'Go easy on the academics. Remember you're sitting next to one.'
'Precisely.'
'Remember what Shakespeare said: "The lunatic, the lover and the poet are of imagination all compact." There's a fine dividing line between the sane and the so-called mad.'
'Bulls eye.'
'You're taking me the wrong way. I mean the definition of mental illness is problematic. Any of us has the potential to go down that road.'
'Speak for yourself.'
Chapter 34
The Black Fen Unit was a small, nondescript building like a run-down motel, adjacent to a Community Mental Health Resource Centre. Chris parked in the visitors' car park while Tom went in to assess the lie of the land. By the time Chris joined him he was engaged with a trio of staff, all deeply suspicious of him and his motives for coming. The atmosphere relaxed considerably when Chris flashed her warrant card. Within five minutes they were sitting in a triangle of easy chairs, in the simply but comfortably furnished visitors' room. They introduced themselves. Chris had brought Gavin a box of chocolates and some fruit, which he seemed to appreciate. After some vain attempts to get Gavin to tell them about himself, she asked about John Thompsen.
'When did you last see your brother, Mr – er – Gavin?'
Gavin sat staring at the floor.
'Not getting us very far. He only responds if you ask a question which is directed away from himself.'
'Gavin, we want you to help us find your brother. Can you remember where he was living when you were last in touch?'
Another silence. To avoid prolonging it indefinitely, Chris changed tack. 'Can you tell us about John's life in the children's home?'
It was as if a button had been pushed. Gavin spoke like a machine, his voice a monotone.
'They picks on John. We was both fostered, then sent to the Home, then adopted. John has a better memory than me. He learns the catechism off by heart. Father stops beating him then.'
Gavin stopped.
‘Who does he mean by Father?' mouthed Tom.
'The priest,' she mouthed back. Tom nodded. He wasn't as close as Chris to the whole Roman Catholic business.
The silence went on for a couple of minutes before Chris spoke, realising he wasn't going to restart spontaneously.
'Did you like the Home?'
'John didn't talk about it much.'
'You were there as well.'
'Some of the time. It was hard, being sent to the Home in them days.'
Chris shook her head: 'Please, tell us.'
'The houses was separate. They put John and me in separate houses. We never saw each other outside school. The Reverend Mother had it in for John. He called her prune face or some such. She used to take girls up to her room for punishment and do things. She never did that with the other boys, but she made him eat stuff. Disgusting.'
'Did she do things to you?'
Silence. Gavin might never have heard the question. He sat staring at the floor. After a pause, he carried on speaking.
'She had a fall, the Reverend Mother. Nobody saw it. They said she fell down the stairs and that she'd been drinking. John never talked about it, except once, years later, when he'd been drinking, he said he never meant to do it. I wanted somebody to kill her.'
‘Why didn't you tell somebody how bad it was?'
'Nobody would believe us. Some of the kids did and they got punished for lying. Nobody said anything till we were grown up. It became all right to sprag on staff. They was too old to get you. Three of the girls grassed Mother Bernadette then. It was too late because she was dead.'
'Can you remember anything about secondary school?'
‘We moved back with Dad and stayed with him near his work.'
'Do you mean Farnborough?'
Gavin nodded. ‘We went to the same school – a boys' boarding school run by one of those religious orders, brothers and fathers wearing cassocks and dog collars all the time. We didn't sleep there like the boarders. I was the quiet one. John had all the attention. The dormitory at the Home smelled of sweat. We was dying slow. School was escape. I worked hard at school to escape. I saw the inside of the office of Father –' Gavin paused. 'Can't remember his name, the headmaster. It was dark. He sits behind the desk. When he stands up I knows he's going to shout. He hurts my head.'
'He hit you?'
Gavin paused and eventually nodded. He continued to speak, slowly and mechanically. Tom thought, this is like drawing nails from a plank.
