Tom stopped objecting. Suddenly, taking Regel seemed to him the next most logical step.
Chapter 40
It was a race against time for the police to set up road blocks round Pickthorpe and further barriers near the remote farm.
* * *
Tom was desperate for the case to move forward. Following the directions he had received from Morrison, he was on his way to the location identified. On the road, he questioned Regel.
'You know more about them all than you've let on, Mr Regel. It's time you let the rest of us into the secret. People are being killed. My children have been kidnapped by this man. They could be his next victims, dammit.'
A hundred yards ahead, a rabbit hopped out from the left hand verge, then another. Tom swerved to avoid them, almost ditching the car in the soft soil beyond the offside verge. Regel clutched at the car seat. He looked frightened.
'I will tell,' he said. 'Lionel Blatt was not Blatt when we lived in Poland, but Lionel Regel.'
'So you're brothers. Detlev Brandt was German,' Tom added, half to himself.
'Brandt,' said Regel. 'You know the name. Brandt was the name Lionel used when he moved through Poland to make a new life for himself after the war. That was before he became Blatt.'
Tom's mind was racing. 'Was there anyone else in Lionel's life at that time called Brandt?'
Regel mused. 'I don't know. I can't think. I didn't know all his activities. He was quite secretive and we weren't exactly on the same wavelength, so to speak.'
Before Tom reached the outskirts of the village, there were indications of out-of-the-ordinary activity. A Special Operations police transit van and two police patrol cars stood in the lay-by adjacent to the bus shelter. Three uniformed officers stood by an improvised barrier, a pole slung across two oil drums. One of the men stepped forward as Tom pulled up at the barrier.
'I'm part of the team,' Tom explained as the more senior police officer – to judge from the pips on his shoulders – leaned towards his open car window on the driver's side.
'And what team might that be, sir?'
Tom thought he heard one of the other officers mutter 'Oinks from Surrey'. There was a muffled guffaw.
'A moment please, sir. These officers will stay with your car.'
'I've been asked to advise Chief Superintendent Bradshaw of any newcomers to the scene. Who shall I say it is?'
Tom informed him and the man's manner changed immediately.
'Professor Fortius, is it?'
Tom was feeling pretty raw with worry. 'If the title makes a difference to you, yes it is.'
'My apologies, sir. We have to check all visitors with Chief Superintendent Bradshaw, Wawne Road Police. I'll have the barrier lifted and if you'd like to drive through there, sir, we'll soon have you sorted.'
He held a brief conversation on his crackling handset. 'Right. Over and out,' he called briskly and turned back to Tom. ‘When you reach the main street, go to the far end and take the first left. Our checkpoint is a couple of hundred yards along on the left. A police officer will be waiting there and will accompany you to our command HQ.'
It was strange, passing through the barrier, then having the freedom of the village. Tom's stomach cramped painfully with hunger as he drove into the village centre. He realised he'd have to eat, and so would Regel. Hunger and the mental strain were taking their toll. He glanced about. He couldn't believe how quiet and untouched by the drama the scene looked. There was the village shop, halfway along the main street. The archetypal village shop, he thought as he scanned the tiny converted ground floor area of the old cottage. They would pay a fortune to dismantle and remove this, lock, stock and barrel, and transport and reconstruct it, stone by stone, in some fanatic's heritage museum in anywhere – Surrey, California or, these days, Yorkshire.
The proprietor didn't conform to the stereotype of the village shopkeeper, being a tall young woman whose manner and voice when she spoke indicated that she, like himself, was born and bred a couple of hundred miles south of this remote part of East Yorkshire.
'Can I fetch you something?'
'Please, I'm in a hurry. A loaf of bread and some cheese.'
'Wholemeal or white, sliced or unsliced. There's quite a variety.' She looked at him and waited.
'I don't mind.'
'Cob, nutty cob, granary, or tin, for sandwiches.'
'Er, a couple of rolls please.'
'Did you say cheese with it, sir?'
'No, this is fine.'
‘What sort would you like?'
'Oh, any, whatever is quickest.'
He was sorely regretting even mentioning anything but the bread. It seemed quicker not to argue, though, in the face of her punctiliousness.
‘We've quite a selection.'
'Er, Wensleydale will be fine, please.'
‘We've four or five different cheeses from Wensleydale – goats' cheese, pasteurised or unpasteurised, you can have sheeps' cheese, and then there's ordinary farmhouse, waxed whole cheeses or blue.'
A faint smile of superiority hovered at the corners of her lips.
'Blue please.'
He was well past caring, but she persisted. 'How much?'
'That piece.'
She took an age, wrapping the cheese carefully in heavy paper. Tom remembered from his childhood visits to the old-fashioned grocer in town how the man had pencilled the price of the cheese and the bread carefully onto one side.
Why the hell did I ask for this, Tom thought. All he wanted was to stuff the bread into his mouth, stop the incipient ulcer he was fairly sure he was nurturing deep inside, and drive to the scene of the action.
'Anything else?'
'No, thank you,' he said as he rummaged in his pocket for some money. Then he responded to a quite extraordinary impulse which afterwards he couldn't explain.
