by Tom Sharpe
Penelope put the idea into words. ‘He’s more likely to have been eaten by Mrs Willoughby,’ she said. ‘Mr Gamer says she’s sex-mad. I heard him tell Mrs Gamer that when she said she wanted it.’
‘Wanted what?’ demanded Eva, too stunned by this latest revelation to be concerned about the chops missing from the deep-freeze. She could deal with that matter later.
‘The usual thing,’ said Penelope with a look of distaste. ‘She’s always going on about it and Mr Gamer said she was getting just like Mrs Willoughby after Mr Willoughby died on the job and he wasn’t going the same way.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Eva in spite of herself.
‘It is too,’ said Penelope. ‘Sammy heard him, didn’t you?’
Samantha nodded.
‘He was in the garage playing with himself like Paul in 3B does and we could hear ever so easily,’ she said. ‘And he’s got lots of Playboys in there and books and she came in and said …’
‘I don’t want to hear,’ said Eva, finally dragging her attention away from this fascinating topic. ‘It’s time to get your things on. I’ll go and fetch the car …’ She stopped. It was clearly one thing to say she was going to fetch the car from a neighbour’s front garden, but just as clearly there were snags. If Henry was in Mrs Willoughby’s house she’d never be able to live the scandal down. All the same something had to be done and it was a scandal enough already for the neighbours to see the Escort there. With the same determination with which Eva always dealt with embarrassing situations she put on her coat and marched out of the front door. Presently she was sitting in the Escort trying to start it. As usual when she was in a hurry the starter motor churned over and nothing happened. To be exact, something did but not what she had hoped. The front door opened and the Great Dane loped out followed by Mrs Willoughby in a dressing-gown. It was, in Eva’s opinion, just the sort of dressing-gown a sex-mad widow would wear. Eva wound down the window to explain that she was just collecting the car and promptly wound it up again. Whatever Samantha’s finer feelings might persuade her about the dog, Eva mistrusted it.
‘I’m just going to take the girls to school,’ she said by way of rather inadequate explanation.
Outside the Great Dane barked and Mrs Willoughby mouthed something that Eva couldn’t hear. She wound the window down two inches. ‘I said I’m just going to …’ she began.
Ten minutes later, after an exceedingly acrimonious exchange in which Mrs Willoughby had challenged Eva’s right to park in other people’s drives and Eva had only been prevented by the presence of the Hound from demanding the right to search the house for her Henry and had been forced to confine herself to a moral critique of the dressing-gown, she drove the quads furiously to school. Only when they had left was Eva thrown back on her own worries. If Henry hadn’t left the car at that awful woman’s – and she really couldn’t see him braving the Great Dane unless he’d been blind drunk and then he wouldn’t have held much interest for Mrs Willoughby – someone else must have. Eva drove to the Braintrees and came away even more worried. Betty was sure Peter had said he hadn’t seen henry nearly all week. It was the same at the Tech. Wilt’s office was empty and Mrs Bristol was adamant that he hadn’t been in since Wednesday. Which left only the prison.
With a terrible sense of foreboding Eva used the phone in Wilt’s office. By the time she put it down again panic had set in. Henry not at the prison since Monday? But he taught that murderer every Friday … he didn’t. He never had. And he wasn’t going to teach him on Mondays either now because Mac wasn’t a burden on the state, as you might say. But he had given McCullum lessons on Friday. Oh no, he hadn’t. Prisoners in that category couldn’t have cosy little chats every night of the week, now could they? Yes, he was quite sure. Mr Wilt never came to the prison on Fridays.
Sitting alone in the office, Eva’s reactions swung from panic to anger and back again. Henry had been deceiving her. He’d lied. Mavis was right, he had had another woman all the time. But he couldn’t have. She’d have known. He couldn’t keep a thing like that to himself. He wasn’t practical or cunning enough. There’d have been something to tell her like hairs on his coat or lipstick or powder or something. And why? But before she could consider that question Mrs Bristol had poked her head round the door to ask if she’d like a cup of coffee. Eva braced herself to face reality. No one was going to have the satisfaction of seeing her break down.
