Feeling more cheerful he got to his feet and set off again; he passed a farm and came to a T-junction where he turned left towards a bridge over a river. Beyond it there was the village he had been looking for. A village with a pub. Wilt hurried on only to discover that the pub was shut for refurbishment and that there were no cafés or B & B guest-houses in the place. There was a shop but that too was shut. Wilt trudged on and finally found what he was looking for, an old woman who told him that, while she didn’t take lodgers in the normal way, he could stay the night in her spare bedroom and just hoped he didn’t snore. And so after a supper of eggs and bacon and the down payment of £15, he went to bed in an old brass bedstead with a lumpy mattress and slept like a log.
At 7 the old woman woke him with a cup of tea and told him where the bathroom was. Wilt drank the tea and studied the tintypes on the wall, one of General Buller in the Boer War with troops crossing the river. The bathroom looked as if it had been around during the Boer War too but he had a shave and a wash and then another apparently inevitable helping of bacon and eggs for breakfast, and thanked the old woman and set off down the road.
‘You’ll have to get to Raughton before you find a hostel,’ the old woman, Mrs Bishop, told him. ‘It’s five miles down thataway.’
Wilt thanked her and went down thataway until he came to a path that led uphill into some woods and turned off along it. He tried to forget the name Raughton, perhaps it was Rorton, and whatever it was he no longer cared. He was in the English countryside, old England, the England he had come to discover for himself. For half a mile he climbed up the hill and came out on to a stunning view. Below him a patchwork of meadows and beyond them a river. He went down and crossed the empty fields and presently was standing looking at a river that flowed, as it must have done for thousands of years, down the valley, in the process creating the flat empty fields he had just crossed. This was what he had come to find. He took off his knapsack and sat on the bank and watched the water drifting by with the occasional ripple that suggested a fish or an undercurrent, some hidden obstacle or pile of rubbish that was sliding past under the surface. Above him the sky was a cloudless blue. Life was marvellous. He was doing what he had come to do. Or so he thought. As ever in Wilt’s life he was moving towards his Nemesis.
It lay in the vengeful mind of a justifiably embittered old woman in Meldrum Slocum. All her working life, ever since she had entered the service of General and Mrs Battleby forty-five years before, Martha Meadows had been the cleaner, the cook, the housekeeper, the every help the General and his wife depended on at Meldrum Manor. She had been devoted to the old couple and the Manor had been the centre of her life but the General and his wife had been killed five years before in an accident with a drunken lorry driver; the estate had been taken over by their nephew Bob Battleby and everything had changed. From being what the old General had called ‘our faithful retainer, Martha’, a title of which she had been exceedingly proud, she had found herself being called that ‘bloody woman’. In spite of it she had stayed on. Bob Battleby was a drunk, and a nasty drunk at that, but she had her husband to think of. He’d been the gardener at the Manor but a bout of pneumonia followed by arthritis had forced him to leave his job. Martha had to work and there was nowhere else in Meldrum she could find employment. Besides, she had hopes that Battleby would drink himself to death before too long. Instead he began an affair with Ruth Rottecombe, the wife of the local MP and Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement. It was largely thanks to her that Martha had been replaced by a Filipino maid who was less disapproving of what they called their little games. Martha Meadows had kept her thoughts to herself but one morning Battleby, after a particularly drunken night, had lost his temper and had thrown her things – the clothes she came in before changing into her working ones – into the muddy yard outside the kitchen; he had called her a fucking old bitch and better off dead at that. Mrs Meadows had walked home seething with rage, and determined on getting her own back. Day after day she had sat at home beside her sick husband – who’d recently had a stroke and couldn’t talk – grimly determined to get her revenge. She had to be very, very careful. The Battlebys were a rich and influential family in the county and she had often thought of appealing to them, but for the most part they were of a different generation to the General’s nephew and seldom came to the Manor. No, she would have to act on her own. Two empty years passed before she thought of her own husband’s nephew, Bert Addle. Bert had always been a bit of a tearaway but she’d always had a soft spot for him, had lent him money when he was in trouble and had never asked for it back. Been like a mother to him, she had. Yes, Bert would help, especially now he’d just lost his job at the shipyard at Barrow-in-Furness. What she had in mind would certainly give him something to do.
