Antman (30 page)

Tom laughed. 'We're back to that. Robin wouldn't hurt a fly.'

'How would you describe him?'

'An argumentative but otherwise harmless womaniser.'

'A crisp case study if ever I heard one.'

'Robin’s not complicated, nor violent, nor even aggressive. Immoral, untrustworthy in matters of matrimony and the heart, disorganised, emotionally unstable even. But first and last, a harmless intellectual with the libido of an adolescent.'

Chris ruminated. 'People do kill for love, you know, eighty percent of the time. Most murders are by spouses or cohabitees. There could be a connection.'

'Even if he was implicated in the earlier killings, which would be ludicrous, he's hardly carried out this last one, not at several thousand miles distance.'

Chapter 19

The police investigation had ground to a halt. Bradshaw called Chris in. Even before he spoke, she anticipated what might be in prospect.

'We don't need to waste time pussyfooting about.' He paused and gave her a long look.

She shrugged as non-committally as possible.

'If there had been any significant developments in the past twelve hours, you would have informed me.'

She nodded.

'Look at these headlines.' He shoved lurid page one spreads in two tabloid papers across the desk.

Chris stared in silence.

'Well?' asked Bradshaw, abrasive as ever.

'Do you expect me to say I approve of these?' she asked.

'Good gracious no, Inspector. Perhaps the time has come for you to gain more varied experience of this Force.'

'You're sending me back.'

'Don't jump the gun.'

'It's tantamount to sacking me.'

'That's rather over-dramatic, before you've even heard my decision.'

'You're drafting me to other duties.'

'You've called in all these experts. Despite this, it could be argued that the investigation is going nowhere.'

Chris was aghast. 'You can't say that.'

'I haven't said that. I said it could be argued.'

'This is necessary preliminary work in an investigation where the circumstances are eccentric.'

'That's where you're wrong. In an investigation like this, the one thing we can't afford is eccentricity. The media will accuse us of dabbling in fringe sciences. They'll make us a laughing stock.'

'You're referring to consulting the graphologist.'

'And the rest.'

'Forensic psychiatry is a well-respected branch of Forensics. So is forensic entomology.'

'Bloody mind-readers and palm-readers. And as for insect men, people will accuse you of having let them into your brain.'

'I'm taking over the investigation myself,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Aspects of it need someone of my rank to head it up.'

'You can't do that. It doesn't make sense. On one hand you're telling me the investigation should be lower down our priorities. On the other, you're implying it's become too high profile for me to direct.'

Bradshaw waved a hand. 'No, no, Inspector. You're misrepresenting the situation. We've a difficult situation here, politically sensitive. Another aspect I'm unhappy with is the involvement of that fellow from the University.'

'You want Professor Fortius off the case as well, sir?'

Bradshaw stared at her and nodded. He can't even bring himself to say it, thought Chris. Her eyes narrowed. 'Are you being pushed, sir?'

'If you mean Jack Deerbolt, this view resonates with that held at the top, yes. You may as well know it, although at this moment the decision is mine.'

'You've already consulted the ACC?'

'Not specifically, but in general terms. The detail is irrelevant.'

Chris guessed Bradshaw was retreating to incomprehensibility when under pressure, as now.

'We need these experts to advise us, sir, in a case as bizarre as this.'

Bradshaw ignored her and continued his train of thought.

'Let's look at it positively. I thought it would be an opportunity for you to see at first hand some of our other work, before going back to your ivory tower.'

'I am not an academic, sir. I am a police officer.'

'Yes I know. But you have to admit, your background isn't exactly average.'

'At times like this I wish I'd left school from a secondary modern at sixteen and never gone back.'

'In that case, we wouldn't be having this conversation,' Bradshaw breezed urbanely.

'You no doubt would be highly relieved.'

'That's a presumption.'

'It's a conclusion in the light of experience.'

'Inspector, you're a talented woman and I'd hate anything to happen here which blighted the prospect of a long, successful career.'

'But you'd be obliged if I'd go quietly. I tell you, I won't.'

'You're putting me in an extremely awkward position.'

'Between the two of us, sir, I intend to. I want the extra time on this case. I assessed the situation, came to you with my plan to set up three teams of investigating officers so as once and for all to eliminate all but our main suspect from our inquiries. You were around at the time of the Yorkshire Ripper and Barwell inquiries. You must know that if the police had completed their systematic checks against the forensic profile, the criminals in these cases would have been apprehended more quickly. You owe it to me to allow this phase of the investigation to take place and, until it's run its course, to head off the media and your bosses. We both know it's complex and there are no prizes for this kind of slogging detective work. There are no short cuts to doing a quality job on the checks either, and there isn't anybody who could have done any better than us, faced with what we're up against in this case. That isn't to say we won't, if you give us more time.'

