'At this time of bloody night? What sort of statement?'
'He says he's heard the prosecution has been dropped...'
The Chief Constable stubbed the cigar out angrily in the remains of his Camembert. 'How the fuck did he hear that? I haven't issued any statement and they said in London they were waiting to release one on Monday to miss the Sunday papers.'
'I wouldn't know, sir, but there's a whole pack of the buggers out there, including Channel Four and the BBC. I told them the dinner was only for Detective Inspector Holdell's going away but they wouldn't buy it.'
Sir Arnold Gonders pushed his chair back and stood up lividly. 'Harry,' he shouted at his Deputy, 'get those fucking girls dressed fast and see the lads don't go too far with their high jinks. No, better still, leave that side of things to Rascombe. You and me are getting out of here fast. I'm not having the bloody media photograph me this weekend. Let the sods rot. We'll go out the back way.' He went out into the foyer while the Deputy Chief Constable spoke urgently to the Chief Inspector. One glance over the balcony into the entrance hall below told Sir Arnold things were far worse than he had anticipated. The newsmen were everywhere, and it was only the presence of several uniformed policemen that was holding the mob back from swarming up the stairs.
Sir Arnold went back into the dining-room. 'Where's the back entrance?' he asked Sergeant Filder.
'They've got some of them round there too,' the Sergeant told him. Sir Arnold helped himself to another large brandy and handed the bottle to Hodge. He was tired, and he was buggered if he was going to face a horde of reporters and muckrakers in his present condition. The bastards would have it splashed that he was pissed.
'Right, Filder, see the management and get Hodge and me rooms here for the night,' he said. 'Those shits can spend eight hours in the street and more. As far as everyone is concerned Hodge and I haven't been here tonight.'
'I'm not sure that's such a good idea, sir,' Hodge told him. 'I'm told they've nobbled one of the waiters and he's told them about the kissogram birds.'
Sir Arnold stared bleakly into a publicity hell almost equalling that of some of the Crime Squad's victims. He knew only too well what the media could do to a man's reputation. He'd used them often enough.
He finished his brandy at a gulp. 'We've got to establish deniability,' he said, and called Rascombe over. 'We haven't been here tonight, right? Hodge and me weren't here. You organized this do for Holdell and, as far as you know, I'm still in London. Yes, I know they know we're here. They can't prove it if we all keep our traps shut. Right?'
'Right,' said Inspector Rascombe, who knew the drill.
'No interviews. No statements. Nixnie. A complete shutdown. Hodge and I haven't been here and, if that fucking hotel manager wants to keep his drinks licence, he'd better go along with the story. Make sure he knows which side his bread is buttered. Now then, Filder, call up an unmarked car and have it ready in Blight Street.'
'I can take you in mine,' said the Sergeant. 'It's back in the multi-storey.'
The Deputy Chief Constable looked anxious. 'But how are we going to get out of the hotel?' he asked.
'Well, there's always such a thing as a little diversion,' the Inspector told him. 'Couple of cameras broken and that bugger Bob Lazlett gets a few loose teeth. Can't be bad.'
'Be bloody disastrous,' said Sir Arnold. 'Nothing I'd like better than the little shit would break his neck but we don't do it for him.
Not tonight, any rate. Some dark alley and no one around would be different.'
Twenty minutes later, with the manager's eager compliance, a large van drove up to the service entrance, the tailboard went down and the conveyor belts began to unload the hotel's morning supplies. As it finished, Sir Arnold and Harry Hodge in white lab coats slipped over the tailboard and disappeared.
'What a bloody mess,' said the Chief Constable drunkenly. The brandy bottle was empty. 'I'm fucked if I'm going home now. Those shits will be besieging the house.'
'You can always come to my place,' said Hodge. But Sir Arnold was in no mood to come under the caustic eye of Mrs Hodge, thank you very much. And Glenda was definitely out of the question now. One whiff of that little number and an entire sewage works would hit the fan.
'I'll get Filder to take me up the boathouse. Those bastards come up there, I'll set the dog on them.'
It was nearly three when the Chief Constable finally climbed out of the van, slumped exhausted into the police Rover, and set out for Scabside Reservoir.
Chapter 6
It had begun to rain and the moon was gone by the time Sir Arnold Gonders stumbled out of the police car at the Old Boathouse. He was worn out, drunk and in a filthy temper.
'Will you be all right, sir?' the Sergeant asked as the Chief Constable stood outside the iron gates and finally found his keys.
'I would be if those fucking reporters hadn't wrecked the bloody evening,' he snarled and opened the gate.
'Yes sir, the media's a bloody menace,' said the Sergeant and drove off across the dam to the main road at Six Lanes End. Behind him the Chief Constable, having locked the gates again, was wondering why Genscher, the Rottweiler, who appeared to be limping, was wheezing so asthmatically.
'Mustn't wake her Ladyship, must we, old chap?' he said hoarsely and went across to the front door. After fumbling with the key he was infuriated to find he didn't need it. That bloody Vy again. She was always leaving the place unlocked. And he'd warned her time and again about burglars. 'I love that, coming from you, dear,' she'd retorted. 'The great Protector himself who's always going on about making the world safe for the ordinary citizen. And with Genscher in the yard only a madman would dream of coming in. Be your age.' Which was typical of the way the woman was always treating him.
Anyway he wasn't going to take chances of waking her now. Not that it would be easy with all those pills she took, and the booze. Standing in the hall Sir Arnold felt for the light switch and found fresh plaster. Vy had evidently had the switch moved. She was always getting builders or plumbers in and changing everything round. Not that he wanted the light. Mustn't wake Vy. Just to make sure, he took his shoes off and stumbled as quietly as he could up the stairs.
It was then that he heard the snores. He'd complained about her snoring before, but this was something totally different. Sounded like she was farting in a mud bath. One thing was certain. He wasn't sleeping in the same bed with that fucking noise. He'd use the spare room. He went into the bathroom to have a pee and couldn't find the light cord. Bloody builders hadn't put it where it ought to be. Sir Arnold undressed in the dark and then went out onto the landing and was about to go into the spare room when he remembered that Aunt Bea was probably in there. He wasn't going to risk getting into bed with that foul old bag. No way. He fumbled back along the passage, all the time cursing his wife. It was typical of her that the light switches had been moved. Always wanting everything to be different. Outside the bedroom door he hesitated again. Dear God, that was a fearful sound. Then it crossed his mind that something might be really wrong. Perhaps Vy had taken an overdose of those damned pills the doctor had prescribed for her depression. She could be hyperventilating. She was certainly doing something extraordinary. And wasn't snoring dangerous? He'd read that recently. For a moment a dark hope rose in the Chief Constable's mind. He was tempted to let her snore on. In the meantime he'd better take a Vitamin C and his half of Disprin.