The Tightrope Men / The Enemy (36 page)

‘A protester,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Amateur or professional?’

‘Amateur, I’d say. He’s not on our list of known rabblerousers and, in any case, he has the wrong job for it. He’s not mobile enough. But his appearance fits the description given by Honnister’s witness. We’ll see. Who does the asking?’

‘You do,’ I said. ‘I’ll hang about in the background. He’ll think I’m just another copper.’

Mayberry had not arrived home when we got there so his landlady accommodated us in her front parlour. She was plainly curious and said archly, ‘Has Mr Mayberry been doing anything naughty?’

‘We just want him to help us in our enquiries.’ said Crammond blandly. ‘Is he a good tenant, Mrs Jackson?’

‘He pays his rent regularly, and he’s quiet. That’s good enough for me.’

‘Lived here long?’

‘Five years—or is it six?’ After much thought she decided it was six.

‘Has he any hobbies? What does he do with his spare time?’

‘He reads a lot; always got his head in a book. And he’s religious—he goes to church twice every Sunday.’

I was depressed. This sounded less and less like our man. ‘Did he go to church on the Sunday two weekends ago?’ asked Crammond.

‘Very likely,’ she said. ‘But I was away that weekend.’ She held her head on one side. ‘That sounds like him now.’

Someone walked along the passage outside the room and began to ascend the stairs. We gave him time to get settled then went after him. On the first landing Crammond said to the uniformed man, ‘Wait outside the door, Shaw. If he makes a break grab him. It’s not likely to happen, but if he is an acid-throwing bastard he can be dangerous.’

I stood behind Crammond as he tapped on Mayberry’s door and noted that Shaw was flat against the wall so Mayberry couldn’t see him. It’s nice to see professionals at work. Mayberry was a man in his late forties and had a sallow complexion as though he did not eat well. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull.

‘Mr Peter Mayberry?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re police officers,’ said Crammond pleasantly. ‘And we think you can help us. Do you mind if we come in?’

I saw Mayberry’s knuckles whiten a little as he gripped the edge of the door. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Just by answering a few questions. Can we come in?’

‘I suppose so.’ Mayberry held open the door.

It wasn’t much of a place; the carpet was threadbare and the furniture was of painted whitewood and very cheap;
but it was clean and tidy. Along one wall was a shelf containing perhaps forty or fifty books; anyone with so many would doubtless be a great reader to Mrs Jackson who probably got through one book a year, if that.

I glanced at the titles. Some were religious and of a decidedly fundamentalist slant: there was a collection of environmental stuff including some pamphlets issued by Friends of the Earth. For the rest they were novels, all classics and none modern. Most of the books were paperbacks.

There were no pictures in the room except for one poster which was stuck on the wall by sticky tape at the corners. It depicted the earth from space, a photograph taken by an astronaut. Printed at the bottom were the words: I’
M ALL YOU’VE GOT; LOOK, AFTER ME
.

Crammond started by saying, ‘Can I see your driving licence, Mr Mayberry?’

‘I don’t have a car.’

‘That wasn’t what I asked,’ said Crammond. ‘Your driving licence, please.’

Mayberry had taken off his jacket which was hanging on the back of a chair. He bent down and took his wallet from the inside breast pocket, took out his licence and gave it to Crammond who examined it gravely and in silence. At last Crammond said approvingly, ‘Clean; no endorsements.’ He handed it to me.

‘I always drive carefully,’ said Mayberry.

‘I’m sure you do. Do you drive often?’

‘I told you—I don’t have a car.’

‘And I heard you. Do you drive often?’

‘Not very. What’s all this about?’

‘When did you last drive a car?’

Mayberry said, ‘Look, if anyone says I’ve been in an accident they’re wrong because I haven’t.’ He seemed very nervous, but many people are in the presence of authority, even if innocent. It’s the villain who brazens it out.

I put the licence on the table and picked up the book Mayberry had been reading. It was on so-called alternative technology and was turned to a chapter telling how to make a digester to produced methane from manure. It seemed an unlikely subject for Finsbury.

Crammond said, ‘When did you last drive a car?’

‘Oh, I don’t know—several months ago.’

‘Whose car was it?’

‘I forget. It was a long time ago.’