'We, Inspector?'

'Yes, we. I've got the team behind me.'

'You hope.'

'Ask them.'

The phone rang. Bradshaw ignored it and waited. It rang on and on, insistently. He picked it up.

'Bradshaw. Yes.'

Bradshaw's face became sombre. He listened for three or four minutes. He pulled a notepad towards him and scribbled quickly. Then he spoke, one eye on Chris.

'Give out nothing. I'll ring you back, in two minutes.'

He put the receiver down and spoke to Chris. 'That was our press officer. Arnold Westrop wants to interview me in connection with a feature he's running in the Yorkshire Post on unsolved murders.'

Fifteen minutes later, Bradshaw rang Chris.

'I'm giving you more time.'

'How long, sir?'

'A few days.'

'Days,' she exclaimed.

'A week at the most. I'm giving you time, Inspector, totally against my better judgement.'

'Five working days.'

Chris snorted. 'That's impossible, sir. Two weeks.'

'A week.'

'Ten days.'

'This is ridiculous. We're in an office of the Police Force, not bargaining at a market stall, Inspector. I'll have you remember that.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I haven't finished. Keep Westrop and his rat pack out of it.'

Chris raised her eyebrows.

He continued: 'Two weeks. Not an hour more. Not one single hour.'

Chris was relieved at the extra time, but didn't want to give Bradshaw any credit. She guessed he was under pressure from top management and politicians to produce results and she was his best bet.

'Right, sir.'

'I'm watching you. One foot over the line and I'll make sure one of us never visits Bramshill again. This part of the conversation never took place. Understand me?'

She forced a nod. He continued to watch her from under the dark arch of hooded eyebrows.

'Understood, Inspector?'

'I understand only too well, sir.'

'Keep me fully briefed from now on. Retain that University fellow on for the time being. It looks as though he may be needed for this one, but keep an eye on him. I'm not convinced all this insect business isn't a red herring. I don't like outside people trampling all over police affairs.'

Bradshaw tore the top sheet off the notepad. 'Here's the number. Liaise with Inspector Gowthorpe.'

Bradshaw didn't look up as Chris left the office. She was spitting blood, only constraining her tongue by the certainty it would play into his hands. That was the illusion people like him clung to, she thought.

Power held by custom rather than competence, less a Police Force, more scouting for boys.

*  *  *

Tom was in his office. He sat at his desk, full of thoughts and able for the first time in a couple of days to apply his mind to the day to day business of running the department. His eye fell on his notepad. The word apparatus was scribbled there, with the word
lost
beside it. He leapt to his feet.

He picked up the phone and dialled Chris's direct number.

'The bugger! He's got my lab equipment.'

'What?'

'The social insect communication experiments. We lost some of the back-up equipment some while ago.'

'So our suspect works with you?'

'Or did do till recently.'

'Yes!' Chris clenched her fists in triumph. This was the break-through she'd desperately needed in this case.

She picked up her mobile and pressed a button.

'Hullo, Chris Winchester here. I'd like to speak to Superintendent Bradshaw.'

*  *  *

Tom suspected a link between the deaths and insect research at the University, but beyond that couldn't specify what it might be. He took his suspicions that Detlev was murdered to Chris and tried to convince her Detlev's body should be exhumed. She put it to him it would be difficult without fresh evidence to challenge the verdict of the coroner at the inquest.

'Absurd! You can't have a body exhumed immediately after the inquest,' said Bradshaw.

'What about where there is doubt?' asked Chris.

'It'll cause a furore.'

This was how Chris imagined Bradshaw would react. He appeared preoccupied not with pursuing a possible murder but with avoiding rocking the boat.

'On what grounds will we make the request for an exhumation?'

'On the grounds of new evidence.'

Bradshaw stood up and walked round his desk, standing close to Chris. His voice was low; he hated being put on the spot. 'This is the last time I indulge any of your eccentricities. If I give you your way, you must come up with results, and quickly.'

Once the order was granted, the procedure was straightforward. The pathologist proposed exhuming the body early in the morning.

Quite apart from minimising the effects on decomposition of warming by ambient temperatures, there were fewer people about. There was less likelihood of attracting attention.

The exhumation was carried out at six o'clock, as the sky was lightening from the east. Dark clouds hung forlorn and grey over the coffin and its attendants.

Chris was shaking her head over a piece of paper, as Tom walked into her office. 'Problems?' she asked him.

'The post-mortem report on Dr Brandt.'

'That was quick.'