‘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?’
‘There are certain things still unresolved that I think the public has a right to know about.’
He noticed a heavy brown envelope on the sheriff’s desk. It looked like the one in which they’d placed the contents of his pockets the previous evening, just before they photographed him, took his fingerprints, and threw him in the cell.
‘Are those my meagre belongings?’
The sheriff took the envelope and opened it. He extracted the contents and put them on the desk in front of him. When Russell looked closer, he saw that nothing was missing. Watch, wallet, the keys of the Mercedes…
The sheriff’s eyes fell on the photograph of the young man with the cat. There was a puzzled look on his face as he moved forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk. ‘May I?’
Russell said yes without quite knowing what he was saying yes to.
The sheriff picked up the photograph, looked at it for a moment, then put it back among Russell’s personal effects. ‘Mind telling me how you got hold of this photograph, Mr Wade?’ he asked, then immediately turned and threw a significant glance at the lawyer. ‘Of course you don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.’
Russell stopped the lawyer before he could reply, and took the plunge. ‘According to my information, that young man died in Vietnam. His name was Matt Corey.’
‘That’s right.’
The words echoed in his ears like the sound of a parachute opening. ‘Did you know him?’
‘We worked together when we were young. I used to earn myself a few dollars in my spare time, working as a bricklayer on construction sites. He was a couple of years older than me and was working for a company I was with for a whole summer.’
‘Do you remember what it was called?’
‘Sure, it was Ben Shepard’s old firm. He was based over towards North Folk Village. Matt was like a son to Ben. He even lived in a room attached to the main building.’ Blein pointed at one of the two photographs. ‘With Waltz, that weird three-legged cat.’
Without holding out too much hope, Russell asked, ‘Is this Ben Shepard still alive?’
The sheriff’s reply was not only unexpected, but tinged with a barely concealed hint of envy. ‘More alive than ever. The old dog’s almost eighty-five, but he’s straight as a rocket and bursting with health. And I’m sure he still screws like a rabbit.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He has a house at Slate Mills, not far from his old place. I’ll write down the address.’
Blein took paper and a pen, scribbled a few words, and placed the paper on top of the photographs. Russell took that gesture as a good omen. Those images had been the start of everything. He hoped
