Devices and Desires (30 page)

Rickards kept his voice steady. “That would be helpful, sir.” Gary Price bent his head over his notebook as assiduously as if he had just been reprimanded for inattention.

“They’re hardly relevant until Sunday evening, but I may as well cover the whole of the weekend. I left here just after ten-forty-five on Friday and drove to London, lunched with an old university friend at the Reform Club and went on at two-thirty to a meeting with the Permanent Secretary at the Department of Energy. I then went to my flat in the Barbican and in the evening attended a performance of
The Taming of the Shrew
at the Barbican Theatre with a party of three friends. If you later need their corroboration, which seems unlikely, I can, of course, give you their names. I drove back to Larksoken on Sunday morning, lunched at a pub en route and arrived home at about four. I had a cup of tea and then went for a walk on the headland and got back to Martyr’s Cottage about an hour later. I had a quick supper with my sister at about seven and left for the station at seven-thirty, or soon afterwards. I was working here in the computer room alone until ten-thirty, when I left for home. I was driving along the coast road when I was stopped by Commander Dalgliesh with the news that Hilary Robarts had been murdered. The rest you know.”

Rickards said: “Not altogether, Dr. Mair. There was some delay before we arrived. You didn’t touch the body?”

“I stood and looked down at her but I didn’t touch her. Dalgliesh was rather conscientiously doing his job, or should I say yours. He very rightly reminded me that nothing should
be touched and that the scene should be left undisturbed. I went down and walked by the sea until you arrived.”

Rickards asked: “Do you usually come into work on Sunday evenings?”

“Invariably if I have had to spend the Friday in London. There is a very heavy pressure of work at present which it is impossible to fit into a five-day week. Actually I only stayed for less than three hours, but they were valuable hours.”

“And you were alone in the computer room. Doing what, sir?”

If Mair found the enquiry irrelevant he didn’t say so. “I was engaged on my research, which is concerned with the study of reactor behaviour in hypothesized loss-of-coolant accidents. I’m not, of course, the only person working in what is one of the most important areas of research in nuclear-reactor design. There’s a great deal of international co-operation in these studies. Essentially what I’m doing is evaluating the possible effects of loss of coolant by mathematical models which are then evaluated by numerical analysis and advanced computer programs.”

Rickards said: “And you’re working here at Larksoken alone?”

“At this station I am. Similar studies are being carried out at Winfrith and in a number of other countries, including the U.S.A. As I have said, there’s a considerable amount of international co-operation.”

Oliphant asked suddenly: “Is that the worst thing that can happen, a loss of the coolant?”

Alex Mair looked at him for a moment as if deciding whether the question coming from such a source warranted an answer; then he said: “The loss of coolant is potentially extremely dangerous. There are, of course, emergency procedures if the normal cooling arrangements fail. The incident at Three Mile Island
in the United States has emphasized the need to know more about the extent and nature of the threat posed by that kind of incident. The phenomenon to be analysed is in three main groups: severe fuel damage and core melting, migration of released fission products and aerosols through the primary coolant circuit and the behaviour of fission products in released fuel and steam in the reactor-container building. If you have a genuine interest in the research and enough knowledge to understand it, I can provide you with some references, but this hardly seems the time and place for scientific education.”

Oliphant smiled as if gratified by the rebuke. He asked: “Wasn’t the scientist who killed himself, Dr. Toby Gledhill, working on the research side here with you? I thought I read something about that in one of the local papers.”

“Yes. He was my assistant here. Tobias Gledhill was a physicist who was also an exceptionally talented computer expert. He is very much missed as a colleague and a man.”

And that, thought Rickards, disposes of Toby Gledhill. From another man the tribute could have been moving in its simplicity. From Mair it sounded like a bleak dismissal. But, then, suicide was messy and embarrassing. He would find repugnant its intrusion into his neatly organized world.

Mair turned to Rickards. “I have a great deal to do this morning, Chief Inspector, and no doubt you have too. Is this really relevant?”

Rickards said stolidly: “It helps fill in the picture. I suppose you booked in when you arrived here yesterday night and subsequently booked out?”

