'It's not what I expected,' Winterman said.
'What did you expect?' Pyke asked. 'Long mahogany benches? Intricate sculptures of test tubes and retorts? Electrical boxes with valves and flashing lights?'
'Something like that. And I expected it to be a proper building.'
Pyke glanced up at the discoloured ceiling of the pre-fabricated construction that housed the laboratory and nodded. 'I think we'd all have expected that. As a minimum. Instead, as you've correctly observed, we have to work in a glorified bloody shed. Not that I work here much these days. I'm seconded to the Home Office for the forensic stuff. But I'll always think of this as home. Let's go and get a pint.'
Winterman followed him back out into the sunshine. The shabby functionality of the laboratory building was thrown into even sharper contrast by the old university buildings surrounding it.
'Supposedly just a temporary measure. But that was in 1942 and I don't see much sign of them rushing to replace it.'
'No money, I imagine. That seems to be the story everywhere.' Winterman hopped across the street behind Pyke, who had only narrowly avoided being run over by a greengrocer's van. Pyke ducked into the narrow doorway of a pub, gesturing for Winterman to follow.
By the time Winterman had made his way into the shade of the public bar, Pyke was already ordering the beers. He looked over his shoulder at Winterman. 'Inside or out? There's a beer garden at the back. Though it's not much to write home about.'
'Let's go out. First decent day we've had this year.'
'They're forecasting a hot summer. Believe it when I see it. But the weather's gone crazy. I blame those A-bombs.'
The beer garden was, as Pyke had suggested, an unimpressive affair, little more than a tiny courtyard surrounded by high brick walls. The landlord had made an effort with a stone trough filled with plants which, in the first warmth of spring, were beginning to bud. There were three tables and an assortment of chairs apparently scavenged from any available source. But the yard at least served as a suntrap, catching the full glare of the midday sun. Winterman lowered himself cautiously on to one of the wooden chairs and took a sip of his beer, enjoying the unfamiliar glow of the sun on his face.
'Cheers.'
'Cheers.' Pyke raised his glass in return. 'So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit? Not that I'm complaining. Any excuse to get out of that place and into the pub.'
'Just a social call. More or less.'
'Oh, yes?' Pyke raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'I'm honoured. So why are you really here?'
'Nothing official. If Spooner knew I was pestering you, I'd be out on my ear. I just want to pick your brains a little. You don't think Hoxton acted alone, do you?'
Pyke regarded him for a moment. 'I've told you. It's all bollocks. But I'm not going to muddy the waters.'
'Not even for Howard's sake?'
Pyke had already finished most of the beer, Winterman noticed. 'There's nothing I can do for Howard now. All I can do is keep my own life on the straight and narrow.'
'Fair enough. I can't blame you for that. I'm treading a risky path here myself. I've been told to keep well away from it.'
'By Spooner?'
'Spooner made it very clear I should back off.'
'You think Spooner's bent?'
'I'd say not. But he wants a quiet life. Doesn't want anything that might deflect him from the smooth path to retirement.'
'Just like me then. Okay, I'm not going to help you officially, but feel free to pick away at my brains off the record. What can I tell you?'
'I'm clutching at straws really. What about the forensics on the children's bodies? Is there anything there I should know?'
'Nothing that didn't go in the official reports. All killed at roughly the same time – probably within a few months in 1940, but difficult to be precise. All relatively well-preserved, consistent with them being buried in the fenland. Cause of death difficult to determine, but no obvious signs of any trauma on what's left of the bodies. I'd go for asphyxiation in some form, but that's mainly because there's no sign of any other cause. '
'No clue as to their identities?'
'Not to speak of. There's not much left of the clothes to draw any conclusions from. A couple were wearing what looked like homemade garments. One had fragments of what might have been a school uniform.'
Winterman nodded. All the detail was familiar to him. The apparent presence of the school uniform had excited them briefly, raising the possibility that the remains might be those of the young schoolgirl who had vanished before the war. But to date they had been unable to trace the girl's mother, who had supposedly moved to Lincoln, or any other medical or other records that might help confirm the child's identity. It remained a lead but an increasingly tenuous one. 'Nothing else?'
'Not that I can think of. Perhaps you'll find some other evidence once they get round to excavating the area where the bodies were found.' There was a wry edge to Pyke's voice.