‘No thank you,’ she said, ‘it’s very kind of you but I must be off.’ And without allowing Mrs Bristol the opportunity to ask anything more Eva marched out and walked down the stairs with an air of deliberate fortitude. It had almost cracked by the time she had reached the car but she hung on until she had driven back to Oakhurst Avenue. Even then, with all the evidence of treachery around her in the shape of Henry’s raincoat and the shoes he’d put out to polish and hadn’t and his briefcase in the hall, she refused to give way to self-pity. Something was wrong. Something that proved Henry hadn’t walked out on her. If only she could think.
It had something to do with the car. Henry would never have left it in Mrs Willoughby’s drive. No, that wasn’t it. It was … She dropped the car keys on the kitchen table and recognized their importance. They’d been in the car when she’d gone to fetch it and among them on the ring was the key to 45 Oakhurst Avenue. Henry had left her without any warning and without leaving a message but he had left the key to the house? Eva didn’t believe it. Not for one moment. In that case her instinct had been right and something dreadful had happened to him. Eva put the kettle on and tried to think what to do.
*
‘Listen, Ted,’ said Flint. ‘You play it the way you want. If you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours. No problems. All I’m saying is –’
‘If I scratch your back,’ said Lingon, ‘I won’t have a fucking back to be scratched. Not one you’d want to scratch anyway, even if you could find it under some bloody motorway. Now would you mind just getting out of here?’
Inspector Flint settled himself in a chair and looked round the tiny office in the corner of the scruffy garage. Apart from a filing cabinet, the usual nudey calendar, a telephone and the desk, the only thing it contained of any interest to him was Mr Lingon. And in Flint’s view Mr Lingon was a thing, a rather nasty thing, a squat, seedy and corrupt thing. ‘Business good?’ he asked with as little interest as possible. Outside the glass cubicle a mechanic was hosing down a Lingon Coach which claimed to be de luxe.
Mr Lingon grunted and lit a cigarette from the stub of his last one. ‘It was till you turned up,’ he said. ‘Now do me a favour and leave me alone. I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Smack,’ said Flint.
‘Smack? What’s that supposed to mean?’
Flint ignored the question. ‘How many years did you do last time?’ he enquired.
‘Oh Jesus,’ said Lingon. ‘I’ve been inside. Years ago. But you sods never let up, do you? Not you. A little bit of breaking and entering, someone gets done over two miles away. You name it, who do you come and see? Who’s on record? Ted Lingon. Go and put the pressure on him. That’s all you buggers can ever think of. No imagination.’
Flint shifted his attention from the mechanic and looked at Mr Lingon. ‘Who needs imagination?’ he said. ‘A nice signed statement, witnessed and everything clean and above-board and no trade. Much better than imagination. Stands up in court.’
‘Statement? What statement?’ Mr Lingon was looking uneasy now.
‘Don’t you want to know who from first?’
‘All right. Who?’
‘Clive Swannell.’
‘That old poove? You’ve got to be joking. He wouldn’t –’ He stopped suddenly. ‘You’re trying it on.’
Flint smiled confidently. ‘How about the Rocker then?’
Lingon stubbed his cigarette out and said nothing.
‘I’ve got it down in black and white. From the Rocker too. Adds up, doesn’t it? Want me to go on?’
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector,’ said Lingon. ‘And now if you don’t mind …’
‘Next on the list,’ said Flint, savouring the pressure, ‘there’s a nice little piece down Chingford called Annie Mosgrave. Fond of Pakis, she is. And Chinese threesomes. Sort of cosmopolitan, isn’t she? But she writes a nice clean hand and she doesn’t want some bloke with a meat cleaver coming round one night.’
‘You’re fucking lying. That’s what you’re doing,’ said Lingon, shifting in his seat and fumbling with the cigarette packet.
