Wilt on High by Tom Sharpe Page A

Something in Wilt’s literary memories stirred. Hadn’t Graham Greene or Muggeridge mentioned using bird-shit as ink when he was a spy in the Second World War? Or was it lemon juice? Not that it mattered much. Invisible ink was meant to be invisible and if that bastard had intended him to read it, he’d have told him how. Unless, of course, the swine was clear round the bend and in Wilt’s opinion, anyone who’d murdered four people and tortured others with a blowtorch as part of the process of earning a living had to be bloody well demented. Not that that let McCullum off the hook in the least. The bugger was a murderer whether he was sane or not, and the sooner he fulfilled his ownpredictions and became a cabbage the better. Pity he hadn’t been born one.
    With a fresh sense of desperation, Wilt drove on to The Glassblowers’ Arms to think things out over a drink.

6
    ‘All right, call it off,’ said Inspector Flint, helping himself to a plastic cup of coffee from the dispenser and stumping into his office.
    ‘Call it off?’ said Sergeant Yates, following him in.
    ‘That’s what I said. I knew it was an OD from the start. Obvious. Gave those old windbags a nasty turn all the same, and they could do with a bit of reality. Live in a bloody dream world where everything’s nice and hygienic because it’s been put into words. That way they don’t happen, do they?’
    ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Yates.
    The Inspector took a magazine out of the cardboard box and studied a photograph of a threesome grotesquely intertwined. ‘Bloody disgusting,’ he said.
    Sergeant Yates peered over his shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t think anyone would have the nerve to be shot doing that, would you?’
    ‘Anyone who does that ought to be shot, if you ask me,’ said Flint. ‘Though mind you they’re not really doing it. Can’t be. You’d get ruptured or something. Found this little lot in that boiler-room and it didn’t do that murky Principal a bit of good. Turned a very queer colour, he did.’
    ‘Not his, are they?’ asked Yates.
    Flint shut the magazine and dumped it back in the box. ‘You never know, my son, you never know. Not with so-called educated people you don’t. It’s all hidden behind words with them. They look all right from the outside, but it’s what goes on in here that’s really weird.’ Flint tapped his forehead significantly. ‘And that’s something else again.’
    ‘I suppose it must be,’ said Yates. ‘Specially when it’s hygienic into the bargain.’
    Flint looked at him suspiciously. He never knew if Sergeant Yates was as stupid as he made out. ‘You trying to be funny or something?’
    ‘Of course not. Only first you said they lived in a hygienic dream world of words; and then you say they’re kinky in the head. I was just putting the two together.’
    ‘Well, don’t,’ said Flint. ‘Don’t even try. Just get me Hodge. The Drug Squad can take this mess over, and good luck to them.’ The Sergeant went out, leaving Flint studying his pale fingers and thinking weird thoughts of his own about Hodge, the Tech and the possibilities that might result from bringing the Head of the Drug Squad and that infernal institution together. And Wilt. It was an interesting prospect, particularly when he remembered Hodge’s request for phone-tapping facilities and his generally conspiratorial air. Kept his cards close to his chest, did Inspector Hodge, and a fat lot of good it had done him so far. Well, two could play at that game, and if ever there was a quicksand of misinformation andinconsequentiality, it had to be the Tech and Wilt. Flint reversed the order. Wilt and the Tech. And Wilt had been vaguely connected with the dead girl, if only by going to the wrong toilet. The word alerted Flint to his own immediate needs. Those bloody pills had struck again.
    He hurried down the passage for a pee and as he stood there, standing and staring at the tiled wall and a notice which