Although the flooding had now largely receded, Winterman had detected no obvious enthusiasm among senior officers for further investigation of the area, even though there might be scope for finding additional evidence. Or for that matter more bodies.
'What about Fisher's body?' For the moment, Winterman left the question of Merriman's body, conscious he was still unsure about Pyke's emotional state. In any case, Pyke had not been involved in the autopsy though Winterman had little doubt that he would have examined the report.
'Nothing you don't know. It's the same as Howard's,' Pyke said, answering the unspoken question. 'Stabbed. In both cases, the murder weapon was apparently obtained at the scene and then left there. Nothing inconsistent with the suggestion that Hoxton was the murderer, though nothing much to confirm it either. No useful forensic evidence. No fingerprints on the murder weapon or around the crime scenes, other than the victims. And young Callaghan's, in Fisher's case. Plenty of Hoxton's around both houses, of course, but nothing inconsistent with his being part of the investigating team.'
'Overall then, not a bean?'
'You've pretty much got the size of it. Incidentally, I'm dying of thirst, hot day like this.'
Winterman took the hint and fetched two more pints of bitter. When he returned, he found Pyke aimlessly doodling on a notepad, his pencil inscribing endless concentric circles. Pyke looked up as Winterman placed the brimming glasses on the rough surface of the table. 'So what is it you're looking for exactly?'
'I told you, I'm clutching at straws. But I'm looking for something concrete. Like you, I don't believe this was all about Hoxton. He was a nasty piece of work, but he was just–'
'A fixer?'
'Something like that. He was there to do the dirty work and perhaps he satisfied his own… inclinations along the way. But there's more behind this.'
'A grand conspiracy?'
'Anything but grand, I'd say. But something.'
Pyke had begun to draw radial lines across the circles, creating something that resembled a target. 'I don't doubt you're right, old chum, but you were warned off, just as I was. Even if that was just Spooner protecting his backside, it suggests this goes some way up the line. You can't go tilting at windmills on your own. Not unless you've got something pretty solid.'
'That's why I need evidence. What about Howard's effects? Is there likely to be anything there?'
'In my capacity as executor,' Pyke said, with mock pomposity, 'I've been through everything. All the papers, all the documents. If Howard really was involved in blackmail, he kept it well concealed. Mind you–'
Winterman looked up from his beer. 'Yes?'
'Your chaps did a thorough job of searching his house themselves, long before I got hold of the paperwork. Looking for evidence.'
'Our chaps? You mean Spooner's people?'
'I assumed so. This was after it all blew up. I had the call from Howard's solicitors to say I'd inherited the bulk of the estate, and his will had appointed me as executor. But I was also told I couldn't get access to the house for a few days as the police were checking it for evidence.'
Winterman frowned. 'We had the crime scene people in there, and then a couple of Spooner's people checked the rest of the house. But that was immediately after you reported the murder. It would have been a fairly thorough search in case there was anything that shed light on the killing. But it wouldn't have taken days.'
'This was after that. The next week probably. It was four or five days before I got the green light to go in.'
'What state was the house in? Did it look as if it had been searched?'
'It was immaculate. Howard was a tidy soul, but this would have done him proud. But I had the impression it had been searched very thoroughly. Some of the furniture had been moved and I could see some signs that they'd prised up floorboards.'
'More thorough than anything we'd have needed, I'd have thought. Any sign of anything missing?'
'Not obviously. I knew the place pretty well so I'd have spotted if anything major had been taken. But that doesn't mean a lot.'
'Not if they found something that Howard had been concealing.'
'Exactly.'
'Could Howard have hidden anything anywhere else? A safe deposit box?'
'Of course it's possible. But there's no reference in the will to any safe deposit. I can't think of anywhere else. My guess is that, if there was anything, it was in the house. And that, if there was, it's not there anymore.'
Winterman sat in silence for a moment then, waiting till both he and Pyke had their glasses in their hands, he banged his fist hard down on the table. The wooden frame shook, but no drinks were spilled.
Pyke smiled. 'I'm always impressed at how you keep your anger under control. The question is why you're so angry. Why does this matter to you so much?'
