Chief Ruse was silent. He peered into his Pig-in-Chief mug and decided he didn’t like the look of the wrinkled skin which had formed on the surface of his warm milk. Skellett got to his feet, and tugged his coat straight.
That’s settled then, Chief?’ he asked.
‘Not on your life. No sir.’
‘You intend to defy a warrant that was issued in the interests of national security?’
‘I intend to do my job. My job is to identify that dead woman and to carry out a proper post-mortem examination. Anyone who tries to hinder or obstruct me is going to find their ass in a cell. That’s all.’
‘You want me to call a judge right now?’
‘Not on my telephone, you don’t.’
‘You want to appear in next week’s Time magazine as the local yahoo police chief who obstructed the biggest spy operation ever carried out in the United States?’
Chief Ruse stood up, and hitched up his pants. ‘I want to tell you something, Mr Skellett. I don’t care how I look in the media just so long as I’ve been doing the job the people of Phoenix pay me to do. And I want to tell you something else. If you had the authority you claim to have, and the legal clout you’re trying to pretend you’ve got, then you wouldn’t have to make insulting threats to a local officer of the law who is simply and clearly doing his duty. What’s more, if you really were engaged in the
biggest spy operation ever carried out in the United States, you certainly wouldn’t be telling me about it.’
Ingrid called down from upstairs, ‘He’s not trying to fix that washing-machine now, is he? He’s got a nerve, coming round so late! And now look what he’s made me do, crack my face-pack!’
Chief Ruse smiled without any humour at all. ‘You heard the lady. You made her crack her face-pack. I think it’s time you left.’
Skellett picked up his hat. ‘I have to warn you that we’ll be round for the body in the morning, whatever.’
‘Just try it, said Chief Ruse, still smiling. ‘You’ll find an armed guard around the mortuary, and all the TV and newspaper reporters you can handle. You want to drag a headless body out into the street, and try to abduct it? Well, try, that’s what I say. You just try.’
‘You’re making a mistake, Chief,’ said Skellett.
‘No, Mr Skellett. You’re the one who’s making the mistake. You don’t come around to a police chief’s private residence in the middle of the night unless you’re trying to pull some kind of a number. So, let me tell you something to go home with. Nobody pulls numbers in Phoenix; especially not junior agents for government agencies. Now, get out of here before I try out my boots on your ass.’
Skellett sighed, and positioned his hat on his head with resigned precision. ‘You know something,’ he said, as he went to the front door, and opened it. ‘I really wonder sometimes which side people are actually on. You know that? You probably did more to help the USSR in one night tonight than Julius and Ethel Rosenberg did in a year.’
He nodded goodnight, and turned, and at that moment Chief Ruse swung back his Western-booted leg and kicked him so hard in the backside that his feet actually left the doorstep. He tumbled over, tried to stand up, and then fell over the low chain-link fence which bordered Chief Ruse’s front path.
‘Are you crazy?’ he screamed. ‘Are you completely out of your fucking mind?’
Chief Ruse stood in the doorway and folded his arms over his enormous stomach. ‘You were an intruder, Mr Skellett, and in this state a householder can’t be held liable for shooting an intruder, even if he kills him dead. You’re lucky you’re just sitting on your butt in the front yard, yelling at me. You could be dogmeat. Now, get out of here, and don’t come back.’
Skellett stood up and angrily brushed down his suit. ‘Have to get the damned thing dry-cleaned now, he muttered. ‘Goddamned $250 mohair.’
Chief Ruse closed the door on him, and locked it. Then he walked through to the kitchen, opened up the icebox, and took out a large cold can of Coors.
‘Walter, you’re not drinking beer, are you?’ demanded Ingrid, from upstairs.
Chief Ruse said nothing, but sucked thoughtfully on the can, leaving the wet impression of his lips on the frosted aluminium top. He thought of the pink lipstick which Margot Schneider had left on her coffee-cup. His ginger cat Redneck came rubbing around his ankles.
‘Walter?’ Ingrid called again. ‘You’re not drinking beer, are you? You know how it makes your breath smell.’
‘Jesus, Chief Ruse whispered to himself. ‘Women.’
He carried the can into the sitting-room, and picked up the phone. He tried two numbers before he located Lieutenant Berridge. Unhurriedly, he explained what had happened. Berridge, who was obviously in bed with Stella, judging from the rustling and the seductive giggling that was going on in the background, said, They want the body? They can’t do that! But they’ve actually found the head?’
‘They say they have. I haven’t seen it. It’s been burned, too, according to Skellett. No flesh on it.’
‘Still no problem making a firm identification, Chief. Teeth, jawbone, no problem at all. And besides, the sawn-through backbone should exactly match the body we’ve got down on West Washington,
Chief Ruse swallowed beer, and belched. Then he said, ‘Listen, I’ll see you down at headquarters at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I’m going to call up Kearney and make sure the whole block is sealed off. I’m going to put people on the roof, too. Nobody is going to take anything out of this town until I’m good and ready, and especially not the remains of Mrs Margot Schneider/
‘You bet, Chief. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You bet,’ said Chief Ruse. He put down the phone, and then stood in the middle of the room, one hand in his pocket, swallowing occasional mouthfuls of cold beer, and wondering if maybe he ought to have handled Skellett a little less precipitously. If he really was an agent from the National Security Council, and if he really did have a warrant for possession of Margot Schneider’s body… .
‘Shit,’ he said, to the pink-tinged reflection of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. A big hefty man framed in gilt, in a room crowded with green glass Bambis, and reproductions of snowy mountains in Vermont, and doilies, and chintz, and ugly varnished ‘traditional-style’ armchairs. Anything that didn’t have a frill or a fringe on it was decorated in plaid. Chief Ruse sometimes felt like bringing home an Ingram sub-machine gun from the police armoury and blowing the hell out of the whole lot.