He pulled the passport photo from his top pocket.
'Yes, there is,' he said. 'I wonder if you have seen this colleague of mine. I'm trying to find his house and I left my map at home.'
'Oh yes, that's Mr Thompsen from Coldharbour Farm. Go out of the village, turn left on the Driffield Road, about half a mile up on the right. Are you a friend of his?'
'Thompsen? No, hang on, I've given you the wrong photo.' He reached over and half snatched, half pulled the picture from her grip. One glance told him he hadn't made a mistake.
'Deakin, it's Deakin. Oh my God!' he exclaimed and rushed from the shop. He was already in the car turning the key in the ignition when there was a knock at the window on the passenger side.
He leaned across and opened the door.
She pulled it further open and offered him a carrier bag.
'You forgot your groceries,' she said.
'Thank you, I'm sorry,' said Tom. 'I've remembered something. I had to dash.'
'The whole world's in a hurry,' said the woman. 'Enjoy your picnic.'
'Thanks,' said Tom as she slammed the door. But she had already turned away.
He had nodded at Regel who was still reclining patiently on the back seat, and was about to turn round when a sudden sharp knock on the window made him jump. It was the shopkeeper again. He wound down the window.
'I made a mistake,' she said. 'Coldharbour isn't that way. Don't waste time turning round. You're facing the right way. First left past these houses, then first left again.'
* * *
Tom was down the first road to the left before he reconsidered. There was something amiss. The shopkeeper had said left, then right. Then she'd changed her mind to left and left again. The problem was, neither of these instructions corresponded with what the police had told him. She's probably confused, he said out loud as he drove, ignoring both the subsequent left and right turnings. He stuck to the improvised scribbled note he'd stuck on the shelf below the dashboard.
* * *
The scene of operations was about a mile out of the village. While trying to phone Chris on his mobile with one hand and steering and changing gear with the
other, Tom nearly crashed. Here we are, he said to Regel as he reached the barrier. Thank goodness he'd stuck to the first instructions. DC Morrison advanced and put up a warning hand.
'Morning, sir, I thought you'd got lost. Glad you made it, with Mr Regel, I see.' Morrison greeted Regel, who nodded politely.
'I had to eat,' Tom muttered through the last chunk of bread roll he'd just stuffed into his mouth. Morrison came round to the passenger side and got in. Tom revved and crashed into gear before Morrison had the door closed.
‘We must hurry,' Tom said and put his foot down. They swerved crazily across cart ruts and he fought to control the steering.
Morrison clicked his belt on. He guessed the professor was worried about his children and knew when not to ask questions. 'Straight on, sir. Right up that track, as far as you can see, till that bend. Till I say stop. I'll show you where to park.'
'You don't seem surprised we're here,' said Tom.
‘We phoned the University and the hotel,' said Morrison with a grin. 'Keeping tabs on the opposition.'
Tom caught a glimpse of a valley to the right of the road. A wide expanse of open grassland up the hill slopes and, he guessed, somewhere at the far end, a distance away, an isolated farmhouse adjacent to a few acres of woodland. Morrison saw him looking.
'The farm's that way, sir. You can't see it from here, but we turn left.'
Obediently Tom followed his directions. Driving through a wooded area deep in trees, they reached a clearing which couldn't have contrasted more greatly with what he'd seen so far. Grouped round the edges of the clearing were three police vans, a fire engine, three ambulances and half a dozen other police cars.
Tom skidded to a halt. He buzzed down his window and tried to pick up what was going on. He quickly ascertained that Chris was somewhere nearby, setting up and checking, and would be back shortly.
A moment later he saw her and leaned out of the window. He had to clear it up straight away.
‘Why didn't you let me know that evening about the children being kidnapped?'
To his surprise she was apologetic, but not in the sense he'd anticipated. She clearly didn't perceive either the police or herself to be in error.
‘We spent an hour trying to contact you, by phone at home, at the University, on your mobile. In the end, I drove past the University on my way home late at night and dropped a note in at the administration building.
'Oh.' He didn't know what to say. All those messages and, of course, he'd been out of contact, deliberately so. He hadn't checked his office phone and he’d been out on the road, desperately searching for several hours late into the night, having forgotten to take his mobile with him. As for the note, he hardly dared ask how she'd addressed it.
'I pushed it into an envelope before I left the office,' she said, 'hoping I'd see you and wouldn't have to leave it.'
Tom had a sudden thought, picked up his desk diary off the back seat of the car and shook it. There it was, a small manilla envelope, near the bottom. He picked it up, slid his finger along the sealed flap and unfolded the small piece of paper inside.
Dear Tom,
I'm terribly sorry to have to write, but we've been trying all means to reach you by phone all evening and you must be incommunicado.
It ran onto the back, explaining about Matthew and Sarah and assuring him everything humanly possible was being done and he was to phone her at any time, day or night. There was a little scribbled phrase at the end, in French.
Je t'embrasse
Chris
Tom was mortified. Chris was walking away. He got out of the car and followed her, leaving Regel still on the back seat. ‘What can I say? You did try and I thought you didn't. I'm so terribly sorry.'