Flint shrugged. ‘Of course I am. I mean I would be. Stupid old copper like me’s bound to lie. Specially when he’s got signed statements locked away. And don’t think I’m going to do you the favour of locking you away too, Teddie boy. No, I don’t like drug buggers. Not one little bit.’ He leant forward and smiled. ‘No, I’m just going to attend the inquest. Your inquest, Teddie dear. I might even try to identify you. Difficult of course. It will be, won’t it? No feet, no hands, teeth all wrenched out … that is if there is a head and they haven’t burnt it after they’ve done the rest of what was you over. And they do take their time over it. Nasty really. Remember Chris down in Thurrock. Must have been a terrible way to die, bleeding like that. Tore his –’
‘Shut up,’ shouted Lingon, now ashen and shaking.
Flint got up. ‘For now,’ he said. ‘But only for now. You don’t want to do business: that’s fine with me. I’ll walk out of here and you won’t be seeing me again. No, it’ll be some bloke you don’t even know comes in. Wants to hire a coach to take a party to Buxton. Money on the table, no hassle and the next fucking thing you know is you’ll be wishing it had been me instead of one of Mac’s mates with a pair of secateurs.’
‘Mac’s dead,’ said Lingon almost in a whisper.
‘So they tell me,’ said Flint. ‘But Roddie Eaton’s still out and about and running things. Funny bloke, Roddie. Likes hurting people, according to my sources, specially when they’ve got enough knowledge to put him away for life and he can’t be certain they won’t talk.’
‘That’s not me,’ said Lingon. ‘I’m no squealer.’
‘Want to bet on it? You’ll be screaming your rotten little heart out before they’ve even begun,’ said Flint and opened the door.
But Lingon signalled him back. ‘I need guarantees,’ he said. ‘I got to have them.’
Flint shook his head. ‘I told you. I’m a stupid old copper. I’m not selling the Queen’s pardon. If you want to come and see me and tell me all about it, I’ll be there. Till one o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got exactly one hour twelve minutes. After that you’d better shut up shop and buy yourself a shotgun. And it won’t do you any good picking up that phone because I’ll know. And the same if you leave here to use a call-box. And by five past one Roddie will know too.’
Flint walked out past the coach. The rotten little bastard would come. He was sure of that and everything was fitting nicely, or nastily, into place. And Hodge was screwed too. It was all very satisfactory and only went to prove what he had always said, that there was nothing like years of experience. It helped to have a son in prison for drug smuggling too, but Inspector Flint had no intention of mentioning his sources of information to the Superintendent when he made his report.
17
‘An infiltrating agent?’ boomed the Airforce General commanding Baconheath. ‘Why wasn’t I informed immediately?’
‘Yes sir, that’s a good question, sir,’ said Glaushof.
‘It is not, Major, it’s a lousy question. It isn’t even a question I should have to ask. I shouldn’t have to ask any questions. In fact I’m not here to ask questions. I run a tight ship and I expect my men to answer their own questions.’
‘And that’s the way I took it, sir,’ said Glaushof.
‘Took what?’
‘Took the situation, sir, faced with an infiltrating agent. I said to myself –’
‘I am not interested in what you said to yourself, Major. I am only interested in results,’ shouted the General. ‘And I want to know what results you’ve achieved. By my count the results you’ve achieved amount to the gassing of ten Airforce personnel or their dependants.’
‘Eleven, sir,’ said Glaushof.
‘Eleven? That’s even worse.’
‘Twelve with the agent Wilt, sir.’
‘Then how come you just told me eleven?’ demanded the General, toying with the model of a B52.
‘Lieutenant Harah, sir, was gassed in the course of the action, sir, and I am proud to report that without his courage in the face of determined resistance by the enemy we could have encountered heavy casualties and possibly a hostage situation. Sir.’
General Belmonte put the B52 down and reached for a bottle of Scotch before remembering he was supposed to be in command of the situation. ‘Nobody told me about a resistance situation,’ he said rather more amicably.
