‘Tasted like it too,’ said Auntie Joan. After more argument she agreed to lie back and pretend Wally was Arnold Schwarzenegger on barbiturates, something that slowed him up.
‘Only thing slowing me up is finding the thing,’ said Wally. ‘Like going down Oak Creek Canyon on a wet night and no flashlight. You sure you still got a pussy? That surgeon didn’t do a total when you had that hysterectomy?’
In the end he found what he had been looking for. Or thought he had. Auntie Joan put him right.
‘Asshole!’ she shrieked. ‘Jesus, are you insane trying to brown-ass me? Oh no, you don’t, Wally Immelmann. I’m fucked if you’re going to sodomise me. You want to do that with someone, find yourself a guy who likes it that way. I sure as shit don’t.’
‘Sodomise? I wasn’t trying to sodomise you,’ said Wally, genuinely outraged. ‘We been married all these years, thirty years, thirty goddam years, I ever tried to sodomise you?’
‘Yes,’ said Auntie Joan bitterly. ‘Yes, you have and don’t I know it. Dr Cohen says it’s—’
‘Dr Cohen? You been telling Dr Cohen I’ve been sodomising you? I’m not hearing this. I can’t be!’ Wally yelled. ‘Telling Dr Cohen … Jesus.’
‘I didn’t need to tell him. He’s got eyes in his head. He could see for himself and he was disgusted. He says it’s against the law. And he’s right.’
Wally was no longer interested in humping. He was sitting bolt upright in the doublewide.
‘Against the law? That’s bullshit. If it’s against the law how come gays are doing it all the time and we got an epidemic of Aids?’
‘Not that law. The Law of God. Dr Cohen says it’s there in the Bible. “Thou shalt not—”’
‘The Bible? What’s Dr Cohen know about the Bible? That New Jersey kike think the Jews wrote the Bible, for Chrissake? He’s got to be crazy.’
‘Wally dear, who else?’ said Auntie Joan, seizing the initiative now that Wally was off her and into a morass of ignorance. ‘Who else wrote the Bible?’
‘What you mean, who else? Genesis did, and Joshua and Jonah. Guys like that. That’s who wrote the Bible.’
‘You’re forgetting Moses,’ said Auntie Joan smugly. ‘Like in Dr Moses Cohen. Jews, Wally dear. Jews. The Bible was written by Jews. Hadn’t you noticed?’
‘Jesus,’ said Wally Immelmann.
‘Him too. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. All Jews, Wally, and that’s the gospel.’
Wally slumped down on to the bed. ‘Sure, sure I know all that,’ he said with a whimper. ‘And you have to go and tell Dr Cohen I make a habit of sodomising you. You’ve got to be crazy and I mean out of your head altogether. Clinically.’
‘I tell you I didn’t tell him. He could see for himself when I went for my cervical and he was disgusted. You should have heard what he said about men who did that sort of thing. Had me take a blood test.’
‘Don’t tell me!’ yelled Wally and of course she did. At length and in the most explicit detail while he kept interrupting her with threats of what he was going to do to her. Like divorce her and he knew some guys who would fix her for good.
‘Big deal!’ Auntie Joan shouted back. ‘You think I haven’t got myself insurance? Dr Cohen gave me the name of a lawyer, a real good one, and I’ve seen him. You make one move against me, Wally Immelmann, and you’re going to see what dope I’ve sworn on you. You wouldn’t believe it.’
Wally said he couldn’t believe a wife would do a thing like that, betraying her husband to a fucking doctor and a lawyer. They continued shouting until he was exhausted and lay back in bed wondering what he was going to do. One thing was certain. He was going to have to change his doctor and go to Dr Lesky. It was the last thing he wanted to do. Dr Lesky believed in abortion. It wouldn’t look good going to a doctor like Dr Lesky and being the Deacon of the Church of the Living Lord. Living Lorders didn’t go to abortionists and he wasn’t going to that clinic for blacks and down-and-outs. You got more diseases there than cures. Even the doctors contracted them. Like Immelmann Enterprises going on welfare. Wally lay in the darkness and tried to think how to get round Dr Cohen. Being a Deacon and having it thought he was a sodomist wasn’t going to do him any good in Wilma at all.
