‘Then I’ll drive.’
‘That’s your choice.’
He waited for the man to fill in the documents with his details, signed them and got in the car.
‘Could you give me the address of the sheriff’s office, please?’
‘Twenty-eight North Paint Street. In Chillicothe, of course. Could you give me a ride into town?’
Russell gave him a conspiratorial smile and started the engine. ‘Of course not.’
He pulled out, wheels skidding on the gravel, heedless of Mr Balling’s legitimate concern for his vehicle. As he drove, he programmed the GPS. There was the road, and there was his destination, some nine miles away, with a journey time of about twenty-one minutes. He allowed the soothing female voice of the GPS to guide him until it advised him to turn right onto Route 104. As he neared the town, he started to think about his next move. He didn’t have a specific plan. He had a name. He had photographs. He would ask the sheriff for information, then decide what to do on the basis of that. He had reached this point by following his instinct and improvising. That seemed like the best way to continue. Without his realizing it, the long straight road had led him to press his foot down hard on the accelerator. Suddenly, a flashing light and a sharp sound behind him brought him up short.
He pulled up on the right and waited for the inevitable. He lowered the window just in time to see the officer touch his hat in greeting.
‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Good evening, officer.’
‘Would you mind showing me your licence and car registration, please?’
Russell handed the rental certificate and licence through the window. The officer, who bore the insignia of Ross County, examined them, but did not give them back. He was a thickset man, with a broad nose and pockmarked skin.
‘Where are you from, Mr Wade?’
‘New York. I just landed at Ross County Airport.’
The grimace he received in return made him realize his mistake.
‘Well, Mr Wade, I’m afraid there’s a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘You were going along like a bat out of hell. And from your breath, I’m pretty sure I know why.’
‘I’m not drunk, officer.’
‘We’ll soon see. All you have to do is breathe into a balloon, just like you did when you were a kid.’
He climbed out of the Mercedes and followed the officer to his car. He did as he was asked, but unfortunately the result wasn’t the same as when he was a kid, thanks to Jenson Wade’s personal whisky reserve.
The officer looked at him with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘You’ll have to come with me. Will you come quietly or do I have to put cuffs on you? Don’t forget, resisting arrest is an aggravating factor.’
Russell knew that only too well. He had learned it the hard way. ‘You don’t need cuffs.’
With no thought for Mr Balling, he left the Mercedes in a lay-by and climbed in the patrol car. As he was getting out at 28 North Paint Street, he realized there was one bright spot in all this. He had been looking for the sheriff’s office and now here he was.
Hearing footsteps in the corridor, he got up from the bunk and approached the bars. A moment or two later, a man in uniform stopped in front of the cell door.
‘Russell Wade?’
‘That’s me.’
Unceremoniously, the officer made a sign with his nearly bald head. He looked like the good brother of the guy who was sleeping – and snoring – on the other bunk.
‘Come on, your backup’s here.’
After the snap of the lock and the clatter of the bars, he found himself following the man along the corridor. They stopped in front of a wooden door. A sign on it indicated that Thomas Blein was the sheriff of Ross County. The officer knocked, and immediately opened. He motioned to him to enter and closed the door behind him.
In the office were two men and a vague smell of cigars. One was sitting behind a desk piled high with papers. It was obvious he was the Thomas Blein mentioned on the door. He was tall with thick white hair, and a calm but resolute face. His uniform both emphasized his slender build and conferred the right degree of authority.
The man sitting on the chair just in front of the desk was a lawyer. He didn’t look like one, but the fact that he was there, plus the officer’s words, made it seem likely. Confirmation came when the man, who had an easygoing air but sharp eyes, stood up and held out his hand.
‘Hello, Mr Wade. I’m Jim Woodstone, your lawyer.’
The previous evening he had taken advantage of the one call allowed him to call the plane on the number the stewardess had given him. After explaining the situation he was in, he had asked that his father be contacted and brought up to date. Sheila Lavender hadn’t sounded at all surprised.
Russell shook the lawyer’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Then he turned to the man behind the desk. ‘Good morning, sheriff. I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience. That wasn’t my intention.’
In the light of what they knew about him, this submissive attitude seemed to surprise both men, who for a moment found themselves on the same side of the barricades.
Blein simply nodded at him. ‘Are you Russell Wade, the rich guy?’
‘My father’s the rich guy. I’m the wild guy who got disowned.’
The sheriff smiled at this brief but comprehensive self-description. ‘You get yourself in the news a lot. Quite rightly, I think. Would you agree?’
‘I think I would, yes.’
‘What do you do in life?’
Russell smiled. ‘When I don’t spend my time getting arrested, I’m a journalist.’
‘What paper do you work for?’
‘I don’t work for any at the moment. I’m freelance.’
‘And what brought you to Chillicothe?’
Woodstone intervened, with professional shrewdness. After all, he had to justify the bill he’d be sending Wade Enterprises. ‘Mr Wade, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
Russell made a gesture with his hand that meant that everything was fine and he would satisfy the sheriff’s curiosity. It was easy – all he had to do was tell the truth. ‘I’m doing an article about the Vietnam war.’
Blein raised an eyebrow, in a vaguely cinematic manner. ‘Is anyone still interested in that?’
More than you might imagine …
‘There are certain things still unresolved that I think the public has a right to know about.’