“You saw something of the system when you arrived. Every member of the staff has a signed identity badge with a photograph and a personal number which is confidential. The number is electronically registered when the man or woman
enters the site, and there is in addition a visual check of the badge by the gate staff. I have a total staff of five hundred and thirty people, working in three shifts covering the twenty-four hours. At the weekend there are two shifts—the day staff, coming on from eight-fifteen until twenty-fifteen, and the night, from twenty-fifteen until eight-fifteen.”

“And no one could enter or leave undetected, not even the Director?”

“No one, least of all, I imagine, the Director. My check-in time will be recorded, and I was seen arriving and leaving by the gate officer on duty.”

“There is no other way into the station except through the gatehouse?”

“Not unless you emulate the heroes of old war films and tunnel deep under the wire. No one was tunnelling here on Sunday night.”

Rickards said: “We shall need to know the movements of every member of the staff on the Sunday from early evening until ten-thirty, when Commander Dalgliesh discovered the body.”

“Isn’t that an unnecessarily large spread of time? Surely she was killed shortly after nine?”

“That seems the most likely time of death, and we expect to get a more accurate estimate from the post-mortem report. At present I prefer to make no assumptions. We have copies of the forms which were distributed in connection with the Whistler enquiry which we would like to issue to all the staff. I imagine that the great majority can be easily eliminated. Most people who have any family or social life can provide an alibi for Sunday evening. Perhaps you could suggest how the forms can be distributed with as little disturbance to the work here as possible.”

Mair said: “The simplest and most effective way would be to leave them in the gatehouse. Each member of staff could be given one when he or she checks in. Those staff who are off sick or on leave today will have to receive them at home. I can supply their names and addresses.” He paused and then added: “It seems to me highly unlikely that this murder has anything to do with Larksoken Power Station, but as Hilary Robarts worked here and you will be interviewing members of staff, it might be helpful if you have some idea of the layout and organization. My PA has put up a file for you with a diagram of the site, a booklet describing the operation of the reactor, which will help to give you some idea of the different functions carried out, a list of staff by name and grade and a copy of the existing managerial structure and the operations-staff shift rota. If you want to see any particular department, I can arrange for you to be escorted. Certain areas cannot, of course, be entered without protective clothing and a subsequent radiological check.”

The file was ready in his right-hand drawer, and he handed it over. Rickards took it and studied the organization chart. After a moment he said: “You have seven divisions, each with a head of department: Medical Physicist, Station Chemist, Operations Superintendent, Maintenance Superintendent, Reactor Physicist, Work Office Engineer and the station Administrative Officer, the post held by Hilary Robarts.”

“Temporarily held. The station Administrative Officer died of cancer three months ago and the post has not yet been filled. We are also about to reorganize the internal administration into three main divisions, as at Sizewell, where they have what I think is a more effective and rational system. But the future here is uncertain, as you’ve probably heard, and there may be a case for waiting until a new Director or Station Manager is in post.”

Rickards said: “And at present the station Administrative Officer is responsible to you through the Deputy Director?”

“Through Dr. James Macintosh, that is right. Dr. Macintosh is at present in the States, studying their nuclear installations, and has been for the past month.”

“And the Operations Superintendent—Op. Super., as it says here—is Miles Lessingham, who was one of the guests at Miss Mair’s dinner party on Thursday.”

Alex Mair didn’t reply.

Rickards went on: “You’ve been unfortunate, Dr. Mair. Three violent deaths of members of your staff within the space of two months. First Dr. Gledhill’s suicide, then Christine Baldwin’s murder by the Whistler and now Hilary Robarts.”

Mair asked: “Have you any doubts that Christine Baldwin was killed by the Whistler?”

“None at all. Her hair was found with that of other victims when he killed himself, and her husband, who would normally be the obvious first suspect, has an alibi. He was driven home by his friends.”

“And Toby Gledhill’s death was the subject of an inquest, ‘death while the balance of his mind was disturbed,’ that convenient sop to convention and religious orthodoxy.”

Oliphant asked: “And was the balance of his mind disturbed, sir?”