What the Drug Enforcement Agents had been installing in the Starfighter Mansion wasn’t going him any good either.
‘We’ve put double bugs in every room and that way when he scans he finds one but he misses the other. That’s only activated when we want it on so the scanner won’t pick it up first time. He won’t scan twice because he’ll have found the first one and they never check again,’ the electronic device expert told the meeting. ‘And the way we know when to turn the number 2s on is we’ve got video cameras so small they make a fly’s eye look big. No way you can spot them. They show us who’s there and the audios pick up every word. If this guy is running any racket we’ll get the proof. The only way he can talk in private is outside in the open air and even then he can’t be too sure. Could be behind a shirt button, any place. So we’ve got his vehicular transportation all tapped and his house so tight we can tell if he washes behind his ears or been circumcised. Only thing puzzling me is why we’re going to all this trouble with this guy. I mean, this is Mafia equipment we’ve installed and this has got to be small beer.’
‘Could be very big,’ Palowski said. ‘Our information from Poland is that this stuff is a new super high-grade designer from a Russian laboratory. No need to grow it and it’s a thousand times more addictive than crack. Street value into gigabucks and as easy to make as speed. Easier. Which could explain why Sol is missing. Lose a sample like that and you lose your life. Which is almost certainly what’s happened to him. Now, Sheriff Stallard says Immelmann Enterprises is diversifying into pharmaceuticals. That’s the rumour he’s heard. Some German firm is interested in investing with him and they’ve been investing in Russia too. That’s why the interest in Washington. My guess is this could be a subversion gambit. Militarily the Russians are out of the game but if they can infiltrate a designer drug of this calibre they don’t need a war to win.’
‘That guy is paranoid, I swear to God. He’s got Russkies on the brain,’ the electronics expert said afterwards.
It was an opinion shared by Sheriff Stallard when Baxter reported that the Starfighter Mansion had been wired for S & S like sight and sound.
‘You mean when Wally Immelmann … when Mrs Immelmann goes to the bathroom some guy’s going to be filming her on the can? I don’t believe it. And I sure as hell don’t want to see any footage of her taking a slash.’
‘It gets worse …’
‘Worse? Nothing could be worse than Joanie … Where’s the fucking camera? And don’t tell me they’re shooting from below. I’ll throw up.’
‘No, it’s a straight angle,’ said Baxter. ‘But they can zoom in. I mean, Sheriff, they’re using space technology in there.’
‘You can say that again,’ said the Sheriff, still obsessed with the thought of Auntie Joan on the toilet. ‘What do they think there is to zoom in on? Those guys some sort of perverts? I mean, they’ve got to be. They’ll be breaking every obscenity regulation there is. And what the hell do they want filming in there?’
‘Just in case Wally tries to flush the stuff down. They want a record of it. And that’s another thing. They’ve brought in the Shit Squad.’
‘You’ve told me,’ said the Sheriff. ‘Pretty apt damned name for the bastards. I couldn’t put it better myself.’
‘No, these guys are different.’
‘I’ll say they are. The same as me they’re not. I don’t get any kicks out of spying on fat women pissing in the privacy of their own bathrooms. You’ve got to be a genuine pervert to like that.’
‘No, the Shit Squad are sewage experts. They’ve hooked into all the effluent coming out of the Starfighter and are running it into a tanker for analysis. The thing is parked round the back of the old drive-in movie screen and it’s enormous. Must take fifteen thousand gallons
a throw. And the lab truck is there too where it can’t be seen. They’ve got equipment in there that can trace drugs in athletes’ urine weeks after they’ve taken them.’
Sheriff Stallard was gaping at him. Nothing in a long career as a Law Enforcement Officer came anywhere like this. ‘They’ve hooked …? Say it again, Baxter, say it again and slowly this time. This stuff is not getting through to me.’
‘It’s like this,’ said Baxter. ‘They’ve sealed off all the outlets from the house, all the water and sewage pipes, and they’ve hooked this huge sucking device on so that they can pump it—’
‘Shit,’ said the Sheriff. ‘These guys are using taxpayers’ money to test all the urine comes out of Wally Immelmann’s place? You’ll be telling me next they’ve got this satellite in statutory orbit over Wilma.’ He stopped and looked in horror up into the sky. ‘Could be reading the letters on my badge.’