‘He called you that?’ Bert said when she told him. ‘Why, I’ll kill the bastard. Calling my auntie a thing like that when you’ve been with the family all those years. By God, I will.’
But Martha shook her head.
‘You’ll do no such thing. I’m not having you go to prison. I’ve got a better idea.’
Bert looked at her questioningly.
‘Like what?’
‘Disgrace him in public, so he can’t show his face round here no more, him and that hussy of his. That’s what I want.’
‘How you going to do that?’ Bert asked. He’d never seen Martha so furious.
‘Him and that Rottecombe bitch get up to some strange things, I can tell you,’ she said darkly.
‘What sort of things?’
‘Sex,’ said Mrs Meadows. ‘Unnatural sex. Like him being tied up and … Well, Bert, I don’t like to say. But what I do say is I’ve seen the things they use. Whips and hoods and handcuffs. He keeps them locked away along of the magazines. Pornography and pictures of little boys and worse. Horrible.’
‘Little boys? He could go to prison for that.’
‘Best place for him.’
‘But how come you’ve seen them if they’re locked away?’
‘Cos he was so drunk one morning he was dead to the world in the old General’s dressing room and the cupboard was open and the key still in the lock. And I know where he keeps his keys, like the spare ones. He don’t know I do but I found them. On a beam over the old tractor in the barn he don’t ever use and can’t cos it’s broken. Shoves them up there where no one would think of looking. I seen him from the kitchen window. Keys of the back and front doors, key of his study and his Range Rover and the key of that cupboard with all that filth in it. Right, now here’s what I want you to do. That is if you’re prepared to, like.’
‘I’d do anything for you, Aunt Martha. You knows that.’
By the time he left Bert knew exactly what he had to do.
‘And don’t you come in your car,’ Martha told him. ‘I don’t want you getting into trouble. You hire one or something. I’ll give you the money.’
Bert shook his head.
‘Don’t need to. I’ve got enough and I know where I can get something to use, never you worry,’ he said and drove off happily, filled with admiration for his auntie. She was a sly one, Auntie Martha was. Thursday, she’d said.
‘Unless I phones you otherwise. And I’ll use a public phone. I’ve heard they can trace calls from homes and suchlike, the police can. Can’t be too careful. I’ll say …’ She looked at the calendar with the kitten on the wall. ‘I’ll say Thursday 7th or 14th or whatever Thursday you’re to do it. And that’s all.’
‘Why Thursday?’ Bert asked.
‘Cos that’s when they play bridge at the Country Club till after midnight and he gets so drunk she can do what she likes with him and she don’t go home till 4 or 5 in the morning. You’ll have time enough to do what I told you.’
Bert drove past the Manor House, checked the lane behind it and then drove north with the map Martha Meadows had given him. He paused for a moment outside the Rottecombes’ house, Leyline Lodge, and decided to come down again and make sure he
knew exactly where to go. He’d borrow a friend’s car for that trip too. He’d learnt a lot from Martha and he didn’t want to get her into trouble.
8
Eva was not having a wonderful time. What she was going through was keeping her wide awake with worry half the night. After the effusive greetings at the airport from Uncle Wally and Auntie Joan and their delight at seeing the quads again, they had driven out to the private jet bearing the logo of Immelmann Enterprises and had climbed aboard. The jet had been cleared for take-off and presently they were flying west towards Wilma. Below them the landscape was dotted with lakes and rivers and after a while they were over woods and hills, with signs of habitation few and far between. The quads peered out of the windows and to satisfy their curiosity Uncle Wally put the jet into a dive and levelled out quite low down so that they could see the ground even better. Eva, who wasn’t accustomed to flying and had never been up in a small plane before, felt queasy and frightened. But at least the girls were enjoying the ride and Uncle Wally was enjoying showing off his flying skills to them.