‘Whose car do you usually drive?’

There was a pause while Mayberry sorted that one out. ‘I don’t
usually
drive.’ He had begun to sweat.

‘Do you ever hire a car?’

‘I have.’ Mayberry swallowed. ‘Yes. I have hired cars.’

‘Recently?’

‘No.’

‘Supposing I said that you hired a car in Slough two weekends ago, what would you say?’

‘I’d say you were wrong,’ said Mayberry sullenly.

‘Yes, you might say that,’ said Crammond. ‘But would I be wrong. Mr Mayberry?’

Mayberry straightened his shoulders. ‘Yes,’ he said defiantly.

‘Where were you that weekend?’

‘Here as usual. You can ask Mrs Jackson, my landlady.’

Crammond regarded him for a moment in silence. ‘But Mrs Jackson was away that weekend, wasn’t she? So you were here all weekend. In this room? Didn’t you go out?’

‘No.’

‘Not at all? Not even to church as usual?’

Mayberry was beginning to curl up at the edges. ‘I didn’t feel well,’ he muttered.

‘When was the last time you missed church on Sunday, Mr Mayberry?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Can you produce one person to testify to your presence here in this room on the whole of that Sunday?’

‘How can I? I didn’t go out.’

‘Didn’t you eat?’

‘I didn’t feel well, I tell you. I wasn’t hungry.’

‘What about the Saturday? Didn’t you go out then?’

‘No.’

‘And didn’t you eat on the Saturday, either?’

Mayberry shifted his feet nervously; the unending stream of questions was getting to him. ‘I had some apples.’

‘You had some apples,’ said Crammond flatly. ‘Where and when did you buy the apples?’

‘On the Friday afternoon at a supermarket.’

Crammond let that go. He said, ‘Mr Mayberry, I suggest that all you’ve told me is a pack of lies. I suggest that on the Saturday morning you went to Slough by train where you hired a Chrysler Sceptre from Joliffe’s garage. Mr Joliffe was very upset by the acid damage to the back seat of the car. Where did you buy the acid?’

‘I bought no acid.’

‘But you hired the car?’

‘No.’

‘Then how do you account for the fact that the name and address taken from a driving licence—this driving licence -’ Crammond picked it up and waved it under Mayberry’s nose—‘is your name and your address?’

‘I can’t account for it. I don’t have to account for it. Perhaps someone impersonated me.’

‘Why should anyone want to impersonate you, Mr Mayberry?’

‘How would I know?’

‘I don’t think anyone would know,’ observed Crammond. ‘However, the matter can be settled very easily. We have the fingerprints from the car and they can be compared with
yours quite easily. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind coming to the station and giving us your prints, sir.’

It was the first I’d heard of fingerprints and I guessed Crammond was bluffing. Mayberry said, ‘I’m…I’m not coming. Not to the police station.’

‘I see,’ said Crammond softly. ‘Do you regard yourself as a public-spirited citizen?’

‘As much as anybody.’

‘But you object to coming to the police station.’

‘I’ve had a hard day,’ said Mayberry. ‘I’m not feeling well. I was about to go to bed when you came in.’

‘Oh,’ said Crammond, as though illuminated with insight. ‘Well, if that’s your only objection I have a fingerprint kit in the car. We can settle the matter here and now.’

‘You’re not taking my fingerprints. I don’t have to give them to you. And now I want you to leave.’

‘Ah, so that’s your true objection.’

‘I want you to leave or I’ll -’ Mayberry stopped short.

‘Send for the police?’ said Crammond ironically. ‘When did you first meet Miss Ashton?’

‘I’ve never met her,’ said Mayberry quickly. Too quickly.

‘But you know of her.’

Mayberry took a step backwards and banged into the table. The book fell to the floor. ‘I know nobody of that name.’

‘Not personally, perhaps-but you do know of her?’

I stopped to pick up the book. A thin pamphlet had fallen from the pages and I glanced at it before putting the book on the table. Mayberry repeated, ‘I know nobody of that name.’

The pamphlet was a Parliamentary Report issued by the Stationery Office. Beneath the Royal coat-of-arms was the title:
Report of the Working Party on the Experimental Manipulation of the Genetic Composition of Micro-organisms
.