Mair turned on him his ironic and speculative gaze. “I have no way of knowing the state of his mind, Sergeant. What I am sure of is that he killed himself and that he did it unaided. No doubt at the time he felt he had sufficient reason. Dr. Gledhill was a manic depressive. He coped courageously with his disability and it rarely interfered with his work. But with that psychological make-up, suicide is always an above-average risk. And if you agree that the three deaths are unrelated, then we
needn’t waste time on the first two. Or was your statement, Chief Inspector, intended as a general commiseration?”

Rickards said: “Just a comment, sir.” He went on: “One of your staff, Miles Lessingham, found Christine Baldwin’s body. He told us then that he was on his way to have dinner with you and Miss Mair. I suppose he gave you all a graphic description of his experience. Natural, I’d say. Difficult thing to keep to yourself.”

Mair said calmly: “Virtually impossible, wouldn’t you say?” He added: “Among friends.”

“Which he was, of course. All friends together, including Miss Robarts. So you got all the gory details fresh from the scene. Including the ones he’d been specifically told to keep to himself.”

“Which were they, Chief Inspector?”

Rickards didn’t reply. Instead he asked: “Could I have the names of everyone who was present in Martyr’s Cottage when Mr. Lessingham arrived?”

“My sister and I; Hilary Robarts; Mrs. Dennison, the housekeeper from the Old Rectory; and Commander Adam Dalgliesh of the Metropolitan Police. And the Blaney child—Theresa, I think she’s called—was helping my sister with the meal.” He paused and then added: “These enquiry forms which you’re proposing to issue to all members of staff: I suppose it is necessary to take up their time in this way. Isn’t it fairly plain what happened here? Surely this is what your people call a copycat murder.”

Rickards said: “It was that all right, sir. All the details correct. Very clever, very convincing. Just the two differences. This murderer knew his victim and this murderer is sane.”

Five minutes later, following Miss Amphlett down the corridor to the interviewing room, Rickards thought, “And you’re
a cool customer, mate.” No embarrassing expressions of horror and grief, which always sounded insincere. No protestations of innocence. The assumption that no one in his rational mind could suspect you of murder. He hadn’t asked for his solicitor to be present, but, then, he didn’t need one. But he was far too intelligent to have missed the significance of those questions about the dinner party. Whoever had killed Hilary Robarts had known that she would be swimming by moonlight sometime after nine o’clock yesterday, had known, too, precisely how the Whistler killed his victims. There were quite a number of people who knew one of these facts, but the number who knew both was limited. And six of them had been present at that dinner party at Martyr’s Cottage last Thursday night.

The interview room which had been assigned to them was a featureless little office with a view to the west dominated by the great bulk of the turbine house. It was adequately furnished for their purpose, but only just; entirely appropriate, thought Rickards sourly, to visitors whose presence was tolerated but hardly welcomed. There was a modern pedestal desk, obviously brought in from someone’s office, three upright chairs and one rather more comfortable one with arms, a small side table with an electric kettle on a tray, four cups and saucers (did Mair expect them to make coffee for the suspects?), a bowl full of wrapped sugar lumps and three caddies. Rickards said: “What have they given us, Gary?”

Gary Price busied himself with the tins. “Coffee bags and tea bags, sir. And there’s a tin of biscuits.”

Oliphant asked: “What kind of biscuits?”

“Digestive, Sarge.”

“Chocolate?”

“No, Sarge, just plain digestives.”

“Well, let’s hope they’re not radioactive. Better get the
kettle on, we may as well start with the coffee. Where do they expect us to get water?”

“Miss Amphlett said there was a tap in the cloakroom at the end of the passage, Sarge. The kettle’s filled, anyway.”

Oliphant tried one of the upright chairs, stretching in it as if to assess its comfort. The wood creaked. He said: “Cold fish, wasn’t he? And clever with it. Not much out of him, sir.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Sergeant. We’ve learned more about the victim than he probably realizes. Efficient but not much liked, prone to interfere with matters outside her scope of responsibility, probably because she secretly yearned to be a scientist rather than an administrator. Aggressive, uncompromising, intolerant of criticism. Antagonized the locals and from time to time did the station a bit of no good. And, of course, the Director’s mistress, for what that was worth.”