'There was only one teacher John liked. Mr Regel. I liked Mr Regel but he didn't talk to me. I wasn't interested in science. Once they lost some soap and toothpaste from the washroom. They searched everywhere. They found it hid under John's mattress. They had a big assembly. Father always had one. The big school in the big hall. Father give the boy one last chance to own up. He warns he'll go to Hell. My legs is shaky. He come off the stage and walks down the rows of boys. He pulls John out and starts shouting at him. He grabs him by the hair. He pulls him down the hall and shouts a lot. John was crying. I was crying. I didn't see John for ages after that. He stayed in the sick room. They didn't let us see the bruises.'
Another long silence, which Chris broke. 'Is there anything else you'd like to tell us, Gavin?'
Gavin made no movement which indicated he had heard the question.
'Some information about your family perhaps. Something you feel we should know.'
It was as though they didn't exist. Chris touched Tom's arm: 'I think we'd better be going.'
She started to walk away. ‘We must be off now, Gavin. Thank you for seeing us.'
They walked slowly to the door. Gavin's silence and lack of movement was absolute. Outside the door, a member of staff was within calling distance and they were soon off the premises.
'He's shut us off,' said Chris. ‘We've no way of accessing his world.'
'Correction, he's already left ours.'
* * *
Morrison rang Chris's mobile as she reached the car. She caught Tom's glance, raised her eyebrows and breathed, 'Blatt's been in touch with the Station with some dates.' She switched off. In the car, she turned to Tom.
'The good news first. You probably guessed – Blatt one, police nil. He's produced a list of venues. He was in Texas on all but one of the dates I gave him – the date of Brandt's death.'
'Yes?' Tom looked expectant.
'He was in England, yes, but reckons he was fully engaged at a meeting in Cambridge.'
'Oh.'
'Now the bad news. Bradshaw is doing his nut about my continued absence.'
She didn't answer, started the car, then changed her mind. 'To hell with it. I'm ringing Blatt to thank him for the information.'
She picked up her mobile and dialled. To her surprise, she was straight through to Blatt.
'Thanks for sending the details of your movements.'
Tom was round the other side of the vehicle and didn't hear the entire conversation. Then he heard her say, ‘We're trying to trace a school teacher of one of your sons. Do you know anything about a Mr Regel?'
Chris was surprised at Blatt's positive response.
'I do actually. He was in a similar field to my own. He had an affinity with the boy.'
She tried a long shot. 'I wondered if on your visits to Cove, you kept in touch with John's former school. Assuming Mr Regel is still alive, do you know where he might be living?'
'Funny you should say that. You'll be aware, no doubt, the school wasn't far from my previous lodgings in Cove, where I visit on occasions. I did see the old boy from time to time. Last time I saw him in the street was a few years ago. He looked shaky but he was still walking to the shops.'
'You don't happen to know where he lives?'
'I'm not pouring cold water on the idea, but –' he hesitated. 'I think it's unlikely he's still alive. Sorry I can't help further.'
* * *
When Chris came off the phone, Tom was intrigued. 'I didn't know you intended to ask Blatt about the te
acher,' he said.
'Neither did I. It was a spur of the moment decision.'
'It's odd, Blatt was almost too cooperative.'
'It could be a double bluff. He could still be trying to put you off,' said Tom. 'Do you trust him?'
'In an odd kind of way, yes. There's something pathetic about him, too.'
'Remember what you said about violence in the home.'
'I'm not going back on that. I'm keeping my eye on the ball, which is a multiple murder investigation.'
‘Why go through the effort of chasing up the teacher?' Tom queried.
'I know it's crazy, but we've nothing to lose. It's only a couple of hours each way from Cambridge. I guess if we can reach the school before the kids and staff go home we stand a chance.'
* * *
They made it to the school gates by 3:00 pm and within ten minutes were on their way, thanks to the very cooperative school secretary, who somehow gained the impression they were relatives of Mr Regel. In the era of data protection, it was not the occasion to disillusion her. Tom held a small card with an address which apparently lay only fifteen minutes distant.