'Smart question, doc. I could give you all the obvious answers. That we're talking about children and, yes, I'm still mourning the death of my own child. There's a lot in that. But not everything. It's also because I came into this job to do something. To do something positive. I'm no saint, God knows. But I did have some vague ideals. That was what got me into trouble the first time. I naively thought other people might care about the same things I did. Turned out most of them didn't. Either they were on the other side or at best they just wanted to keep their noses clean.'
'Welcome to the real world, chum.' Pyke had already polished off the remainder of the second pint. 'Want another?'
'Better not. I've got work to do this afternoon.'
'Real work. Or more of this.'
'You don't think this is real work? I'm just beginning to realise this is all there is. I'd allowed myself to forget that. I was turning into Spooner, going with the current.'
'Whereas now you're swimming upstream? Your funeral, old son. Just don't expect many of us to be swimming alongside.'
'I think I'd worked that out.'
'Which doesn't mean I won't help you. As long as I can keep my own head below the parapet.' Pyke stared expectantly at his empty glass, as though willing it to refill. 'Not that I've helped you much so far. What about Callaghan?'
'Young William? He seems in no condition to contribute much. Some sort of breakdown. He gave us a pretty incoherent account which didn't contradict the official interpretation of events.'
'A breakdown, eh? Funny, I'd heard that's what you had.'
'Seems to be a lot of it about.' Winterman nodded thoughtfully. 'I wonder what medication William's on.'
'I wonder. And I wonder how actively his father's involved in his case.'
'Pretty actively was my impression. He was staying in some private place. I presume his father was paying. You know Callaghan senior?'
'Only by reputation.'
'What sort of reputation?'
'Controversial, let's say. Academically well regarded. Medical research, specialist in bacteriology. One of the pioneers, but a bit of a maverick. He doesn't exactly have a low opinion of himself.' Pyke paused, as though picking his words. 'I don't know the details but there was some sort of stink before the war. He was involved in some hush-hush stuff at Porton Down. Had a falling out with the powers-that-be down there.'
'Porton Down? Chemicals and stuff?'
'Chemicals and germs. Remember Gruinard?'
'The anthrax island? Not one of our more glorious wartime episodes.'
'Bloody cock up from beginning to end. Or, if you're more generous, it turned out anthrax was an even more effective weapon than they'd envisaged. The low point was them trying to burn off the heather to kill off the spores, only to release clouds of deadly bloody gas into the atmosphere. '
'Don't remember that being reported in the press.'
'There was a hell of a lot never made it into the press. And probably never will. Not in our lifetimes anyway.'
'This was what Callaghan was involved in? Germ warfare?'
'Your guess is as good as mine, old son. But he was a bacteriologist, so what was he doing at Porton Down?'
'They were researching germ warfare there before the war?'
'Not officially. It was one of those areas, like gas, we were all supposed to disapprove of. While in reality all the major powers were vying with each other to come up with the most lethal varieties. The way I've been told it, the Germans were a long way ahead of us on the nerve gas front – and thank Christ they didn't take advantage of that. But we held pride of place on the germ front. Not that anyone will ever tell you that officially.'
'What about Callaghan?'
'All I know is what I heard on the academic grapevine at the time. And academia's nearly as good as you lot at closing ranks. There was some big dust-up between him and the authorities at Porton Down. I suspect it was Paul Fildes – sorry, Sir Paul Fildes – the bigwig who led the biological weapon research there during the war. Also a microbiologist – and more eminent even than poor old Professor Callaghan. Don't know what the dust-up was about, but I imagine Fildes emerged victorious. Put Callaghan in his place. Which was back up here.'
'Back to being a big fish in a smaller pond. And you've no clue as to the nature of this dust-up?'
'It's not often that academics want to keep quiet, but when they do you won't get a word out of them. The Porton Down stuff's highly classified anyway. There's not much chance of catching them rinsing out any dirty laundry.'
'I don't suppose it's likely to help me much anyway. I seem to be just hitting dead ends.'
'That's the way it'll be, old chum. If there is some grand conspiracy here, no one's going to be leaving clues lying around for you to stumble across.'
'I'll just have to go digging for them then, won't I?'
'On your head and all that.' Pyke pushed himself slowly to his feet. 'But I'll tell you what. If you're serious, you'll definitely be needing another pint.'