Antman (61 page)

'Boss, there's a lot more from the War Museum I need to tell you. We've been having some success.'

'Tell me,' said Chris. 'Why did Thompsen leave?'

'An accident of some sort. I can't recall the details. A car crash. Yes that's it, smashed his leg and his face pretty badly. He was able to recover the use of his leg. The surgery on his face gave him the opportunity to develop a new identity. It reduced the likelihood of anyone recognising him.'

All the shades were off. There was no longer a news blackout. The warnings could be broadcast. Details of the police searches and public appeals were cleared to go out on the national, regional and local TV and radio. Radios Leeds, Humberside and York as well as the commercial stations ran special news features and Calendar North and BBC TV local news ran stories as well. The Yorkshire Post, Hull Daily Mail and Yorkshire Evening Press gave the murders and the investigations priority. A daily headline and page of news about the progress of the investigation became pretty well standard in all these papers, fed by regular bulletins from the police press office.

Police toured Pocklington, Malton, Driffield, Beverley and Market Breighton with loudspeakers warning people to keep their children indoors. It wasn't hard to persuade people to heed the warnings. The atmosphere locally could best be described as panicky. Helicopters patrolled overhead. Ant experts arrived from the Entomological Section of the Natural History Museum in South Kensington to consult with Tom about taxonomical aspects of the species used for the killings.

Bradshaw was fuming, partly because he'd received an invoice from the University. He called Chris in to explain why she'd hired a graphologist and more than one psychiatrist. What was wrong with using as few of these professionals as possible, he wanted to know.

'Nothing,' said Chris, 'unless you want to solve crimes.'

'This is costing me a fortune.'

'You make it sound as though you're meeting the bill personally.'

'I may have to if this goes on.'

'Murder investigations cost money.'

'The bills for this one are sky high. The Committee will go mad.' 

'Let me attend the next meeting. I'll give them some figures about the real costs of some recent murder investigations and I'll point out how we need resources to carry out a large-scale, complex investigation into high profile cases such as this.'

Later Chris was talking to Sheila Rawlinson.

'How long is it since we last had a communication from the killer?' Sheila asked.

'Two days, three days. It's difficult to say, with the post being rather erratic.'

'The last note wasn't left on a body.'

'No, but don't say that. We're counting ourselves lucky we haven't had a body for several days.'

'There will be a crisis coming, given his psychological state,' said Sheila. 'How many hostages has he had so far?'

'It's impossible to tell. We only have the bodies.'

'He could be holding further victims while he prepares himself. There could be a succession of people.'

‘
What time-scale are we talking about?'

'It's impossible to predict. It depends on a number of factors. We don't know this man's circumstances, where he's coming from, where he's going. He may be acutely paranoid. The delusion could hold the key. He may imagine some gross disaster is about to engulf him, and us.'

‘
We must find him,' said Chris, who was feeling increasingly desperate.

'One certainty is that the frequency of killings so far indicates he's on a short fuse,' said Sheila. ' Whatever is driving him, he doesn't believe in hanging about.' She paced around the office. 'There's another aspect of it. The whole issue of MPD. If you've ever tried to interview a severe case you'll realise the problem. At the least stimulus he'll be likely to jump from one personality to another. It could be quite random. He could arrive at a personality poised to commit a further murder, or series of murders. Finally, of course, there's the cumulative impact of all this on a seriously unstable and depressed person. The inevitable conclusion of many multiple murders is that the murderer makes a final, dramatic murderous gesture, then commits suicide. We have no way of knowing how soon he'll feel so boxed into a corner that he has to start mass killings and then kill himself.'

Tom was still alienated from Chris. His mood was sombre. At present he didn't care if he never saw Chris again. Tom took the quick decision to stick with the task at the University while Chris went off to the Wolds.

The phone rang. When Tom picked it up he heard Regel's voice, weak but assertive. I take my hat off to you, old man, thought Tom, you have so much
go
in you.

'I want to know what's happening. If there's no need for me to stay, I'd like to go home as soon as is convenient.'

Tom explained about the search for Thompsen's house and Regel took him by surprise.

'Anything I can do to help?'

On the spur of the moment, Tom said, 'I'm on my way to catch up with what the police are doing.'

He didn't mention about falling out with Chris. Regel's response was immediate.

'Can I come along?'

Tom couldn't think of a reason why not.

Less than an hour later, Tom picked Regel up from the hotel. He’d checked out so had all his bags with him. Tom had first to call back at the University. He rang Morrison to find out what was happening.

'Sorry, sir,' said Morrison, 'you must have been left out of the loop by mistake. We're up at Napperton, the other side of Beverley just off the B1248, the back road to Malton, about five miles from the junction with the road from Middleton on the Wolds. At Tibthorpe take a left turn towards Huggate. You'll see a sign for Pickthorpe. Turn left and it's about three miles back towards Middleton.'

While Tom cleared his office desk Regel sat in the easy chair opposite him, nursing a mug of milky coffee. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of a photo on the wall. It was the staff contribution to the concert celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the University. They were all disguised in fancy dress costume.

Regel pointed to one of the figures.

'That's John.'

Tom knew without looking it couldn't be, because the event had only happened last year and only involved academic staff. 'No, you must be mistaken.'

'I tell you, that's him.'

‘
Who do you mean?'

Regel rose and jabbed his finger aggressively onto the photo. Tom laughed at the sight of Luis dressed imposingly as an upper class Edwardian with boater and handlebar moustache. 'Impossible, that's Luis Deakin, one of the research staff in my unit. I'm afraid he doesn't look anything like that in real life.'

Tom was in a hurry. He couldn't put Matthew and Sarah out of his mind. He left Regel to finish his drink and left one or two items for his temporary secretary to deal with. When he returned, Regel was finished and ready to go.

'Now,' said Tom, 'there's the question of what we do next. I have to follow the search up and find my children before –'

Regel nodded and stood up. 'I'll go with you.'

'You can't. It's a police operation.'

'I'm a police informant, escorted from my home two hundred miles away to stay in Hull and help them with their inquiries.'

'According to DC Morrison, you're on holiday.'

‘
We won't talk about that.'

'Are you sure you're up to this?'

'I can stay in the car. I've picked up a little of what's going on. I feel in some way involved. I don't want to miss the ending. I won’t hinder you and I’ll keep quiet.'

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.'