A whole lot of apparently unrelated facts suddenly slotted into place: Mayberry’s fundamentalist religion, his environmental interests, and the work Penny Ashton was doing. I said, ‘Mr Mayberry, what do you think of the state of modern biological science?’

Crammond, his mouth opened to ask another question, gaped at me in astonishment. Mayberry jerked his head around to look at me. ‘Bad,’ he said. ‘Very bad.’

‘In what way?’

‘The biologists are breaking the laws of God,’ he said. ‘Defiling life itself.’

‘In what way?’

‘By mixing like with unlike—by creating monsters.’ Mayberry’s voice rose. ‘“And God said, ‘Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind.’” “That’s what He said—
after his kind
. “Cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind.”
After his kind!
That is on the very first page of the Holy Bible.’

Crammond glanced at me with a mystified expression, and then looked again at Mayberry. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.’

Mayberry was exalted. ‘And God said unto Noah. “Of fowls after their kind”—
after their kind
—“and of cattle after their kind”—
after their kind
—“of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind”—
after his kind
—“two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive.” She’s godless; she would destroy God’s own work as is set down in the Book.’

I doubted if Crammond knew what Mayberry was saying, but I did. I said, ‘How?’

‘She would break down the seed which God has made, and mingle one kind with another kind, and so create monsters—chimaeras and abominations.’

I had difficulty in keeping my voice even. ‘I take it by “she” you mean Dr Penelope Ashton?’

Crammond’s head jerked. Mayberry, still caught up in religious fervour, said thoughtlessly, ‘Among others.’

‘Such as Professor Lumsden,’ I suggested.

‘Her master in devilry.’

‘If you thought she was doing wrong why didn’t you talk to her about it? Perhaps you could have led her to see her error.’

‘I wouldn’t foul my ears with her voice,’ he said contemptuously.

I said, ‘Doesn’t it say in the Bible that God gave Adam dominion over the fish of the sea, the fowls of the air, and every beast or thing that creeps on the earth? Perhaps she’s in the right.’

‘The Devil can quote scripture,’ said Mayberry, and turned away from me. I felt sick.

Crammond woke up to what was happening. ‘Mr Mayberry, are you admitting to having thrown acid into the face of a woman called Ashton?’

Mayberry had a hunted look, conscious of having said too much. ‘I haven’t said that.’

‘You’ve said enough.’ Crammond turned to me. ‘I think we have enough to take him.’

I nodded, then said to Mayberry, ‘You’re a religious man. You go to church every Sunday—twice, so I’m told. Do you think it was a Christian act to throw battery acid into the face of a young woman?’

‘I am not responsible to you for my actions,’ said Mayberry. ‘I am responsible to God.’

Crammond nodded gravely. ‘Nevertheless, I believe someone said, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” I think you’ll have to come along with us, Mr Mayberry.’

‘And may God help you,’ I said. ‘Because you got the wrong girl. You threw the acid in the face of Dr Ashton’s sister who was coming back from church.’

Mayberry stared at me. As he had spoken of being responsible to God he had worn a lofty expression but now his face crumpled and horror crept into his eyes. He whispered. ‘The wrong…wrong…’ Suddenly he jerked convulsively and screamed at the top of his voice.

‘Oh, Christ!’ said Crammond as Shaw burst into the room.

Mayberry collapsed to the floor, babbling a string of obscenities in a low and monotonous voice. When Crammond turned to speak to me he was sweating. ‘This one’s not for the slammer. He’ll go to Broadmoor for sure. Do you want any more out of him?’

‘Not a thing,’ I said. ‘Not now.’

Crammond turned to Shaw. ‘Phone for an ambulance. Tell them it’s religious mania and they might need a restraining jacket.’

By the time we’d got Mayberry into an ambulance Ogilvie had left the office and gone home. I didn’t bother ringing his home, but I did ring Penny because I thought she ought to know about Mayberry. Mary Cope answered again and said that Penny wasn’t in, but this time I pushed it harder. She said Penny had gone to Oxford to attend a lecture and wouldn’t be back until late. I rang off, satisfied I wasn’t being given another brush-off.

Before seeing Ogilvie next morning I rang Crammond. ‘What’s new on Mayberry?’

