Antman (57 page)

It has taken much effort to grow what we planned so meticulously on paper.

THE LABYRINTH is labyrinthine. It's a joke, so laugh if you please. Don't ever accuse me of having no humour. A labyrinthine labyrinth. I repeat the word labyrinth labyrinth labyrinth until it loses meaning and becomes a succession of vowels and consonants.

Labyrinth: By using hop poles and netting and planting Russian vines and other fast-growing creepers, in less than three years we have created the effect of vast rows of impenetrable living barriers – a fraction of the decades it takes to grow a conventional maze, using traditional hedging such as box or other evergreens.

Planning and finalising the design, that was the first problem. We couldn't settle on it. We'd sit and draw for hours. Symmetrical layouts with many open spaces and blind alleys in the corners; spirals with narrower passages, with alternatives leading from an initial point near the entrance; a random arrangement of passages, with the farmhouse near one edge. Eventually we have settled for the last of these. There are several advantages of this approach. It is more likely to baffle the players and it is simpler to arrange. We don't have to meet some totally predefined goal. We can change it if we encounter obstacles on the way.

G

*  *  *

For a while, Helen couldn't place this man who was entertaining them and promising them that Tom would arrive any minute. The uncertainty was enough to prevent her running away with the children.

When she heard that radio news item about the former technician at the University being wanted to help police with their enquiries, she put two and two together and her panic knew no limits. By the time she realised, they were captive, locked up in the cellar. It was ages later before she remembered the mobile in her bag. It was so stupid, a detail which could have saved any further hassle. She could have phoned Laura, Robin, the police, anybody.

*  *  *

How Helen escaped, she couldn't remember. Perhaps she ran up the steps and through the door which the man hadn't intended to leave unlocked and unguarded. Perhaps there were other steps and a trapdoor leading directly to the outside. Had he done this deliberately? Helen was muddled. She wasn't where the man said. She was in another part of the garden, her head still fuddled. She felt drugged, but couldn't recall how it could have happened. She wanted desperately to find her way to the children. Where were they? She called their names, softly at first, then louder and more anxiously. There was no reply. She ran this way and that, calling their names repeatedly. After what seemed like eternity, she heard their sobbing. Somehow, she found herself next to the outer passage of the maze, calling 'Sarah, Matthew!'

The almost total darkness made it impossible to make out anything beyond the faint outline of the hedging. Strange shapes and outlines like gargoyles rose from the creepers and bushes all around. The huge creepers created a monstrous topiary, huge and overhanging, like ghosts crowding in, dark and silent at every turn she took.

Helen heard a totally different sound, the sound of children screaming. The screaming went on for a long time. The screaming was coming from inside her head. Then she realised it was her own voice. She was screaming again and again and again.

*  *  *

The wind was starting to blow, hard enough to agitate the tops of the trees and shake the lower branches. Tom was in a panic. He looked out of his window, his guts in turmoil as though he'd swallowed the most nauseating potion. Below him in the campus grounds, the contrast was incredible. Ducks swam quietly across the placid waters of the sheltered lake to the rear of the building. Its surface rippled slightly in response to the gathering wind. The sun was low in the sky, visible through the cloud as a glowering purple globe.

There was a knock at Tom's half-open office door.

'Mr Fortius?'

'Yes?'

A young man with short cropped hair wearing a smart jacket and immaculately pressed trousers pushed the door open and stood hesitantly just inside. 'Sorry, sir, the door was open. I came straight along the corridor.'

Tom's stomach gave a sickening lurch. Detectives wore the unmistakable uniform of police officers despite their plain clothes.

‘
What is it?'

DC Moran stepped forward, held out his identification card and another officer appeared behind him. 'Detective Constables Moran and Lounds, sir. I think we've met when you visited DCI Winchester.'

His stomach still churning, Tom waved them inside and closed the door behind them. He recognised them from his visits to the Station. They walked with that terrible inevitability policemen in particular have of placing their boots on soft carpeting when bearing bad news. He had a terrible premonition it was more bad news about the children. He stood by his desk and tried to keep control as he faced them.

'No sign of your children yet, sir, but we're doing everything we can.'

Tom couldn't stop himself exploding. 'Everything you can is no bloody good if you haven't found them.'

'No, sir. They aren't at home or at school,' continued the imperturbable Moran. ‘We've been in constant touch with Mrs Fortius. She hasn't seen them today. They may have simply gone on an outing.

'We have no reason at the moment to believe they have come to any harm.' 

'No reason to believe?' Tom's thoughts spun wildly out of control. 'They should have been safe. They were with the nanny.'

'Your nanny wasn't in the picture, sir. Your friend Mrs Lovelace has disappeared as well. She may have gone with them, or she may have gone somewhere else, but she may have a clue as to their whereabouts.

