'Doctor?'
'Not the medical variety, the scientific one. More important, she gave me his forwarding address. I'm about to set off to track it down. It's a little village called Cove, on the north-west Hampshire-Surrey border.' She paused to gauge his reaction.
'Haven't heard of it,' he said.
'The problem is, I can't drive and navigate at the same time.' Tom doubted this, but wasn't arguing.
'I know a fairly indifferent navigator who will be free in half an hour.' He thought he heard her chuckle.
'That'll do me.'
* * *
Whilst she drove, Chris filled Tom in on the gossip about Lionel Blatt. 'The story is that Dr Blatt is, or was, an aeronautical scientist who was abroad and after the War came to the RAE, that's the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough in Hampshire, half a dozen miles from Camberley. The son was from his first marriage. At that time, Blatt had a high-flying research job, literally high-flying, flying round the world in a jet, doing research in a flying laboratory.'
'All of which is feasible,' said Tom. 'The 1950s and 60s were the decades when British scientists were exploring the reasons for the Comet jet airliner crashes and were contributing to debates about supersonic passenger jet traffic, six miles up.'
'Blatt became a well-known local scientist and moved with his wife to Cambridge when he took a research fellowship. Several years later, he was head-hunted for an extremely lucrative contract in California and he pushed off to the USA on his own. He returned to Camberley when things went sour for him in the USA. He's wormed his way up the ladder at work, but according to Mrs Maloney he hasn't endeared himself to the ladies, being disloyal, dishonest and untrustworthy.'
'Not a good reference.'
'Added to which, she thinks he's physically unattractive – chinless, short, fat, bald with thick glasses, can't even read a cornflake packet without them, clumsy, often knocking chairs over and dropping cups. He turned up in Camberley looking for lodgings, whilst he went through an interviewing process for employment at Pyestock, where the RAE had some extension of their work on jet propulsion. He was being head-hunted by a team who also did a deal with members of his department including a certain Miss Stanmore or Stanmere. She was the PA whose name kept cropping up a lot and who organised the entire household at one point, simply by phoning and turning up at all hours to take dictation from the great man, or whisk him off in a taxi to this or that international conference, at the drop of a hat. Throughout all of which, he grew more and more insufferable and his wife more patient and self-sacrificing.'
'Sounds like a man to avoid.'
* * *
With Tom navigating they reached Cove, which turned out not to be a village so much as a busy suburb of Farnborough. The car had developed a knocking sound. Chris wasn't an expert and could tell from Tom's reaction it could be serious. He said he wasn't an expert either. It didn't sound like a cylinder head gasket, not yet, but he thought a garage needed to confirm what was going on. He offered to drive her car to find a local garage while she did some basic research on Blatt's whereabouts.
An hour passed. Tom texted her and confirmed he was returning with a restored car. The problem wasn't serious. Apparently, the engine desperately needed oil. A rather embarrassed Chris admitted she went for months without checking the oil level.
When they met, she brought Tom up to date.
'I had a call from Hull. Morrison's been finding out more about Dr Blatt in Texas.'
'Texas is a big place.'
'Blatt isn't too common a name in nuclear physics, even when the number of universities runs into double figures. He's been at Borderville, the State University, researcher in nuclear physics. Anyway, that's another story.'
‘We do need to see Dr Blatt. Your Chief Superintendent Bradshaw's going to love signing travel warrants for Texas.'
'That won't be necessary. I've also managed to find Mrs Maloney. Blatt called here at the weekend and collected some post from her. Apparently he commutes back and forth and keeps a standing arrangement with her to retain post delivered to him.'
'Seems odd. It would be straightforward to have his mail forwarded. He goes to great lengths, retaining an address here just to receive the odd letter.'
'Perhaps it isn't only an odd letter. Remember, he's commuting backwards and forwards into the bargain.'
'I read a press report of an American academic who had three wives in different States and took plane flights every week between them.'
'Mrs Blatt made a point of telling us she isn't married to him.'
'She may have her own reasons for not wanting to admit to it. Wasn’t it CS Lewis who married that American woman without anyone knowing and they continued to live apart?'
'You do have a suspicious mind.'
'It's my job to be suspicious. More relevant, we need to know whether the dates of his visits correspond with the killings.'
They were halted by road works and there was a long queue at the temporary traffic lights a quarter of a mile ahead. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel. 'He was on his way to Cambridge for an international conference at Fitzwilliam College which was due to last five days. Unless he follows the pattern of some of his more cynical colleagues and puts in a brief appearance to give his paper before disappearing, we should be able to catch him there.'
'Damn,' said Tom. 'I was looking forward to a short break. The silver lining is I know Fitzwilliam. It's part of my old stamping ground.'
'I thought it might be. Can you use the old school tie to get us into this conference?'
'I've one or two contacts there. I might even know the bursar and the conference manager. She used to have a soft spot for me.'
'You academics are dark horses.'
Tom affected to ignore this. 'Give me a few minutes to make a couple of phone calls.'