'Forget it. You're the parent. The pain is yours.'
His voice was quiet. 'I really regret this, Chris.'
'Say no more.'
'Chris, I must have my children back. I don't care what the cost is. I'll pay any ransom.'
Chris watched him clench his fists and thrust them into the air. 'I don't think this man's motive is money,' she said gently. ‘We'll let you know as soon as we hear anything.'
He knew by the use of the word we that the chasm between them was real. Before, they were colleagues, now he was a victim, a member of the public. It should make no difference. In some indefinable way, it made all the difference in the world.
'I don't care.' He hardly knew what he was saying. 'Find that man before he harms them. If he so much as lays a finger on them, I swear I'll – Oh, forget it.'
His aggression dissolved and he crumpled.
'Is that it?'
'Yes.'
‘We are doing everything we can. I want to say I'm a woman and – I can imagine how you feel.'
‘We must get my children out. That's my priority above everything else.'
'It's ours as well. Unfortunately we have to catch this man in order to guarantee their safety and the safety of other possible future victims.'
'I agree,' said Tom. He opened his diary at the back, where he'd stuffed a few sheets. 'Have a look at these. I found them in Thompsen's file.'
She glanced quickly at them. 'God, this ties up with what we've been doing. I'll bring Morrison over.'
She was holding a large Ordnance Survey map and didn't give Tom her full attention at first. She was puzzled. 'I'm trying to figure this out,' she said.
'Show me the farm on the map,' said Tom.
She looked at him curiously. ‘What's the problem?' He seemed stressed but she put that down to anxiety about Sarah and Matthew.
Chris was poring over the map, turning it to correspond with the direction they were facing. Tom couldn't wait.
'Which farm are you watching?'
She found the spot on the map, indicated by a neat circle in black ink. 'There we are.'
'Whose house is it?'
‘What's the panic Tom? Have we made a mistake?'
'At this stage I don't know, but frankly there is a chance.’ Tom paused. ‘I think Thompsen and Deakin could be twins.'
'That's impossible,' she said.
'I'm talking about personal details – date and place of birth and so on – not physical appearance.'
'No, they don't even look similar.'
'There's an even more awesome possibility, that they're one and the same person.'
'Christ!' Chris clapped her hand to her head.
'The two houses are near each other,' said Tom. 'Let me explain. Deakin has been living in a farmhouse near here, bequeathed to him by his aunt. I haven't any knowledge of how she died. Quite coincidentally, or perhaps not, Thompsen had a house nearby. I assume you're staking out Thompsen's place.'
'We were rather congratulating ourselves on tracking it down.' Chris groaned.
Tom nodded grimly. 'He's pulled a clever stroke.'
'You're implying our murderer has slid rather neatly from one identity to another.'
More than that. Perhaps he's done it more than once. He does it now, as and when it suits.'
'How the hell could anyone who's worked in your University reappear as somebody else?'
'Remember Thompsen had a serious car accident a few years ago. Who knows what facial reconstruction was needed?'
'Whoever we're dealing with appears to have moved from student to staff researcher over a ten-year period. There's little likelihood anyone would have noticed if he had bothered to change certain personal details, when he changed from being Thompsen to Deakin.'
Chris ruminated. 'Or Deakin to Thompsen.'
Tom was running for his car.
'The woman in the village gave me some directions and I ignored them. I think that's where Deakin's aunt lived.'
'Hang on,' called Chris.
'You stay here and organise your people,' said Tom. 'I'll go on ahead.'
She followed him towards the car. 'No way. I'll organise them in one minute. I don't trust you not to do something daft.' She looked towards a group of uniformed and plain cl
othes officers. 'Has anyone seen Chief Superintendent Bradshaw?'
Chapter 41
'It's incredible. Luis Deakin. He's so normal. No other word for it. Given all this, I find it amazing that when he applied for the post his background seemed so impeccable. Thinking back to his interview, his application form, his CV, it doesn't add up.'
'Let's have a look.'
'We can't. Personnel have all the details.'
'He'll have glossed over crucial details which could have given you clues as to his real nature. Or he'll have lied.'
'I realise he can't be exactly what he seems. But tell me this: if a person is able to hold down a highly responsible job at one level, surely that tells you something about their abilities.'
'About abilities, yes. But when that same person is living an altogether criminal existence in secrecy at the same time, it confirms the fundamental nature of the disturbance in their personality.'
'Things can only get better,' said Chris and was immediately proved wrong.
Tom jumped as though struck by a physical blow. ‘What am I thinking about? We've no time for this.' He started to run towards the large barn on the far side of the farmyard and, before she knew it, Chris was following him. Before she'd even had time to think about picking up the mobile or the radio set she'd put down a few moments before, they were entering the barn through a small side door.
'I don't believe it,' said Tom.
The greatest part of the space was taken up with a row of large aquarium tanks on either side of the gangways running the length of the barn. Most of them were filled with colonies of ants, some in single tanks, others linked together in series. There were temperature controls, lights, humidity measures and thermometers everywhere. The atmosphere was warm, overpowering, with a palpable sensation of evil emanating from millions of scurrying bodies, massed together for no good purpose.
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