Antman (18 page)

'Aha,' Tom exclaimed. He pulled a manilla envelope and an orange document file from the drawer of the filing cabinet. 'Found it. Now I can sit and can pay proper attention to you for half an hour or so.'

She looked relieved. He pushed the door closed and came and sat on the easy chair opposite hers.

'I'm all yours,' he said.

For some reason, Chris was embarrassed by this simple remark, apparently made with no intended double meaning.

'I've two things to ask you,' she said. 'First, our forensic people are suggesting we look at employees in research as possible suspects in this murder investigation.'

'You clearly thought earlier today I might have killed Ms Wistow.'

'We'll set that to one side,' said Chris.

'I still might.'

'I'll follow that up separately.' She was clearly embarrassed.

Tom returned to her earlier question. 'What kind of research?'

'I was hoping you could advise me.'

'People assume research only goes on in universities, but of course it happens everywhere: pharmaceuticals, computers, horticulture and in Hull, food processing, par excellence.'

'We think we may be looking for someone with a background or interest in insects, and possibly ants.'

'You're talking about entomological research. That narrows the field considerably.'

'How specific can you be about that?'

'Very. You're talking universities, almost exclusively. Right on your doorstep there's the department I work in, with my Research Centre and the people associated with us in the Centre, in full or part time research and teaching.'

'You say
my
Research Centre.'

'I direct it.'

'You feel a strong sense of ownership.'

'I more or less set up the Centre, a few years ago now. It's absorbed a good deal of my time, more than I care to think about.'

'If we went through that list of people currently linked with your Centre, would that exhaust the number of those who've been associated with it, say, in the past five years?'

'It depends what you mean by associated. We don't have any undergraduate courses. The department does, of course, but that's another story. The Centre only attracts postgraduate researchers. Although our graduate research programme is small – dwindling annually, thanks to fewer government grants – there is quite a large body of people floating around at any one time, say another thirty or forty – either post-doctoral or transitional to a doctoral programme. Then there are former staff. Is that what you mean?'

'That's exactly what I mean.'

'I'd say there's quite a large category of peripherally-involved people, in contrast with the relatively small number of full time registered research students. That's one of our problems, from the University's point of view, because they don't bring in any revenue. Last year we registered only ten new students. This year it was eight.'

'Do many drop out?'

'Ah, I see, you think this could be a disaffected student. Well, most of them complete the two-year Masters programme. Some register at the outset and transfer to the MPhil. Most doctoral students register first for the MPhil and then transfer to the PhD programme once we see they're on an acceptable track. The successful ones tend to be around for three or four years. The less successful often hang around for longer. That's one consequence of our examining system. It gives students the right to several bites at the cherry, short of the ultimate rejection of failure.'

'So a failing student could be on the books for five years or more?'

'Easily.'

'Tell me about staff in the Centre.'

'That's easy. There are so few. Myself, Robin Lovelace my deputy who's just gone off to Africa on a field expedition, Luis Deakin our senior research fellow, plus a handful of contract researchers on our different funded projects.'

'You mean only three of you are permanent full time academics.'

'Well, Luis isn't permanent but he's full time.'

'It's a lot of plates to have in the air. What happens if one of you goes sick.'

'We don't. The odd suicide maybe, but no sickness.'

'Meaning what?'

'Detlev Brandt, our research fellow.'

'Sorry?'

'According to the inquest the other day, he committed suicide.'

'I'm afraid I'm not familiar with this. You'll have to explain.'

'I thought you'd have known. Well, we had another permanent staff member, Dr Detlev Brandt. He took a shotgun to a hotel room near here, went out and shot himself.'

'When was this?'

'Last November.'

Tom saw her expression. 'Do you think there may be some link?'

'It's all new information. I can't tell at this stage,' said Chris.

There was silence for a few moments before Chris spoke again:

'How long would it take someone in your office to knock us up an address list of all these people?'

'Not long I guess. When do you want it? You're going to say yesterday.'

Chris laughed. 'That would be preferable.'

'Give me your fax number. We can probably have it with you tomorrow morning. I'll ask Jean, my secretary, to update copies of our current lists of academic staff and students.'

'Brilliant.'

'We'll probably need to go through the list subsequently, so I can fill you in on the details.'

'I'd appreciate that.'

'What about other people?'

'You tell me.'

'The whole army of people who work in the Department, not only full-timers in the Centre, but secretarial, clerical, administrative, computer support, laboratory technicians, porters, gardeners, domestic cleaners, canteen, it's endless.'

'As full as you can, would be my suggestion.'