‘No, sir. It didn’t seem advisable to issue a press release in the light of current opinion, sir,’ said Glaushof. Having managed to avoid the General’s questions he was prepared to apply more direct pressure. If there was one thing the Commander hated it was any mention of publicity. Glaushof mentioned it. ‘As I see it, sir, the publicity –’
‘Jesus, Glaushof,’ shouted the General, ‘how many times have I got to remind you there is to be no publicity? That is Directive Number One and comes from the highest authority. No publicity, dammit. You think we can defend the Free World against the enemy if we have publicity? I want that clearly understood. No publicity for Chrissake.’
‘Understood, General,’ said Glaushof. ‘Which is why I’ve ordered a security blackout, a total no-traffic command to all information services. I mean if it got out we’d had an infiltration problem …’
He paused to allow the General to get his strength back for a further assault on publicity. It came in waves. When the bombardment had finished Glaushof produced his real target. ‘If you’ll permit me to say so, sir, I think we’re going to be faced with an informational problem on the Intelligence side.’
‘You do, do you? Well, let me tell you something, Major, and this is an order, a top priority directive order, that there is to be a security blackout, a total no-traffic command to all information services. That is my order, you understand.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Glaushof, ‘I’ll institute it immediately to the Intelligence Command. I mean if we had a leak to the press there …’
‘Major Glaushof, that is an order I have given you. I want it instituted pre-immediate to all services.’
‘Including Intelligence, sir?’
‘Of course including Intelligence,’ bawled the General. ‘Our Intelligence services are the best in the world and I’m not jeopardizing standards of excellence by exposing them to media harassment. Is that clear?’
‘Yessir,’ said Glaushof and promptly left the office to order an armed guard to be placed on Intelligence HQ and to instruct all personnel to initiate a total no-traffic command. Since no one knew at all precisely what a no-traffic command was the various interpretations put on it ranged from a ban on all vehicles entering or leaving civilian quarters to a full alert on the airfield, the latter having been intermittently in force throughout the night thanks to wafts of Agent Incapacitating Two sounding off the toxic-weapon-detection sensors. By mid-morning the diverse rumours circulating were so manifestly at odds with one another that Glaushof felt safe enough to bawl his wife out over Lieutenant Harah’s sexual insubordination before catching up on his sleep. He wanted to be in good shape to interrogate Wilt.
*
But when, two hours later, he arrived at the guarded room in the hospital Wilt was evidently in no mood to answer questions. ‘Why don’t you just go away and let me get some sleep?’ he said blearily and turned on his side.
Glaushof glared at his back.
‘Give him another shot,’ he told the doctor.
‘Give him another shot of what?’
‘Whatever you gave him last night.’
‘I wasn’t on duty last night,’ said the doctor. ‘And anyhow who are you to tell me what to give him?’
Glaushof turned his attention away from Wilt’s back and glared instead at the doctor. ‘I’m Glaushof. Major Glaushof, doctor, just in case you haven’t heard of me. And I’m ordering you to give this commie bastard something that’ll jerk him out of that bed so I can question him.’
The doctor shrugged. ‘If you say so, Major,’ he said and studied Wilt’s chart. ‘What would you recommend?’
‘Me?’ said Glaushof. ‘How the hell would I know? I’m not a goddam doctor.’
‘So happens I am,’ said the doctor, ‘and I’m telling you I am not administering any further medication to this patient right now. The guy’s been exposed to a toxic agent –’
He got no further. With a nasty grunt Glaushof shoved him through the doorway into the corridor. ‘Now you just listen to me,’ he snarled, ‘I don’t want to hear no crap about medical ethics. What we’ve got in there is a dangerous enemy agent and he doesn’t even come into the category of a patient. Do you read me?’
‘Sure,’ said the doctor nervously. ‘Sure, I read you. Loud and clear. So now will you take your hands off me?’
Glaushof let go of his coat. ‘You just get something’ll make the bastard talk and fast,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a security problem on our hands.’
‘I’ll say we have,’ said the doctor and hurried away from it. Twenty minutes later a thoroughly confused Wilt was bundled out of the hospital building under a blanket and driven at high speed to Glaushof’s office where he was placed on a chair. Glaushof had switched on the tape recorder. ‘Okay, now you’re going to tell us,’ he said.