Despite busy roads, they arrived at Cambridge within half an hour of Tom's estimate. He organised parking at Fitzwilliam College and Chris was soon sitting in the lobby of the porter's lodge while Tom exchanged memories with a couple of long-term staff. They walked along the cloistered corridor and Chris gave him an envious glance.
'That envelope looks pretty authentic.'
'I picked up a spare conference package, filched by the porter from the conference office, while you were in the Ladies. According to the porter, the programme gives the delegates time off between 12:00 and 2:00 pm. Lunch isn't until 1:00 pm, so if our Dr Blatt isn't in the bar, he could be in his room.'
'Police officers on duty don't need excuses to gain access.'
Tom grinned. 'I wanted to see the papers in any case.' He flicked through the programme. 'Blatt's due to give his paper later on, so we've every chance of catching up with him in the next hour or two.'
* * *
Chris knocked at the door. There was a pause. She knocked again. A rustling sound could have come from this room or the adjacent one.
'Dr Blatt? I have an urgent message for you.'
'Just a moment.'
Chris waved Tom to stand on the other side of the door, temporarily out of the line of vision of the person in the room. There was some more rustling. Chris thought she heard whispering, but couldn't be sure. Eventually the door opened a chink and the bearded face of a man in his sixties peered round the door. Chris presumed this was Blatt. He saw the pack Chris was carrying.
'Ah.' He opened the door and held out his hand. 'Is the parcel for me? My slides for the lecture.'
'Sorry to disappoint you, Dr Blatt.' Chris held up her ID card and stepped forward, making it impossible for him to slam the door. Tom also stepped from the alcove into the line of sight. 'I'm Chief Inspector Winchester, East Yorkshire Constabulary. I need to ask you some questions.'
'The hell you do! I'm due to speak at a conference, dammit. Why don't you get the hell out of it?'
'It isn't as easy as that. We're investigating several crimes and are trying to trace a member of your family who may be able to help us.'
'I know nothing of
any use to you,' Blatt asserted firmly.
'It might be easier if we had this discussion somewhere quieter.' She nodded towards the interior of the room.
'I'll talk to you out here. I don't intend to take long.'
'As you wish. I was considering your privacy as much as anyone's. It isn't always easy to explain to other people why you've been interviewed by the police as part of a homicide inquiry.'
'Homicide! Keep your voice down. You'd better come inside.'
The room was furnished in the Spartan style of student accommodation, clean but basic. There was a sprawl of women's underwear across the rumpled bedclothes, which gave it the atmosphere of a hotel where illicit liaisons took place. A young woman stood by the bed. She wore a dressing gown and looked as though she had just stepped out of the shower. Blatt looked extremely embarrassed.
'This is Martha, my PA. She's changing and preparing for this afternoon's session. She deals with the administration on these trips.'
'Good day to you, madam,' said Tom.
Martha altered her pose to look even more like the cover girl from a men's magazine: 'Hi.'
Does the name Gavin mean anything to you, Dr Blatt?'
'I know a couple of men called Gavin.'
'Try closer than that, within your family.'
Blatt looked away, shaking his head. 'Can't say it does.'
'That's interesting. My information suggests he's your son, or rather, one of your sons.'
'Is this some kind of joke?'
'So, you don't know that you have a son called Gavin.'
'Are you trying to call me a liar?'
'Isn't it a coincidence that you've come all these thousands of miles from Texas and you haven't realised that your son Gavin lives not thirty miles from Cambridge.'
Martha spoke: 'I didn't know –'
'Shut it,' Blatt snapped.
'How about your other son? John. Where is he living now? Somewhere in the north of England perhaps? Were you planning to sneak off from the conference to visit him as well as Gavin? You couldn't visit your third son though, could you, because he's dead.'
'Is this true? Why didn't you tell me?' Martha blurted out.
'All this happened years ago. There was no need to complicate our life.'
'You washed your hands of your sons. One dead, a second in a mental hospital and a third with serious behaviour problems. It makes sense for a successful academic in the USA to put that kind of family history behind him. That's what you mean.'
'I didn't say that.'
'You didn't have to. So, you've had no contact with your sons during these years.'
'That's correct.'
'Let me guess. When you used to visit Gavin, you used an assumed identity. What was it? Did you pretend to be a social worker?'
'Maybe. Look, I didn't want to disturb the young man, any more than he was already. It wasn't an offence not to disturb his little world, was it?'
‘When did you last see your son Gavin?'
'Two, maybe three years ago.'
Chris looked scornful. 'You don't really have the faintest idea how Gavin is or where he's living.'
Blatt looked round the room, anywhere but back at Chris.
'Does your behaviour ever disturb you?'
'That's an offensive question. I have to ask you to leave now.'
'Then I shall have to ask you to continue this interview at the local police station.'
Blatt sighed as though realising he was out-flanked. 'Okay. Let's get this over quickly though. I have a paper to give.'
'Don't worry, Dr Blatt, I have no desire to prolong it. So your separation from your sons doesn't worry you.'
'Worry isn't the word I'd have chosen. I provided for Gavin financially. It was unfortunate that due to his mother's attitude I lost contact with him for several years, during which he had his breakdown, for reasons totally outside anyone's control.'