'I can't speak with any authority about this aspect. Your best guarantee of completeness in that area is through Personnel. I'll give you the number to ring.'

'Thanks,' she said.

'One further query,' said Tom. 'Has Ms Wistow's family been contacted?'

'She lived alone. The only known relative is a brother in South Wales.'

At that moment Tom's phone rang. Someone knocked on the door, opened it and peeped round. He threw his hands up.

'I know,' Chris said. 'Time's up. It's been a great help. I'll ring you. We can have another chat?'

'Anything I can do,' said Tom.

*  *  *

Tom arrived home after ten, still preoccupied. Laura had turned to the flip side of arguing – denying any problems and not questioning him about where he had been:

'What's the matter?' she asked eventually. 'You were so quiet during tea, even the kids commented on it.'

He found himself going along with this novel game. As though it matters what we say, he thought. Nothing will bring back what we had.

'Oh, nothing,' he said.

'That's a classic. On your way to your first bout of stress counselling, or even a heart attack, are you? Not work? Pull the other one.'

'For goodness sake, I give in. Now shut up,' said Tom. 'It's a really stupid thing, hardly worth the time of day.'

'But it's still got to you.'

'I've agreed dammit, so give it a rest,' he almost shouted.

'Are you going to tell me, or leave us all in suspense.'

'For God's sake. If you must know, the dratted equipment we developed for the social insect communication experiments has gone missing.'

'You mean someone has walked off with it.'

'I didn't say that. It's missing.'

Her voice was rising. 'Why are you in such a stew then, if as you say, it's only missing?'

'Because I don't know. I can't bloody remember, can I? I could simply have mislaid it. That's why I'm so angry. I'm mad with myself really. It's several years since we used the prototype gear. I should have had it destroyed. For all I know that's what one of the technicians has done. You know what my memory is like, especially when I'm working under pressure. I think I'm getting worse each year that passes. I may have asked one of the staff to store it in a particular cupboard or cellar.'

'Why does it matter, if it's obsolete?'

'Like our marriage,' he said under his breath, but loud enough.

Her voice was lower, dangerously low. 'What did you say?'

'Nothing.'

'You said something about our marriage.'

'I did not.'

There was a pause.

They sat watching television. The silence went on. As it lengthened, Laura felt increasingly unable to break it. Neither had spoken for nearly an hour. Tom seemed totally abstracted. Laura gave a deep sigh, between frustration and resignation. She suddenly found herself speaking:

'Luis Deakin rang.'

'Oh?'

'He wanted to speak to you. I said you were already at work. He said you'd not been in all day.'

'Hm.'

'I wondered where you were.'

'I don't remember.'

'That's the kind of remark which really annoys me. A man of your intellect pretending to forget where he's been all day.'

'It happens.'

She tried to pursue this, but Tom was still immersed in his own worries.

'Where were you, Tom? You're insulting my intelligence. Who were you with?'

'You know what I'm like. I'm forgetful when I'm in research mode.'

'Don't treat me like an idiot. I'm so bloody angry with you. I can't predict what I might do.'

'It's like all these things. If the equipment goes to the wrong place, it could get into the hands of the wrong people. Time, and that includes equipment, is money. Someone could use it to duplicate the work we're doing and bang goes our lead, and with it a research grant or two worth one, three, five hundred thousand pounds.'

'Have you heard what I've been saying?'

'I was thinking about the lost equipment.'

'If it's so damned important, why not search systematically through all those places? Then perhaps people could live with you again. I could never work with you. I'd have to start at one end of the job and work through to the other. I would go through every storage area one by one, and turn everything out until I found it.'

'We can't do that. You're talking about six months work. We have equipment all over the building, in fact, all over the University. We simply can't spare anyone for that length of time. We shall have to hope it turns up.'

The equipment did, but not in the way he would have intended or wanted.

Some time later that evening, while she was soaking in the bath, Laura finally decided to leave Tom. The unspoken question was when to do it.

Chapter 13

Bradshaw was right about there being more to this story, but he was some hours late. While Brill was having a late breakfast, the telephone rang. It rang on and on in the CID office at Wawne Road Police Station. Eventually somebody heard it.

'I'm coming, I'm coming. DC Morrison speaking.' As Morrison listened, his frown deepened.

It was a short call. Morrison put the receiver down, picked it up immediately and dialled Bradshaw:

'DC Morrison here, sir. Another dead person, sir.'

Bradshaw couldn't resist a quip at Morrison's expense. 'Well? Happens all the time. People die, not in every Yorkshire village every weekend I'm pleased to say, but we've had our share over the years.'