‘She isn’t as fast as the jets I flew in the Air Force out of Lakenheath, England,’ he said, ‘but she’s good and manoeuvrable and she covers the ground fast enough for an old man like me.’
‘Oh, shoot, honey, you ain’t old,’ Auntie Joan said. ‘I don’t like you using that word. Everybody’s just as old as they feel and the way you feel, Wally, feels pretty good and young to me. How’s Henry these days, Eva?’
‘Oh, Henry’s just fine,’ said Eva, readily adapting to American.
‘Henry’s a great guy,’ said Wally. ‘You got the makings of a great man there, Evie, you know that? I guess you girls are mighty proud of your daddy, eh? Having a daddy who’s a professor is really something.’
Penelope began the process of disillusionment.
‘Dad’s not ambitious,’ she said. ‘He drinks too much.’
Wally said nothing but the plane dipped a little.
‘A guy’s got a right to a little liquor after a hard day’s work,’ he said. ‘That’s what I always say, isn’t it, Joanie honey?’
Auntie Joan’s smile suggested that that was indeed exactly what he always said. It also suggested disapproval.
‘I gave up smoking though,’ Wally said. ‘Man, that stuff kills you and no mistake. Feel a hundred and ten per cent better since I quit.’
‘Dad’s taken up smoking again,’ Samantha told him. ‘He smokes a pipe because he says everyone is against smoking and no one is going to tell him what to do and what not to do.’
The plane clipped again.
‘He really says that? Henry really says that? That no one is going to tell him what not to do?’ said Wally, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the two women. ‘Would you credit that? And he ain’t much to look at manhoodwise either.’
‘Wally!’ said Auntie Joanie and there was no mistaking her meaning.
‘And you stop speaking about Daddy like that,’ Eva told Samantha with equal firmness.
‘Hell, I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ said Wally. ‘Manhood is just an expression.’
‘Yeah, and yours isn’t anything to write home about either,’ said Auntie Joanie. ‘Cracks like that just aren’t called for.’
Uncle Wally said nothing. They flew on and finally Josephine spoke up.
‘Boys aren’t the only people with manhoods,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a sort of manhood too. It’s not a very big one though. It’s called a—’
‘Shut up!’ Eva shouted. ‘We don’t want to hear. Do you hear me, Josephine? Nobody’s interested.’
‘But Miss Sprockett said it was quite normal and some women prefer—’ A swift cuff from Eva ended this exposition of Miss Sprockett’s opinion of the function of the clitoris in one-to-one encounters between women. All the same it was clear that Uncle Wally was still interested.
‘Gee, Miss Sprockett? That’s some name for a woman.’
‘She’s our biology teacher and she’s not like most women,’ Samantha told him. ‘She believes in practising masturbation. She says it’s safer than having sex with men.’
This time there could be no doubting Wally’s shock or the aerodynamic effect of Eva’s sudden attempt to reach Samantha and shut her up. As the plane lurched, Wally fought to control it and wasn’t helped by the blow on the side of his head intended for Samantha who had seen it coming and had ducked.
‘Shit!’ shouted Wally. ‘For Chrissake everyone sit still. You want to ditch this kite?’
Even Auntie Joanie was alarmed. ‘Eva, do sit down!’ she yelled.
Eva sat back in her seat with a grim look on her face. Everything she had hoped to prevent was beginning to happen. She sat looking lividly at Samantha and willed her to go dumb at least temporarily. She was going to have to give the quads a good talking-to. For the rest of the flight there was a grim silence in the aircraft and an hour later they touched down at the little airfield at Wilma. The Immelmann Enterprises stretch limo in red and gold was waiting for them. So, discreetly hidden in an unmarked car, were two men from the Drug Enforcement Agency who watched as the Wilt children climbed out of the plane. In the back sat a local cop.