'You've nothing to feel guilty about?'
'No. The consultant says his state of mind is a consequence of a defective gene, a one-off, not passed down through the family.'
'That must be a great relief to you.'
'Count yourself lucky I haven't punched your face.'
‘We have similar laws about assaulting police officers to those in Texas. Tell me about your other son, John.'
'Nothing to say there. I lost contact with him as well. His mother chose to take a particular line and I was left with little choice.'
'You give the impression that everything was someone else's doing and you were the victim. For a man holding such an obviously prominent professional position and wielding such power, that seems an odd statement.'
'You're twisting my words, Inspector.'
'Presumably that's also part of the reason why through all these years you have avoided taking financial responsibility and paying towards the maintenance of your sons.'
'They're old enough to take care of themselves,' muttered Blatt.
'So that absolves you from your failure to support them when they were growing up?'
'You're being unfair.'
'I'm feeding back what you tell me so you can comment further on it.'
'If you've nothing further to ask me, Inspector, I can't see the point of prolonging this interview.'
'I have a further question, if you don't mind. How do you know your third son is dead?'
'This is obscene. Of course he's dead.'
'Did you go to the funeral? Did you see the body?'
'I couldn't attend the funeral. I was at a conference in Australia.'
Blatt saw Chris looking at Martha.
'Alone, at the time.'
'How long are you in Britain?'
'I'm here for a further ten days. I have a conference in Bristol and another in Warwick, before we go to Stratford to unwind for a few days.'
'That'll be nice for you. When were you last in this country?'
'About four months ago.'
'And before that?'
'Do I have to answer?' Blatt appealed to Tom. Tom gave a slight nod, staring bleakly back.
'Maybe six or seven months earlier. That was it, I came over for the annual lecture, about ten months ago.'
'Can you prove that?' In the following silence, Chris produced a pad and pen and scribbled for a few minutes. She handed it to him.
'I'll be grateful if you'll e-mail me at my office at the address I've written down under my name, with details of your whereabouts on each of these dates. My phone number's there in case you have difficulty. I need you to notify me of your various addresses during your remaining stay. We may need to get back to you.'
'Martha will attend to it when we return to the States.'
'I must have it within twenty-four hours.'
'It'll take me three days. I'm not at home, remember.'
'I must have the information before you leave the country.'
‘What if I choose to leave earlier?'
'I have to inform you that it will cause you great inconvenience if you encounter the stop I shall put on your exit through customs at any UK port or airport.'
'You bastards. You're not empowered to do this.'
'This is a homicide inquiry, Dr Blatt. Bear that in mind. Have a nice day.'
* * *
'What a stink in that place,' said Chris after they'd left the college. 'Domestic violence is so cowardly. It makes me mad.'
'Mrs Blatt didn't actually accuse him of hitting her or the boys,' said Tom.
'She didn't need to. Didn’t you see her body language when we interviewed her?'
Soon after the unproductive interview with Blatt, Chris plugged in the laptop and wished she'd left it forgotten in the boot of the car. There was another great mass of e-mails from Bradshaw, all of which she had to ignore if they were to pursue this stage of the investigation to the bitter end. Among them was a solitary message from Morrison. Apart from a terse preamble about Bradshaw threatening various forms of extreme action against his renegade DCI, he wrote that an
American had apparently asked for the fax number of her workplace. Morrison had taken the trouble to transcribe the fax for her and finished with the cryptic 'Am working on Gavin's background.' There was one supportive detective constable, she thought, with the one grain of reassurance in this bleak, flat landscape of despair. She read the message from Blatt, as she thought.
Chief Inspector, my apologies for being impatient. I have a heavy work programme and not enough time for it. I'll send the information as soon as possible. The last known address I have for Gavin is 12 Menihott Road, Huntingdon. Please e-mail if you need further help or information.
Yours,
Lionel B.
'How are you feeling?' Tom asked her.
'Not too bloody chuffed, as you might imagine. We seem to be several steps behind in this case.'
'You're wondering about Blatt. Do you think he's our murderer?'
'I don't know. He's not a very nice man to women. Talking of which, I've had another bucket-load of messages from Bradshaw.'
'Impatient?'
‘Well past impatience. He's lost it completely with me. He knows how to deal out shit.'
'So we're on borrowed time.'
'It was borrowed time before. I'm well out of credit. Added to which, Bradshaw will want to know how we didn't find out about Gavin.'
'It can happen to anybody.'
'It's happening to me.'
'Let's catch up. We need to meet Gavin and ask him a few questions.'
‘We have to reach a result, Tom. Gavin's our only lead.'
Before they set off, Chris received a phone message from Morrison. All efforts to find Thompsen had failed. The address turned out to be lodgings and the property was empty, pending demolition. The former owner was deceased.
* * *
'Have you any thoughts about this second brother?' Chris asked, as she took the A14 from Cambridge towards Peterborough.
'I'm keeping a reasonably open mind till we see him.'
'I've had some dealings with establishments in the vicinity of Cambridge before – half full of nutty academics and students with over-developed grey matter, having breakdowns.'
Antman Page 33