‘He’s at King’s College Hospital - under guard in a private ward.’

‘Did he recover?’

‘Not so you’d notice. It seems like a complete breakdown to me, but I’m no specialist.’

‘A pity. I’ll have to talk to him again, you know.’

‘You’ll have to get through a platoon of assorted doctors first,’ warned Crammond. ‘It seems he’s suffering from everything from ingrowing toenails to psychoceramica.’

‘What the hell’s that?’

‘It means he’s a crack-pot,’ said Crammond sourly. ‘The head-shrinkers are keeping him isolated.’

I thanked him for his help and went to see Ogilvie. I told him about Mayberry and his face was a study in
perplexity. ‘Are you sure Mayberry isn’t pulling a fast one?’

I shook my head. ‘He’s a nutter. But we’ve got him, and a psychiatrist will sort him out for us.’

‘I’ll buy that - for the moment.’ Ogilvie shook his head. ‘But I wouldn’t call psychiatry an exact science. Have you noticed in court cases that for every psychiatrist called for the defence there’s another called for the prosecution who’ll give an opposing opinion? Still, supposing Mayberry is established as a religious maniac without doubt, there are a few questions which need asking.’

‘I know. Why did he pick on Penny or the girl he thought was Penny? Did he act of his own volition or was he pointed in the right direction and pushed? I’ll see he gets filleted as soon as he can be talked to. But you’re avoiding the big problem.’

Ogilvie grunted, and ticked points off on his fingers. ‘Supposing Mayberry
is
crazy; and supposing he
wasn’t
pushed - that he did it off his own bat, and that Penelope Ashton was a more or less random choice among the geneticists. That leaves us up a gum tree, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ I put the big question into words. ‘In that case why did Ashton do a bunk?’

I was beginning to develop another headache.

I’d had second thoughts about ringing Penny: it wasn’t the sort of thing to tell her on the telephone. But before going to University College I rang Honnister and told him the score. He took it rather badly. His voice rose. ‘The wrong girl! The inefficient, crazy bastard picked the wrong girl!’ He broke into a stream of profanity.

‘I thought you ought to know. I’ll keep you informed on future developments.’

I went to University College and was about to enquire at the reception desk when I saw Jack Brent
standing at the end of a corridor. I went up to him. ‘Any problems?’

‘Nary a one.’

‘Where’s Penny Ashton?’

He jerked his thumb at a door. ‘With her boss. That’s Lumsden’s office.’

I nodded and went in. Penny and Professor Lumsden looked very professional in white laboratory coats, like the chaps who sell toothpaste in TV ads. They were sitting at a desk, drinking coffee and examining papers which looked like computer print-outs. Lumsden was much younger than I expected, not as old as I was; pioneering on the frontiers of science is a young man’s game.

Penny looked up. A look of astonishment chased across her face and then she became expressionless, but I noted the tightening of muscles at the angle of her jaw and the firmly compressed lips. I said, ‘Good morning, Dr Ashton - Professor Lumsden. Could I have a word with you, Penny?’

‘Well?’ she said coolly.

I glanced at Lumsden. ‘It’s official, I’m afraid. In your office, perhaps?’

She said shortly, ‘If it is official…’ and regarded me distrustfully.

‘It is,’ I said, matching her curtness.

She made her excuses to Lumsden and we left his office. I said to Brent, ‘Stick around,’ then followed Penny who led me along another corridor and into her office. I looked around. ‘Where’s the microscope?’

Unsmilingly she said, ‘We’re working on things you can’t see through microscopes. What do you want? Have you found Daddy?’

I shook my head. ‘We’ve found the man who threw the acid.’

‘Oh.’ She sat at her desk. ‘Who is he?’

‘A man called Peter Mayberry. Ever heard of him?’

She thought for a moment. ‘No, I can’t say that I have. What is he?’

‘A clerk in a City office - and a religious maniac.’

She frowned, then said questioningly, ‘A religious maniac? But what would he have to do with Gillian? She’s an Anglican - and you can’t get more unmaniacal than that.’

I sat down. ‘Brace yourself. Penny. The acid wasn’t intended for Gillian. It was intended for you.’

‘For me!’
Her forehead creased and then she shook her head as though she wasn’t hearing aright. ‘You did say…for me?’

