John Halkin - Squelch

He sighed. ‘You appear to have found a rather mutilated, dead lizard,’ he answered with obvious distaste. ‘Is that really so significant?’

‘Have you seen one before in this part of the country?’

‘I live in London. But I’m told they do exist in England. You’re not implying we’re about to be eaten by lizards as well as caterpillars, are you?’

‘Before he died he was trying to tell me something. I wish I knew what.’ She glanced at his dark business suit. ‘You’ve not met the caterpillars yet?’

‘Fortunately not.’

‘You should wear something to protect your head and hands,’ she informed him soberly. ‘You’re exposing yourself unnecessarily.’

In the work station she found a screwtop specimen jar and dropped the remains of the lizard into it. Perhaps it meant nothing at all, who could tell? The solicitor was hovering around, watching her anxiously and treating her now with rather more respect. He pointed to the rows of round, plastic ‘cages’ which still held the Reverend Davidson’s living specimens.

‘I’ve no idea what to do with these,’ he murmured forlornly. ‘My brother left no instructions. Perhaps I should give them to a zoo.’

So he was the Reverend Davidson’s brother, she thought. There was little likeness.

‘Kill them,’ she told him bluntly. Weren’t they the smaller cousins of the attackers? ‘If you can’t, then set them free. They’ll probably starve to death if you leave them where they are.’

Outside, she heard a light aircraft in the sky above and peered up at it, wondering if it might be Jeff. When she got back to Bernie’s house, she phoned him.

His name was painted on a neat little signboard near the gates: Jeff Pringle. The house was a wide-fronted, two-storey villa, obviously thirties-built, painted white with a green tiled roof. As her baby Renault coughed its way up the drive he came out to meet her.

‘Had this chariot serviced recently?’ he enquired by way of a greeting.

‘I keep meaning to.’

Getting her briefcase from the back seat, she followed him inside. The furniture was in a cool modern style. Nothing cheap, though rather too much dark leather for her taste. On the walls were souvenirs from Africa and his other various travels, mostly masks carved in black wood and colourful batik cloths. In one corner stood an electric fan, gently turning. The windows were open, their frames having been fitted with a protective wire mesh to keep out the enemy.

He offered her a drink and she chose lager. When it came, it was deliciously cold in tall, slender glasses. ‘Cheers!’ he said.

From her briefcase she produced the specimen jar containing the dead lizard and placed it in front of her on the dining table. ‘Something new you won’t know about yet,’ she explained, and told him about the Reverend Davidson.

When she had finished, Jeff opened the jar and shook out its contents on a sheet of white paper.

‘It’s quite small, as lizards go,’ he commented, examining it closely. ‘About the size of a gecko. It looks like something has been chewing it up. You don’t seriously think this thing attacked the padre?’

‘No,’ she admitted. She scooped it up into the jar again. ‘But the lab will tell us what it’s been eating. What’s their normal diet?’

‘Africa is about the extent of my experience of lizards. Some are vegetarians, but I believe most are carnivorous. That means insects, not people.’

‘Caterpillars? Tiny ones perhaps, not like ours?’

‘You may have a point,’ he agreed, making a note. ‘I think I know who to ask. Now let’s go through everything we’ve so far learned about these caterpillars, shall we? See if we can’t discover something the official committees might miss.’

Their discussion was thorough and businesslike, much to Ginny’s relief. They went through the life cycle of the giant moths, at least those stages they had so far observed; then their feeding habits — factually, without sentiment — plus their general behaviour patterns. Jeff took notes as they talked, reading each summary aloud for her approval. She brought up the way the caterpillars and moths seemed able to coordinate their attacks.

‘Can we be sure about that?’ Jeff pressed her. ‘It was not the case at the Spring Fair.’

‘But it did happen at the church, and there’ve been other reported instances too. Perhaps —’ She paused, frowning as she thought it through. ‘I was going to say perhaps it’s coincidental, but there’s more to it. I think their tactics are changing.’

‘Which means we’re witnessing these moths actually learning from experience.’

‘That makes them even more dangerous. And what about the pesticide we’re using? Does it kill them, or merely make them sluggish for a time?’

‘It’s pretty deadly stuff,’ he told her. ‘A lungful of that would bring the strongest man down.’

‘Not relevant. So would nuclear fall-out, yet they say insects could survive it.’

He picked up his pencil and inscribed a big question mark by the side of what he had just written. ‘So we need more on the pesticide. There must be some laboratory tests available by now. It seems to be killing everything else.’

‘You’ve heard that we now know where they come from?’ she asked.

‘It has been confirmed?’

‘This morning.’

On her return from St Botolph’s Bernie had told her that a laboratory technician at Lingford University Research Institute had now definitely identified the caterpillars. They had been bred in the Institute itself, the third generation of a sequence of mutations resulting from advanced experiments in genetic engineering. Work on the project had been stopped the previous year and the people involved were difficult to contact. The research assistant, Adrian Burton, had been appointed to a lectureship in Australia and chosen to travel out by sea. The woman scientist who set the whole thing up was now in America engaged on a US Government contract which, she apparently claimed, did not permit her to comment.

‘Sophie Greenberg,’ Jeff nodded meaningfully. ‘That’s Sophie all right. She worries about the wrong things.’

‘You obviously know her.’

‘I did once. Perhaps they haven’t told her what these slugs of hers are getting up to.’

‘According to the technician,’ Ginny went on, ‘they’d an accident in the lab last year. Something to do with a cat. A couple of caterpillars got out and were never seen again. The others died, which was when she scrapped the whole thing. The last straw, he said.’

‘What about her notes?’

‘Bernie was told she took everything with her.’

‘Helpful.’ He drained his glass, then stood up. ‘Another drink? These are thirsty days.’

Ginny welcomed the break. While Jeff was getting more beer from the fridge she went over to the bow window to look at the louring sky, already illuminated by the first flickers of distant lightning. In a minute it was going to pour down.

The telephone rang and Jeff called to ask her to take it for him. It was an African voice, a man with an unfamiliar accent. She twice had to ask him to repeat what he said before she understood.

‘Won’t give his name.’ She held out the receiver to Jeff when he came back into the room. ‘Mystery man — he insists on speaking to you personally.’

‘Client, more likely. Caterpillars permitting, I still have a business to run.’

Of course he still flew to Africa, she remembered. Mostly freight, he’d explained to her. He was a bit of a mystery man himself, but he seemed to know quite a few people in key places. Perhaps it was absurdly optimistic to think they could get action on the caterpillars more effectively than the official committees, but someone had to try. At least Jeff might be able to drop words in the right ears. She tried to listen in on his phone conversation, but it was largely one-sided: seldom more than monosyllables from him, and then in French. That accounted for the accent.