‘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.
Chapter 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.’