'Here we are. Leyton Gardens. What a place. He must have been desperate.'
'Past tense. You think he's gone, or dead.'
'I'm keeping an open mind on it. Number 31a, along there towards the end. Look at this metal grill on the door front. And the patching job over that hole. Someone's had a good go at kicking it in. Hullo, anybody in? Hullo.'
'I suggest we leave a note.'
‘Wait. I can hear a sound. Mr Regel?'
‘Who is it?'
She whispered to Tom. 'It's an old man. Sounds frail.'
'Police, sir. Can we have a few minutes of your time?'
The answer quavered after a shallow cough as though his throat had to be opened up to allow his voice to sound after a long period without use:
'I suppose so. You'll have to wait.'
There was a shuffling noise and they exchanged glances at the ponderous cacophony of bolts, chains and locks being drawn, removed and undone. Regel stood there, a cadaverous, unshaven figure in a faded blue-striped dressing gown. God, Belsen reincarnated, thought Tom. The man looked as though he wouldn't last the day. He stooped, panting with the exertion from that brief walk down the corridor to the front door.
'Tell me about teaching John Thompsen,' Chris prompted.
'Not much to tell.' Regel slumped on the chair at the battered dining table in the shabbily decorated back room. He fought to find enough breath to utter the responses. 'I never really knew him at all.'
'Okay, I want you to think back, not so much about knowing him yourself. Try to recall things about him. Perhaps you saw him getting involved in an activity. Or maybe you heard about it in the staff room, or through hearing other boys talking.'
Regel shook his head. 'I was never one for mixing with other staff. Difficult to remember anything specific.'
'Some particular misbehaviour perhaps,' interjected Tom. Chris flashed him a warning glance, but he continued. 'An offence against school discipline perhaps?'
'It doesn't have to involve the police,' interposed Chris, with a covert glare at Tom.
'Police,' said Regel. 'Only the usual stuff that all boys get up to I guess, don't they, at that age?'
'You tell me,' said Chris.
'Right,' said Regel. Then, with some embarrassment, 'You won't follow this up, will you? I can't become involved with the law.' He tapped his concave chest with his withered right arm. 'My heart. I can't have any stress.'
Tom caught a glimpse of the outlines of two narrow bands of ribs through the sagging V of the opened dressing gown. He studied Regel's raised arm. The flesh was wrinkled and grey, sinews and bones outlined as in the arm of an already dead person.
'No, Mr Regel, we aren't intending to splash you over the front pages. This is an inquiry into someone else. But our time is limited, so if you can tell us – anything at all –'
'Boys will be boys, they say,' said Regel. 'Shoplifting, buying tobacco for rollups with the profits, smoking, girls in the changing rooms, you name it.'
'Was Thompsen involved?'
Regel was speaking independently of her question. 'I was an outsider and so was he. Pupils can be cruel, but teachers as well. He may have been.'
'You can remember him being involved in trouble?'
'Not specifically. Then again, I can't recall not seeing him. He wasn't exactly one of the boys and neither was I. That's where we both went wrong.'
Regel looked at Tom.
'It is all right for you,' he said. 'You are a successful man. Nobody questions your background, your motives. They do not stare when you walk into the staff room as though you have arrived from an alien planet. You are not like her. What are you, some kind of technical, forensic person?' He stared, his eyes an intense blue, concentrating all the energy of his still alert brain, trapped inside this ageing frame. 'No, you are more than that. I am a scientist, I should know. You have the air of an intellectual. You are not a policeman. You are in research, a psychiatrist perhaps?'
Tom shook his head. He felt incredibly vulnerable under the gaze of this old man.
'I'm in a university, in insect research.'
'Of course.' Regel nodded. 'The insects, they are powerful. I take it you are a student of the social insects.'
Tom nodded.
'The ants perhaps, more than the bees. Bees are too uncontrollable. As for the wasps, the colonies die every year and only the queens survive the winter. We have to start again, from scratch.' His head rolled to the side as though the neck muscles could barely sustain its weight.
