Chapter 32
Flint’s hopes that the two men from London would take him off the case had been dashed. In the first place they weren’t from Scotland Yard or, if they were, the shortage of officers in London was even more desperate than he’d supposed. The Metropolitan Police had to be recruiting abroad, in this case in America. That was his first impression when they entered his office with Hodge grinning in the background. The impression didn’t last. The two Americans sat down unasked and stared at Flint for a moment. They evidently didn’t like what they were seeing.
‘You Inspector Flint?’ the bigger of the two asked.
‘I am,’ said Flint. ‘And who may you be?’
They looked disparagingly round the office before answering. ‘American Embassy. Undercover,’ they said in unison and flashed ID cards so briefly Flint couldn’t read them.
‘We understand you’ve been interrogating a suspect called Wilt,’ the thinner man said.
But Flint had been riled. He was damned if he was going to be questioned by two Americans who wouldn’t identify themselves politely. Not with Hodge gloating in the background.
‘You can understand what you like,’ he said grimly and glared at Hodge. ‘Ask him. He’s the person who thinks he knows.’
‘He’s told us. The Superintendent has been very co-operative.’
It was on the tip of Flint’s tongue to say Hodge’s co-operation wasn’t worth a fly’s fart but he restrained himself. If these arrogant bastards wanted to pin a drug-dealing charge on Henry Wilt he was going to let them walk into the morass of misunderstanding the moronic Hodge would provide. He had better things to do. Like find out why Wilt had been assaulted and found half-naked in the New Estate.
He got up and walked past the two Americans. ‘If you want any information I’m sure the Super will give it to you,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘He’s the drugs expert.’
He went out and down to the canteen and had a cup of tea overlooking the car park. Presently Hodge and the two men came into view and climbed into a car with darkened windows parked next to his own. Flint moved back to another table where he could see them but remain out of sight himself. After five minutes the car was still there. The Inspector gave them another ten. No movement. So they were waiting to see where he went. The buggers could sit there all bloody day. He got up, went downstairs and out the front door and walked to the bus station and caught a bus going to the hospital. He sat at the back in a thoroughly belligerent mood.
‘Anyone would think this was Iraq,’ he muttered to himself and was assured by an intense woman in the next seat that it wasn’t and was he all right?
‘Schizophrenia,’ he said and looked at her in a distinctly sinister manner. The woman got off at the next stop and Flint felt better. He’d learnt something from Henry Wilt after all: the gift of confusing people.
By the time he reached the hospital and the bus turned round he’d begun to devise his new tactics. Hodge and those two arrogant Yanks would be bound to go up to 45 Oakhurst Avenue and ask Eva or, if she wasn’t there, the quads, where Wilty was and as sure as eggs were eggs she’d say, ‘At the hospital.’ Flint went into the empty bus shelter and took out his mobile and dialled the number he knew so well.
Eva answered.
Flint put his handkerchief over the mouthpiece and assumed what he hoped was a high-pitched la-di-da voice. ‘Is that Mrs Wilt?’ he asked.
