threaten the boy with boarding school and pretend to ring the social and have him removed. He never gave his name or address though. A couple of times he locked him in the shed.'
Chris turned and looked through the window. Mrs Blatt saw her. 'Not that one, the little one for the coal. It's more of a bunker. He had to crawl in. It was very dark and cold on the concrete floor. Lionel stood there with a stick, so he had no choice.'
'We need to speak to your husband,' Mrs Blatt.
'Not about that.'
'It's a long time ago. We want other information from him.'
'That's all right then. I don't want any comeback. Anyway, he isn't my husband.'
Chris was surprised. ‘What's his name then?'
'Blatt, same as me. I used his name so people wouldn't ask questions. He's still married to her, his first wife, for all I know. I suppose she was his first, the lying bastard.' She rubbed her hands. 'I'd like to see his face when you two turn up.'
'Have you an address, Mrs Blatt?'
Mrs Blatt got up as shakily as a woman twenty years her senior and crossed to the mantelpiece. She pulled a battered envelope from behind the clock and passed it to Chris.
'There you are, that's what he was like.' She motioned to Chris to look at the contents.
Chris examined the letter – a final demand from a computer company threatening court proceedings for an unpaid bill. Chris gestured towards Tom. 'May I?'
Mrs Blatt nodded.
'I rang and gave them his address. It's in Camberley, there, on the back of the envelope.'
* * *
They left after forty-five minutes, with Mrs Blatt inviting them to call again. Chris was last out of the front door and she turned at the last minute: 'Thank you for all your help, Mrs Blatt. When we contact Mr Blatt, is there any message you'd like us to pass on?'
Mrs Blatt shook her head. 'Just make sure the bastard gets what he deserves.' She had an afterthought. 'Ask him how he's supporting his other son, Gavin. Hang on.' She disappeared into the parlour and emerged with a piece of paper which she handed to Chris. 'That's Gavin's address.' She rubbed her h
ands. 'I wish I could see Lionel's face.'
As they bundled into the car out of the rain, Chris couldn't wait to tackle Tom. 'She took quite a fancy to you.'
'Only because I returned for more of her Bakewell tarts.'
Chris was unconvinced. 'You're a dark horse. I'm going to have to watch you with women.'
Afterwards, when she was driving along with him, sitting quietly by her side, she thought, why did I say that? It sounded as though we were a couple.
* * *
It was a long drive back to Hull. The heavy rain petered out, but the grey, overcast sky persisted. There had been no messages from Morrison while they were away. Chris dropped Tom at the University and drove to the office to follow up various matters, including the latest information about Lionel Blatt. There were several messages from Bradshaw; on her voicemail, by e-mail and a note pushed under her office door. They all pointed the same way. He'd run out of patience and wanted her back on the case, in the office, under his eye. 'Hell can freeze first,' Chris muttered to herself between gritted teeth.
At eight the following morning Chris phoned Tom. He anticipated the call was from her and pretended he'd come in early. In fact, he'd stayed through the night in his office, telling the security staff he was working on a paper and to go ahead and lock him in. It was a piece of rule-breaking they were used to. God only knew the tales which went the rounds about his eccentricities. He would never admit he was avoiding Laura and home as much as possible.
'A slight hitch,' she said. 'Blatt is no longer at the address Mrs Blatt gave us. All isn't lost, though. We've had a stroke of luck. The address turned out to be a guest house listed in the local guide, which we tracked down at the tourist information office for the area. I found the landlady's name – a Mrs Maloney – and rang her, thinking she might remember him. She remembered him all right and the upshot of it is I've a pile of gossip about the peculiarities of Dr Lionel Blatt.'
Antman Page 32
