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.’
‘No co-operation, sir?’
The Sheriff sat back in his chair and smiled meaningfully.
‘Let’s just say we let them draw their own conclusions. Ain’t our asses going to be gored if they hit Wally. Good ole boy indeed. I reckon he’ll good ole boy them so fast they won’t have time to shit themselves.’
Chapter 9
For five days Wilt wandered happily along little country lanes, across fields, through woods, down bridle-paths and beside streams and rivers, doing what he had hoped to do: discover a different England remote from the traffic and ugliness of big cities and the sort of life he led in Ipford. At midday he would stop at a pub and have a couple of pints and a sandwich and in the evening find some small hotel or B&B where he could get a square meal and a room for the night. The prices were reasonable and the food varied but he wasn’t looking for anything modern or luxurious and the people were friendly and helpful. In any case, he was always so tired–he’d never done so much walking in his life before–that he didn’t care whether a bed was comfortable or not. And when one landlady insisted rather unpleasantly that he take his muddy boots off and not make a mess of her carpets, he wasn’t bothered. Nor did he ever feel lonely. He’d come away to be alone, and apart from a few old men in pubs who struck up conversations with him and asked him where he was heading, and were puzzled when he replied that he had no idea, he spoke to hardly anyone. And the fact was that he really had no idea where he was or where he was going. He deliberately didn’t want to know. It was enough to lean on a five-bar gate and watch a
