Wilt on High by Tom Sharpe Page B

said, ‘Don’t drop your cigarette ends in the urinal. It makes them soggy and difficult to light,’ his disgust changed to inspiration. There was a lesson to be learned from that notice if he could only see it. It had to do with the connection between a reasonable request and an utterly revolting supposition. The word ‘inconsequential’ came to mind again. Sticking Inspector Bloody Hodge onto Wilt would be like tying two cats together by their tails and seeing which one came out on top. And if Wilt didn’t, Flint had sorely misjudged the little shit. And behind Wilt there was Eva and those foul quads and if that frightful combination didn’t foul Hodge’s career up as effectively as it had wrecked Flint’s, the Inspector deserved promotion. With the delightful thought that he’d be getting his own back on Wilt too, he returned to his office and was presently doodling figures of infinite confusion which was exactly what he hoped to initiate.
    He was still happily immersed in this daydream of revenge when Yates returned. ‘Hodge is out,’ he reported. ‘Left a message he’d be back shortly.’
    ‘Typical,’ said Flint. ‘The sod’s probably lurking insome coffee bar trying to make up his mind which dolly bird he’s going to nail.’
    Yates sighed. Ever since Flint had been on those ruddy penis-blockers or whatever they were called, he’d had girls on his mind. ‘Why shouldn’t he be doing that?’ he asked.
    ‘Because that’s the way the sod works. A right shoddy copper. Pulls some babe in arms in for smoking pot and then tries to turn her into a supergrass. Been watching too much TV.’
    He was interrupted by the preliminary report from the Lab. ‘Massive heroin dose,’ the technician told him, ‘that’s for starters. She’d used something else we haven’t identified yet. Could be a new product. It’s certainly not the usual. Might be “Embalming Fluid” though.’
    ‘Embalming Fluid? What the hell would she be doing with that?’ said Flint with a genuine and justified revulsion.
    ‘It’s a name for another of these hallucinogens like LSD only worse. Anyway, we’ll let you know.’
    ‘Don’t,’ said Flint. ‘Deal direct with Hodge. It’s his pigeon now.’
    He put the phone down and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Says she fixed herself with heroin and some filth called Embalming Fluid,’ he told Yates. ‘You wouldn’t credit it, would you? Embalming Fluid! I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
*
    Fifty miles away, Lord Lynchknowle’s dinner had been interrupted by the arrival of a police car and the news of his daughter’s death. The fact that it had come between the mackerel pâté and the game pie, and on the wine side, an excellent Montrachet and a Château Lafite 1962, several bottles of which he’d opened to impress the Home Secretary and two old friends from the Foreign Office, particularly annoyed him. Not that he intended to let the news spoil his meal by announcing it before he’d finished, but he could foresee an ugly episode with his wife afterwards for no better reason than that he had come back to the table with the rather unfortunate remark that it was nothing important. Of course, he could always excuse himself on the grounds that hospitality came first, and old Freddie was the Home Secretary after all, and he wasn’t going to let that Lafite ’62 go to waste, but somehow he knew Hilary was going to kick up the devil of a fuss about it afterwards. He sat on over the Stilton in a pensive mood wishing to God he’d never married her. Looking back over the years, he could see that his mother had been right when she’d warned him that there was bad blood in ‘that family’, the Puckertons.
    ‘You can’t breed bad blood out, you know,’ she’d said, and as a breeder of bull terriers, she’d known what she was talking about. ‘It’ll come out in the end, mark my words.’
    And it had, in that damned girl Penny. Silly bitch should have stuck to