‘Yes. Are you sure you haven’t heard of this man?’

She ignored my question. ‘But why would a religious maniac…?’ She choked on the words. ‘Why me?’

‘He seemed to think you are tampering with the laws of God.’

‘Oh.’ Then: ‘Seemed? He’s not dead?’

‘No, but he’s not doing much thinking right now. He’s gone off into some kind of fugue.’

She shook her head. ‘There have been objections to what we’ve been doing, but they’ve been scientific. Paul Berg, Brenner, Singer and a few others objected very strongly to…’ Suddenly it hit her. ‘Oh, my God!’ she said. ‘Poor Gillian!’

She sat rigidly for a moment, her hands clasped together tightly, and then she began to shake, the tremors sweeping across her body. She moaned - a sort of keening sound - and then fell forward across her desk, her head pillowed on her arms. Her shoulders shook convulsively and she sobbed stormily. I located a hand basin in the corner of the office and filled a glass with water and returned quickly to the desk, but there wasn’t much I could do until the first shock had abated.

Her sobbing lessened in intensity and I put my arm around her. ‘Steady on. Drink this.’

She raised her head, still sobbing, and showed a tearstained face. ‘Oh, Gillian! She’d be…all right…if I…if I hadn’t…’

‘Hush,’ I said. ‘And stop that. Drink this.’

She gulped down some water, then said, ‘Oh, Malcolm; what am I to do?’

‘Do? There’s nothing to do. You just carry on as usual.’

‘Oh, no. How can I do that?’

I said deliberately, ‘You can’t possibly blame yourself for what happened to Gillian. You’ll tear yourself apart if you try. You can’t hold yourself responsible for the act of an unbalanced man.’

‘Oh, I wish it had been me,’ she cried.

‘No, you don’t,’ I said sharply. ‘Don’t ever say that again.’

‘How can I tell her?’

‘You don’t tell her. Not until she’s well - if then.’ She began to cry again, and I said, ‘Penny, pull yourself together - I need your help.’

‘What can
I
do?’

‘You can tidy yourself up,’ I said. ‘Then you can get Lumsden in here, because I want to ask you both some questions.’

She sniffled a bit, then said, ‘What sort of questions?’

‘You’ll hear them when Lumsden comes in. I don’t want to go through it all twice. We still don’t know why your father went away, but it seemed to be triggered by that acid attack, so we want to find out as much about it as we can.’

She went to the hand basin and washed her face. When she was more presentable she rang Lumsden. I said, ‘I’d rather you don’t say anything about your father before Lumsden.’ She said nothing to that, and sat at the desk.

When Lumsden came in he took one glance at Penny’s reddened eyes and white face, then looked at me. ‘What’s happened here? And who are you?’

‘I’m Malcolm Jaggard and I’m a sort of police officer, Professor.’ To divert him from asking for my warrant card I added, ‘I’m also Penny’s fiancé.’

Penny made no objection to that flat statement, but Lumsden showed astonishment. ‘Oh. I didn’t know…’

‘A recent development,’ I said. ‘You know, of course, of the acid attack on Penny’s sister.’

‘Yes, a most shocking thing.’

I told him about Mayberry and he became very grave. ‘This is bad,’ he said. ‘I’m deeply sorry, Penny.’ She nodded without saying anything.

‘I want to know if you or anyone in your department has been threatened - anonymous letters, telephone calls, or anything like that.’

He shrugged. ‘There are always the cranks. We tend to ignore them.’

‘Perhaps that’s a mistake,’ I said. ‘I’d like some specifics. Do you keep any such letters? If so, I want them.’

‘No,’ he said regretfully. ‘They are usually thrown away. You see…er…Inspector?’

‘Mister.’

‘Well, Mr Jaggard, most of the crank letters aren’t threatening - they just tend to ramble, that’s all.’

‘About what?’

‘About supposed offences against God. Lots of biblical quotations, usually from
Genesis
. Just what you might expect.’

I said to Penny, ‘Have you had any of these letters?’

‘A couple,’ she said quietly. ‘No threats. I threw them away.’

‘Any telephone calls? Heavy breathers?’

‘One about six months ago. He stopped after a month.’

‘What did he say?’