‘You reckon?’
‘Could be. Sam said they were in the same row ’longside the guy Sol Campito. Who’s the fat guy?’
‘Hell, that’s Wally Immelmann. Runs the biggest plant in Wilma.’
‘Anything on him? Like he’s done time inside.’
‘On Wally? Hell no, he’s clean as you can be in his business,’ said the cop. ‘Solid citizen. Pays his dues. Votes Republican and subscribes to everything he can. Backed Herb Reich for Congress.’
‘So that makes him clean?’
‘I didn’t say he was clean as a hound’s tooth. Just that he’s a big wheel round these parts. I don’t see him into drug running.’
‘Just another fucking good ole boy? That right?’ said the DEA man who was clearly not a Southerner.
‘I guess so. I don’t mix in those circles. I mean, man, that’s money.’
‘And how’s his business doing right now?’
‘Same as everything in Wilma. Pretty average, I guess. I don’t know. He downsized last year but the latest is he’s diversifying into things outside vacuum pumps.’
‘So he could be … Shit, look at the one with the obesity problem.’
‘That’s his wife, Mrs Immelmann,’ said the cop.
‘Yeah, well it would be, wouldn’t it? Who’s the other one needs liposuction?’
The second DEA man checked the file.
‘Name of Wilt, Mrs Eva Wilt, mother of the four pack, 45 Oakhurst Avenue, Ipford, England. Want to put out a check call on her?’
‘They were in the same row with Sol. Could be he was the decoy. Yeah, call Atlanta and they can decide.’
They watched as the limo drove off. After it had gone the local cop got out and drove down to the Sheriff’s office.
‘What’s with those drug-busting shits?’ asked the Sheriff who resented Northerners almost as much as he resented being bossed around by the Feds. ‘Come marching into Wilma like they own the whole fucking place.’
‘You ain’t going to believe this. They got Wally Immelmann tagged for a drug dealer.’
The Sheriff stared at him. The man was right. He didn’t believe him.
‘Wally into running drugs? You got to be joking! Oh my God, they must be out of their fucking heads. If Wally got to hear he was on a fucking dealer suspicion list he’d go apeshit. Would he ever. Like we got Mount St Helens volcano right here in Wispoen County spewing brimstone. Jesus.’ He stopped and pondered for a moment. ‘What evidence they got?’
‘The fatso with the four girls. Dogs picked them out at the airport. And Wally is moving into pharmaceuticals. It fits.’
‘And the woman? Why not hold her for questioning?’
‘I don’t know. Wanted to see her contact, I guess. British. Name of Wilt.’
The Sheriff groaned.
‘Where those two goons from, Herb?’ he said presently.
‘Unit down Atlanta. They—’
‘I got that already. Like, where are they from? What’s their names and their home towns?’
‘Don’t give no names, Sheriff. Flash their IDs and credentials from Drug Enforcement and come to the high and mighty. Those boys in that game don’t have real names. Not good for their health, I’ve heard. Got numbers. One’s from New Jersey, that I do know.’
‘New Jersey? So how come the Yankee’s doing duty down South? Don’t trust us local cops?’
‘They don’t do that, and that’s for sure. Wanted to know if Mr Immelmann was a good ole boy like it was a dirty word.’
‘Said that, did they?’ said the Sheriff grimly. ‘Nice manners these Northern assholes have got. Come on down and think they run the place.’
‘And the other one … name of Palowski, yeah that’s right. I saw that much. He said Mrs Immelmann was so fat she should be into liposuction. Like that was a dirty word too.’
‘It is,’ said the Sheriff. ‘OK, OK. They want to walk into a fire-storm with Wally Immelmann, I’m not going to stop them. They’re on their own from now on. We just say Yessir and Nossir and let the bastards fuck up real good.’