“A nuclear power station works in much the same way. It splits the atom in a metal called uranium but instead of producing an explosion, which is uncontrolled, the energy is released gradually in the form of heat. The heat is fantastic. It turns water into steam, which then drives the turbines of an electricity generator and out comes electricity. That’s all a nuclear power station does. It turns heat into electricity.”
“What’s wrong with coal?” Matt asked.
“Coal, gas, oil… They’re all too expensive. And one day they’ll run out. But uranium is incredible stuff. One tiny piece of it, a piece you could hold in your hand, has enough power to keep a million electric heaters running non-stop for twenty-four hours.”
“Except it would kill you… if you held it in your hand,” Richard added.
“Yes, Mr Cole. The radiation would indeed kill you. Which is why, when uranium is moved, it is carried in heavy, lead-lined boxes.”
“Like the box I saw!” Matt said.
Sir Michael ignored him. “At the heart of any nuclear power station is a nuclear reactor,” he continued. “The reactor is basically a massive concrete box – and it is in here that our controlled explosion takes place. The uranium is surrounded by long sticks called control rods. When you lift up the control rods, the explosion starts. And the higher you lift them, the more powerful the explosion becomes.
“The reactor is the most dangerous part of the station. You have to remember what happened at Chernobyl, in Russia. One mistake here and you risk what is known as an excursion, an explosion which might kill hundreds or even thousands of people and which would destroy a vast area of land for years.”
Was that what they were planning, Matt wondered. Did Mrs Deverill and the other villagers want to commit some sort of act of terrorism? No. It made no sense. If that was the case, what did they want with him?
Sir Michael Marsh continued. “When the government began to think about building nuclear stations, fifty years ago, they set up a number of experimental stations where they could study reactors in action and make sure they were safe. Omega One was the first of these experiments and I helped design and build it. It ran for less than eighteen months. And after we’d finished with it, we shut it down and left it to rot in the pine forest that surrounds it.”
“Maybe someone wants to get it running again,” Richard persisted.
“They couldn’t – for all sorts of reasons.” Sir Michael sighed. “Let’s start with the uranium. As I’m sure you know, you can’t just buy uranium. Even dictators in countries like Iraq have found it impossible to get supplies. Let’s suppose these villagers of yours owned a uranium mine. It still wouldn’t help. How would they process the stuff? Where would they get the technical know-how and the resources?”
“But Matt saw something…”
“He saw a box. For all we know, it could have contained a picnic.” Sir Michael glanced at his watch. “I last visited Omega One about twenty years ago,” he said. “And there’s nothing left inside. We removed anything that could possibly be dangerous when we dismantled the place. It was quite a job, I can tell you, transporting everything out of the wood.”
“Why did you build it there?” Richard asked.
The scientist seemed momentarily thrown. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why did you build it in the middle of a wood?”
“Well, it had to be somewhere out of the way. And there’s an underground river that runs through the wood. That was the main reason. A nuclear power station requires a constant supply of water, you see.”
There was nothing more to be said.
“I’m sorry, Sir Michael,” Richard said, as he got to his feet. “It seems that we’ve been wasting your time.”
“Not at all. I’ve found what you and your young friend had to tell me most disturbing. At the very least, it would seem that somebody is trespassing on what is still government property and I shall certainly contact the appropriate authorities.” He stood up. “Personally I wanted to knock the building down when we’d finished with it, but it was too expensive. As the minister put it, nature is the best demolition expert. However, let me assure you, you probably couldn’t spark a decent fire in that damp old place, let alone a nuclear reaction.”
Sir Michael showed them to the door. But before he opened it, he turned to Matt. “Are you interested in phillumeny?” he asked.
“In what?” Matt didn’t know what he was talking about.
“The collecting of matchbox labels. I have almost a thousand of them.” He pointed at a case on the wall. “The Tekka brand, made in India. And those are Russian. I think it rather wonderful that anything so ordinary can be so beautiful.”
He opened the door.
“Do let me know how you get on,” he said. “And I’ll call when I’ve spoken to the police and tell you if there’s any news.”
Elizabeth Ashwood, the author of Rambles Around Greater Malling, lived in Didsbury, a suburb of Manchester. The address that Richard had been given took them to a detached house in a wide, leafy street. A gate and a path led through a garden that was perfectly neat, with an array of spring flowers. On the front door was a knocker shaped like a hand. Richard lifted it and let it fall. A hollow boom echoed through the house, and a minute later the door opened.
A thin, dark-haired woman stood there, not looking at them but past them, her eyes covered by two circles of black glass. Matt guessed she must be about thirty-five. He had never met a blind person before. He wondered what it must be like, living in perpetual night.
“Yes?” she asked impatiently.
“Hi.” Richard smiled, unnecessarily. She couldn’t see him, of course. “Are you Elizabeth Ashwood?” he asked.
“I am Susan Ashwood. Elizabeth was my mother.”
“Was?” Richard couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.
“She died a year ago.”
So that was it. They had come all this way for nothing. Matt was ready to turn round and go back to the car, but suddenly the woman spoke again. “Who are you?”
“My name is Richard Cole. I’m a journalist from the Greater Malling Gazette in Yorkshire.”
“There are two of you.”
“Yes.”
How had she known? Matt hadn’t made any sound.
“A boy…” Her hand reached out and somehow caught hold of Matt’s arm. “Where have you come from?” she demanded. “Why are you here?”
Matt squirmed, embarrassed to be held by her. “I’ve come from Lesser Malling,” he said. “We wanted to know about a book your mother wrote.”
“Come into the house,” the woman said. “I can help you. But you must come in.”
Matt glanced at Richard, who shrugged. The two of them went inside.
Miss Ashwood led them into a wide, airy corridor. The house was Victorian but had been carefully modernized with oak floors, concealed lighting and floor-to-ceiling windows. There were paintings on the walls – mainly expensive abstracts. Matt couldn’t help wondering for whose benefit they were, since the owner couldn’t see them. Of course, it was always possible that the woman had a husband and family. And yet at the front door he had got the impression that this was someone who was always alone.
She led them into a living room with low leather sofas and gestured at them to sit down. A polished grand piano, brilliant black, stood in the corner.
“Which of my mother’s books brought you all this way?” she asked.
“It was a book about Lesser Malling,” Richard said.
Matt decided to cut straight to the point. “We need to know about Raven’s Gate.”
The woman became very still. It was hard to read her emotions behind the black glasses but Matt could sense her excitement. “So you’ve found me…” she whispered.