‘I think the word is “stationary”. Stationary orbit. You said “statutory orbit”.’
Sheriff Stallard turned his glazed eyes on his Deputy. He was beginning to feel quite mad. ‘Stationary, Baxter, stationary it can’t be. Wilma’s moving at around three thousand miles an hour. Has to be because that’s the speed the world goes round. Something like that. You can work it out. The world goes round once a day and the circumference is twenty-four thousand miles. So twenty-four goes into twenty-four thousand a thousand times. Work it out yourself. Well, if you’ve got a satellite out there squatting over Wilma … no, not squatting, let’s cut the squatting. I don’t want to think about that again. It’s up there even further out than Wilma, and Wilma’s way out enough for me the way those guys are acting, that baby has to be moving even faster just to keep up. Right?’ Baxter nodded. ‘Good. So when I said “statutory” I mean “statutory”. This operation has to be costing millions. So it’s got to be statutory. Washington’s approval. And who’s been talking about cutting the Federal deficit?’
He went back to his office and took a Tylenol and lay down and tried to pretend nothing was happening. He couldn’t. The image of Joanie Immelmann on the can overwhelmed him.
In Oston Police Station Bob Battleby continued to protest his innocence. He hadn’t set fire to his own house. Why would he do a thing like that? It was a beautiful house and his family had owned it for hundreds of years. He was very fond of it and so on. As for porno mags and the other stuff, he had no idea how they had got into his Range Rover. Perhaps the firemen had put them there. It was the sort of muck people like firemen tended to read. No, he didn’t know any firemen personally, they weren’t the class of people he usually mixed with – but they were never doing anything useful. They hadn’t saved his house from being burnt to the ground, for instance, and reading porn, he supposed, helped them to pass the time. The handcuffs and the gag and whips? Did he really imagine the firemen made use of them, too, to pass the time? Well no, now that he came to think about it he didn’t suppose they did. They sounded more like things the police might have a use for.
That comment didn’t go down at all well with the Inspector putting the questions in the absence of the Superintendent who was catching up on his sleep. Battleby wasn’t so fortunate. The questions kept on coming and he wasn’t going to get any sleep until he answered them correctly. Where was his wife? He didn’t have one. Was he on good terms with his family? They could mind their own fucking business. But that was exactly what they were doing; their business was arresting criminals and, for his information, men who set fire to their own houses and possessed Obscene Material of a paedophile nature, not to mention punching Superintendents in the face, came into the category, several categories of criminals.
Battleby said he hadn’t set fire to his own house. Mrs Rottecombe could prove that. She’d been with him when he left the kitchen. The Inspector raised his eyebrows. But Mrs Rottecombe had made a sworn statement that she’d been waiting for him in her car outside the front door. Battleby made an even fouler sworn statement about Mrs fucking Rottecombe, and merely pointed out that as the Arson Squad had begun their investigations and were being helped by the Insurance Company investigators who were the real experts, they would soon know. What the Inspector would like to know was the state of Battleby’s finances. Battleby refused to answer. It didn’t matter, they’d get a court order to see his bank accounts. It was normal procedure in cases of arson where so much insurance money was involved. He had insured it, of course? Battleby supposed so. He left money matters to his accountant. But the house was insured in his name? Of course it bloody was. Had to be. After all, his family had lived in it for two hundred and more years so it had to be in his name. Quite so. Now, about the Obscene Material … Mrs Rottecombe had made a statement saying he had asked her to tie him up and whip him and she’d refused … Like hell she had. The bloody bitch enjoyed whipping and torturing people. She was into fladge in a big way … He stopped. Even in his state of almost total fatigue he could see from the Inspector’s expression that he’d said the wrong thing. He asked to speak to his solicitor. Of course he could. Just give them the number and the lawyer’s name and he could phone him. Battleby couldn’t remember his solicitor’s telephone number. The man was up in London and … Would he like a local solicitor? No, he fucking wouldn’t. The only thing those dunderheads knew about was boundary disputes.
And so the questioning had gone on and on and every time Battleby’s head drooped on to the table he was shaken awake. He was even given strong coffee and allowed to use the toilet. Then the questions began again. A different officer took over at midday and put the same questions.