It was eerie, thought Tom, but he was transfixed by this cadaver of a man who gave off such psychic energy. 'But the ant has continuity, I showed the boys. I kept the nests in the biology lab. There were queens of Acanthomyops Niger, the common black lawn ant, ten, twelve, fifteen years old. You can do so much.'
'Tell me, Mr Regel,' said Chris, when did you arrive in this country?'
Tom couldn't believe the abrupt change in Regel's manner. The brightness in his eyes was veiled by fear.
'It's all right, Mr Regel, we aren't investigating you. It was the war, wasn't it?'
Regel nodded.
'You arrived from central Europe?'
He nodded again, never taking his eyes off Chris, as though she was the threat, the new interrogator.
'For a time you were interned. There was a period of adjustment, after the war.'
‘We were the untouchables, when Hitler invaded Poland. I was in the province ruled by one of his brutes. Hitler left his barons to rule as they wished and asked no questions.
'You are Jewish?'
'No, I am a Pole. People make the assumption I'm a Jew.'
'You had no time for the Communists.'
‘We thought when Hitler's troops invaded we would be allies. We had no idea our neighbours, the ethnic Germans, would turn against us. I thought we were all one, against the Russians. Instead, Hitler made an ally of Stalin. All of us Poles who weren't ethnic Germans were all treated as one by the Germans. The Jews were sent for extermination, but according to the Nazis the rest of the Poles were the Untermenschen, peasants with no culture. I escaped but the rest of my family were evicted from our fine house and resettled. It was a joke. They took them in cattle trucks and dumped them in the middle of nowhere in the southern province. They had no shelter, no food. I was the only one who lived.' Tears ran down his face as he spoke, but apart from that his expression stayed unchanged. 'I ran away and lived, while my family perished.'
They waited while Regel composed himself before continuing.
'I was in a camp in Hull for a while. It was near a village overlooking the town.'
'Hessle,' said Chris. 'You were in the resettlement camp at Hessle at the end of the war.'
'Yes, I remember the name. It sounded so – Germanic. I thought at the time, the English are hostile to some of us too, how strange. Later, when I move
d to the south of England and taught at the school near Farnborough after the war, somebody found out I had Jewish blood. All those years, my family hid our Jewishness. It made no difference, ultimately. They were killed. And now the pupils started on me. The other teachers, they turned a blind eye. I stayed out of the staff room. I was an outsider in Poland and an outsider in England, but I was alive. I put up with it because I was alive.'
Chris opened the folder she was carrying and carefully pulled out a long, narrow roll which she unrolled carefully.
'I'd like you to look at this,' she said, placing it on the table.
Regel took it.
'My God!' he exclaimed, showing more interest in the proceedings. 'The school photo. What an event!'
'Can you recognise him on this?'
'It is so long ago.'
'Take your time.'
Regel's gaze travelled up and down the rows of boys, cross legged at the front, kneeling, then sitting, standing and standing on forms and tables – seven lines each of about fifty boys.
'There, that could be him, no that one. That is him.'
'Are you sure?'
Regel stared and finally shook his head.
'Not really. I cannot be absolutely certain. Sorry, it is difficult at this long distance in time. I would need time to think about it.' He gave a sigh so long that Chris began to worry whether this would be his last breath. His entire body seemed to deflate and then he fought for another breath and then another. Regel was becoming so exhausted that she knew it was pointless asking any more questions.
'You could do with a holiday,' she said.
'I could, but it is getting there.'
‘Would you take a holiday in Yorkshire, if there was the possibility of a lift?'
'I would, but there's little point in talking about it.'
Chris reached a decision and took a deep breath. 'Mr Regel, I can offer you a lift to Hull. You could stay a few days. You'll have to find your own hotel expenses, but one of my colleagues will run you back afterwards. While you're in Hull, we could chat more about what you remember.'
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