'We don't know at this stage. We are considering the hypothesis she may be implicated in their disappearance.'

'Hypothesis? Implicated? She's Laura's best friend for God's sake. What is this, a bloody Agatha Christie guessing game? My children's lives are at stake.'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

'Sorry! It's absurd. Helen would never do anything like that. She'd have no reason to.'

Moran shrugged. 'Let's say we have an open mind at present.'

'I've had a call from a man claiming to be responsible, and so has my wife,' said Tom.

Moran's manner changed. 'You what, sir? Who did you tell?'

'I haven't told anybody,' said Tom belligerently. 'It would be a calamity if it reached this man that I've told the police.'

Moran looked worried. ‘With respect, sir, you should have got straight onto DCI Winchester.'

‘
With respect, you should have found my children by now.'

'Just a minute, sir.' Moran fumbled for his mobile. Tom paced about while Moran stepped to a corner of the office and dealt with the call. When he'd finished, Tom had more questions.

‘
We're doing all we can,' said Moran. 'Sorry, sir. I know this has come as a shock.'

'Never mind wasting time consoling me. How long have the police known?'

Moran didn't know where to put himself. 'I can't say for sure, sir.'

Tom saw he was up against the solid wall of the man's ignorance of the wider situation.

'Okay, how long have you personally known?'

'Me, sir, only since I came on duty.'

‘
When was that?'

'Last night.'

Tom clenched both fists. Chris had known at least since last evening and hadn't rung him.

'Carry on with the search and don't come back till you've found them.'

'If you're all right, sir, I'll be off now. Goodbye.'

'No, hang on. Where is Chief Inspector Winchester?'

'She'll be at HQ I expect, sir.'

'Are you returning there, Sergeant?'

'I expect so, sir.'

'I'll come with you. No, dammit, I can't. I'll have no transport. A taxi.' Tom felt in his pockets to see what loose change he had. 'It's okay, Sergeant. Car's broken down, you carry on.'

The two officers turned back towards the office and Moran spoke. 'Sir. If you want me to pass on a message to DCI Winchester –'

'No message,' he called. And then, when they were out of the door, he said to himself, 'Tell the Chief Inspector to go to hell.'

He watched from the office window as the sergeant's car coasted slowly out of the car park towards the main entrance at the junction with the main road.

'They say the police look after their own,' he mouthed. 'Carry on doing it in your way, and I will in mine.'

*  *  *

The temporary secretary from the agency wouldn't be in yet. Tom went through the stack of mail, as yet unsorted. He was in such a state that he knocked the entire pile onto the floor, together with his desk diary. He bent down, picked up his diary which he wanted to take with him, and as he scrabbled to pick up the letters and packages, flicking through them for anything urgent, a small envelope fell out from among the large brown packages. A distinctive collage of newspaper fonts composed his name and address. He tore the envelope open.

Dear Professor Fortius.

'Fucking bastard!' Tom shouted, clenching his fist. He read on.

First, let me thank you for the information about the nun. She had a lot to answer for. You should have seen her face. I got through to her. A hundred thousand ants achieved more contrition in a few hours than all those years of Hail Mary's.

Now to the major point of this letter. It was so easy. I had time to plan it so carefully.

And so on. There was much more in similar vein. Tom felt physically sick. Who hated him at work? The one person he hadn't considered yet: Apthorpe. He had a sudden urge to confront Apthorpe and see how he reacted. Events took over for the next few hours and his suspicion had to stay on the back burner.

*  *  *

When Chris reached Wawne Road Police Station there was a message from Sheila. She dialled Sheila's direct line. 'How busy are you?' Sheila asked.

'Averagely at my wit's end, I guess.' Chris's voice was flat. She felt completely at sea with the case. To make matters worse, her personal life was in a mess. She knew things were all wrong between her and Tom, but hadn't time to sort that out at present. 'To be frank, I don't know where we're going on this case. What can you offer?'

'I've been looking back at all the material he's written. There are at least two, possibly three, personalities involved. Given what we have, we can try to predict the nature of the fragmentation of his personality which may be occurring. There's a chance we can guess his next move from whichever persona seems most of the time to be dominant or uppermost.'

Sheila knew this was highly speculative. She hoped she could reassure Chris, offer a lifebelt.

‘
We can guess from the written material what stage he's reached in the projection of his fantasies. I judge he's reaching, or has reached, a crisis of some kind. It's represented for him in an externalisation of the labyrinth of his brain, which he can't fathom, and from the inside of his head, in his fantasies about the mass of insects populating it and threatening to overwhelm him.'

Chris sighed and didn't say a word.