16
At Ipford Police Station, Inspector Flint shared the Sheriff’s feeling about Drug Enforcement Agents. He had just read Superintendent Hodge’s report on Mrs Wilt and was appalled.
‘You can’t send this stuff across to America,’ he protested. ‘There wasn’t a shred of evidence the Wilts had anything to do with the distribution of drugs in Ipford. They were as clean as a whistle.’
‘Only because someone blew one for them,’ said Hodge.
‘Meaning?’ said Flint whose blood pressure had soared. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning they were tipped off we were on to them and they took cover in the American airbase and dumped the stuff.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I had anything to do—’
‘Not you, Flint. Just take a dekko at the evidence. Wilt has this job teaching Yanks at Lakenheath and this guy Immelmann’s been stationed there. So Wilt’s got contacts with Yanks even before he starts. That’s one. Two is PCP is an American drug. Designer drug and the Lord Lieutenant’s daughter dies of an overdose at the Tech where Wilt teaches her. ODs on PCP. There’s more evidence, a whole heap of it and it all points one way. To the Wilts. You can’t deny it, Flint. And another thing. Where else was Wilt teaching? In the hoosegow here in Ipford.’
‘Hodge, we don’t have hoosegows in Britain. You’ve got America on the brain.’
‘All right. Wilt was teaching in the prison and mixing with some of the nastiest villains in the drug business. That’s three strikes against the bastard. Number four is—’
‘Hodge, don’t let me interrupt you but you can’t have four strikes in baseball. Miss three and you’re out. If you really want to go transatlantic, you’ve got to get these things right. You’ll never make the Yankee Stadium if you go on like this.’
‘Very funny, I’m sure. You always were known for your wit. Well, this time just stick to the evidence. Mrs Wilt’s aunt is married to a known drug importer in the States. OK, they’re legit those drugs. On the surface. Then again he’s got a place in the Caribbean and a motor boat that does over sixty knots and on top of that he has planes. Learjets and Beechcraft. All the apparatus for a highly lucrative drug pusher. And Mrs Wilt just happens to visit him with her quads. Very good diversionary tactics those quads. And to top it all Wilt isn’t home and no one knows where he’s hidden himself. It adds up, it all adds up. You’ve got to admit that.’
&nbs
p; Flint hitched his chair forward. ‘Wilt’s hidden himself? No one knows where he’s got to? Are you certain about that?’ he asked.
Hodge nodded triumphantly. ‘Add this to the catalogue,’ he said. ‘The day Mrs Wilt flies into Atlanta her husband goes to the building society and draws out a large sum in cash. In cash. And where does he leave his credit cards and passport? At home. On the kitchen table. That’s right, on the kitchen table,’ he said as Flint’s face registered astonishment. ‘Bed not made. Washing-up not done. Dirty plates still on the table. Drawers in the chest of drawers in the bedroom open. Car still in the garage. Nothing missing except Mr Henry Wilt. Not a bloody thing. Even his shoes are there. We got the cleaning lady to check them out. So what does that tell you?’
‘It makes a change,’ said Flint sourly. He disliked being wrong-footed, especially by clowns like Hodge.
‘Makes a change? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Hodge demanded.
‘It means just this. The first time I ran into Wilty, it was his wife was missing. Supposed to be down a damned great pile hole at the Tech. Only it just so happens Wilt has stuffed an inflatable plastic doll dressed in Mrs Eva bloody Wilt’s clothes down there and they put twenty tons of pre-mix on top of her. In fact she is living it up with a couple of daffy Americans on a stolen boat on the Broads. So where is Mrs Wilt now? Sitting pretty … well, as near pretty as she’ll ever get at any rate, in the United States and it’s our Henry who is missing. Yes, that makes a change. It does indeed.’
‘You don’t think he’s done a runner?’ Hodge asked.
‘With Wilt I’ve given up thinking. I have not the faintest idea what goes on in that mad blighter’s mind. All I do know is it won’t be what you think it is. It’s going to be something you wouldn’t even dream of thinking about. So don’t ask me what he’s done. I wouldn’t have a clue.’
‘Well, my guess is he’s getting himself an alibi,’ said Hodge.