‘What Lummy has described. Just what you might expect.’

‘Did you get the calls here or at home?’

‘Here. The telephone at home is unlisted.’

I turned to Lumsden. ‘You’ve both used the same phrase - “Just what you might expect”. What might I expect, Professor Lumsden?’

‘Well, in view of our work here…’ He threw out his hands expressively.

We were still standing. I said, ‘Sit down. Professor, and tell me of your work, or about as much as you can without breaking the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Breaking the Official Secrets Act! There’s no question of that - not here.’

‘In that case, you won’t object to telling me, will you?’

‘I don’t suppose so,’ he said doubtfully, and sat down.

He was silent for a moment, marshalling his thoughts, and I knew what was happening. He was hunting for unaccustomed simple words to explain complex ideas to an unscientific clod. I said, ‘I can understand words of three syllables - even four syllables if they’re spoken slowly. Let me help you. The basis of inheritance is the chromosome; inside the chromosome is an acid called DNA. A thing called a gene is the ultimate factor and is very specific; there are distinct genes for producing the different chemicals needed by the organism. The genes can be thought of as being strung along a strand of DNA like beads on a spiral string. At least, that’s how I visualize them. That’s where I get lost so you’d better go on from there.’

Lumsden smiled. ‘Not bad, Mr Jaggard; not bad at all.’ He began to talk, at first hesitantly, and then more fluently. He ranged quite widely and sometimes I had to interrupt and bring him back on to the main track. At other times I had him explain what he meant in simpler terms. The basic concepts were rather simple but I gathered that execution in the laboratory was not as easy as all that.

What it boiled down to was this. A strand of DNA contains many thousands of genes, each gene doing its own particular job such as, for instance, controlling the production of cholinesterase, a chemical which mediates electrical action in the nervous system. There are thousands of chemicals like this and each has its own gene.

The molecular biologist had discovered certain enzymes which could cut up a strand of DNA into short lengths, and other enzymes which could weld the short lengths together again. They also found they could weld a short length of DNA on to a bacteriophage, which is a minute organism capable of penetrating the wall of a cell. Once inside, the genes would be uncoupled and incorporated into the DNA of the host cell.

Put like that it sounds rather simple but the implications are fantastic, and Lumsden was very emphatic about this. ‘You see, the genes you incorporate into a cell need not come from the same kind of animal. In this laboratory we have bacterial cultures which contain genetic material from mice. Now a bacterium is a bacterium and a mouse is a mammal, but our little chaps are part bacterium and part mammal.’

‘Breaking down the seed, mingling one kind with another, creating chimaeras,’ I mused.

‘I suppose you could put it that way,’ said Lumsden.

‘I didn’t put it that way,’ I said. ‘Mayberry did.’ At that stage I didn’t get the point. ‘But what’s the use of this?’

Lumsden frowned as though I was being thick-witted, as I suppose I was. Penny spoke up. ‘Lummy, what about
Rhizobium
?’

His brow cleared. ‘Yes, that’s a good example.’

He said that although plants need nitrogen for their growth they cannot take it from the air, even though air is 78 per cent nitrogen. They need it in the form of nitrates which, in man-planted cash crops, are usually spread as artificial fertilizer. However, there is a range of plants, notably the legumes - peas, beans and so on - which
harbours in its roots the
Rhizobium
bacterium. This organism has the power of transforming atmospheric nitrogen into a form the plant can use.

‘Now,’ said Lumsden. ‘All plants have bacteria in their roots and some are very specific. Supposing we take the
Rhizobium
bacterium, isolate the gene that controls this nitrogen-changing property, and transfer it into a bacterium that is specific to wheat. Then, if it bred true, we’d have self-fertilizing wheat. In these days of world food shortages that seems to me to be a good thing to have around.’

I thought so, too, but Penny said, ‘It can be pretty dangerous. You have to be damned sure you’ve selected the right gene. Some of the
Rhizobium
genes are tumourcausing. If you get one of those you might find the world wheat crop dying of cancer.’

‘Yes,’ said Lumsden. ‘We must be very sure before we let loose our laboratory-changed organisms. There was a hell of a row about that not long ago.’ He stood up. ‘Well, Mr Jaggard, have you got what you wanted?’