Wilt on High (25 page)

‘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?’

‘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.

‘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.

‘Tell you what?’ asked Wilt.

‘Who sent you?’ said Glaushof.

Wilt considered the question. As far as he could tell it didn’t have much bearing on what was happening to him except that it had nothing whatsoever to do with reality. ‘Sent me?’ he said. ‘Is that what you said?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I thought it was,’ said Wilt and relapsed into a meditative silence.

‘So?’ said Glaushof.

‘So what?’ asked Wilt, in an attempt to restore his morale slightly by combining insult with enquiry.

‘So who sent you?’

Wilt sought inspiration in a portrait of President Eisenhower behind Glaushof’s head and found a void. ‘Sent me?’ he said, and regretted it. Glaushof’s expression contrasted unpleasantly with that of the late President. ‘Nobody sent me.’

‘Listen,’ said Glaushof, ‘this far you’ve had it easy. Doesn’t mean it’s going to stay that way. It could get very nasty. Now, are you going to talk or not?’

‘I’m perfectly prepared to talk,’ said Wilt, ‘though I must say your definition of easy isn’t mine. I mean being gassed and –’

‘You want to hear my definition of nasty?’ asked Glaushof.

‘No,’ said Wilt hastily, ‘Certainly not.’

‘So talk.’

Wilt swallowed. ‘Any particular subject you’re interested in?’ he enquired.

‘Like who your contacts are,’ said Glaushof.

‘Contacts?’ said Wilt.

‘Who you’re working for. And I don’t want to hear any crap about teaching at the Fenland College Of Arts and Technology. I want to know who set this operation up.’

‘Yes,’ said Wilt, once more entering a mental maze and
losing himself. ‘Now when you say “this operation” I wonder if you’d mind …’ He stopped. Glaushof was staring at him even more awfully than before. ‘I mean I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You don’t, huh?’

‘I’m afraid not. I mean if I did –’

Glaushof shook a finger under Wilt’s nose. ‘A guy could die in here and nobody would know,’ he said. ‘If you want to go that way you’ve only to say so.’

‘I don’t,’ said Wilt, trying to focus on the finger as a means of avoiding the prospect of his going any way. ‘If you’d just ask me some questions I could answer …’

Glaushof backed off. ‘Let’s start with where you got the transmitters,’ he said.

‘Transmitters?’ said Wilt. ‘Did you say transmitters? What transmitters?’

‘The ones in your car.’

‘The ones in my car?’ said Wilt. ‘Are you sure?’

Glaushof gripped the edge of the desk behind him and thought wistfully about killing people. ‘You think you can come in here, into United States territory and –’

‘England,’ said Wilt stolidly. ‘To be precise the United Kingdom of England, Scotland –’

‘Jesus,’ said Glaushof, ‘You little commie bastard, you have the nerve to talk about the Royal Family …’

‘My own country,’ said Wilt, finding strength in the assuredness that he was British. It was something he had never really thought much about before. ‘And for your information, I am not a communist. Possibly a bastard,
though I like to think otherwise. You’d have to ask my mother about that and she’s been dead ten years. But definitely not a communist.’

‘So what’s with the radio transmitters in your car?’

‘You said that before and I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Are you sure you’re not mistaking me for someone else?’

‘You’re named Wilt, aren’t you?’ shouted Glaushof.

‘Yes.’

‘And you drive a beat-up Ford, registration plates HPR 791 N, right?’

Wilt nodded. ‘I suppose you could put it like that,’ he said. ‘Though frankly my wife –’

‘You saying your wife put those transmitters in your car?’

‘Good Lord no. She hasn’t a clue about things like that. Anyway, what on earth would she want to do that for?’

‘That’s what you’re here to tell me, boy,’ said Glaushof. ‘You ain’t leaving till you do, you better believe it.’

Wilt looked at him and shook his head. ‘I must say I find that difficult,’ he muttered. ‘I come here to give a lecture on British Culture, such as it is, and the next thing I know I’m in the middle of some sort of raid and there’s gas all over the place and I wake up in a bed with doctors sticking needles into me and …’