But that, of course, would break Ingrid’s heart.
Eight
The news finally broke at 11.30 p.m. A State Department limousine had been blown up at the Elkswood Hotel, in West Virginia, killing two Secret Service agents. The Secretary of State, Titus Alexander, had missed assassination
by seconds by deciding to travel in an alternative vehicle. First theories were that the bomb had been planted either by the PLO or by a lone maniac called ‘the Great Blast’, who had frequently threatened Mr Alexander’s life.
Nadine had flown back from Philadelphia at once, to be seen to be close to her husband’s side. She was filmed at Dulles in large dark glasses which made her look like a very tall owl. She said she was ‘shocked, and outraged, but thankful to God.’ She forgot to say she was sorry about the two dead bodyguards.
She arrived back in Georgetown, to their elegant ivy-grown Federal house, to find that Titus was in the library with Joe Jasper, and that the library was thick with smoke. Before asking Titus if he was all right, she stalked across the room and threw open the sash window. Titus said dryly, ‘Hello, Nadine. I thought you were seeing your sister.’
‘I was, my dear, until three hours ago. Three hours ago I had just finished my soup, and was just picking up my knife and fork to eat a plateful of roast duck.’
‘Your sister always makes you eat too much. With your height, you should stay thin.’
Joe Jasper glanced uneasily at Nadine, and then back to Titus. ‘I can always
take a walk,’ he suggested.
‘Stay,Titus told him.
Nadine, striking a pose, said, ‘Are you all right Titus, darling? You weren’t hurt?’
‘Do I look hurt?’ asked Titus. Then, realizing that he was being too hard on her, he stood up, and held out his arms to her, and said, ‘I’m fine, thank you. I was lucky and those two poor bastards weren’t. Thank you for coming down.’
He held her elbows, and kissed her on the cheek. She looked as disinterested as she could manage. ‘Aunt Betty said I should give you her love.’
‘That’s unexpectedly cordial of her.’
‘Well,’ said Nadine, with a breathy, whinnying noise. ‘She is 72. She’s growing senile.’
Joe said, to divert the course of the conversation, ‘Would you like me to fix you a drink, Mrs Alexander? There’s a jug of martini in the icebox.’
‘A dry sherry, if you don’t mind,’ said Nadine. She unwrapped the white mink stole around her shoulders, and sat down opposite Titus in one of the big red leather armchairs, angling her legs with the same elegance which had once made him think of two adoring swans lying side by side. The damn woman was still as attractive as all hell; even though Titus often woke up and prayed that she might have turned ugly in the night.
‘How’s Penelope?’ asked Titus.
‘Penelope? Oh, Penelope’s all right. Dowdier than ever.’
‘She can’t be any dowdier than the last time I saw her.’
Nadine let out a little, annoyed breath. ‘That’s it. As soon as I’m home, you’re criticizing my family again.’
‘Nadine, it was you who said she was dowdier than ever.’
‘Well, I’ve a right to. She’s my sister. What do you know about sisterly love.’
‘Not a lot, except that it seems to be a small-scale version of the Punic Wars, acted out by two female siblings every August, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Labor Day weekend.’
Joe Jasper uneasily handed Nadine a schooner of dry sherry. She sipped it, and made a nasty face, and said, The usual piss. Why don’t you ever buy Croft Original?’
‘Because when I did buy Croft Original, you made the same face and said, “The usual piss. Why don’t you buy Croft Original?” ‘
‘You’re lying as usual, said Nadine, opening her purse and taking out a cigarette. ‘No wonder they made you Secretary of State.’
‘Nadine, some people tried to kill me tonight.’
Nadine looked at him, her eyes a fraction wider, freeze-framed in the act of taking out a Raleigh. Then she gave a careless one-shouldered shrug, and crossed her legs, and waited for Joe to come over and light her up.
Tm sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t really help the effect that you and I have on each other.’
Titus sat down again, and steepled his stubby fingers. His voice sounded very harsh and very serious. ‘It may be a coincidence, but only a few hours before this happened, Joe came up with some pretty spectacular material on Marshall. Leverage. Something which we could use to affect his entire defence policy, and put RINC on ice.’
Nadine blew smoke. ‘Don’t tell me that Marshall ever misbehaved himself.’
Joe put in, ‘He’s like all human beings, Mrs Alexander. He has certain, you know, desires and susceptibilities. Certain, well -‘
‘Perversions?’ asked Nadine.
Titus’ face remained slabby and hard. ‘That’s right,’ he told her. ‘Perversions.’
‘And you mean to use whatever this “pretty spectacular material” is to break down the RINC talks?’
‘Only if Marshall fails to see sense.’
‘What’s sense, to you? That we go on stockpiling nuclear weapons at massive expense and for no reason? You know that I’m not a pacifist, Titus, for God’s sake. But we already have enough bombs and missiles to wipe out the world a hundred times over. What’s the point of it?’
Titus cleared his throat. The point, Nadine, is to prevent imbalance. That’s the point.’
‘Imbalance?’ mocked Nadine. ‘Is that all you’re worried about, imbalance?’
There’s also the global obliteration quotient,’ put in Joe.
‘Ah, yes, that’s my favourite,’ said Nadine. ‘General Housman calls it GOB for short. The number of times that the United States is capable of totally obliterating the world, versus the number of times that the Soviet Union is capable of totally obliterating the world. Poor General Housman was so worried about it, the last time I spoke to him. We can only obliterate the world forty-one times over, while the Soviets are capable of obliterating it sixty-three times over.’
‘Nadine,’ said Titus. ‘Please. Save it.’ ‘Ah, yes, I forgot,said Nadine. ‘As the loyal and devoted wife of the Secretary of State, I’m not really supposed to say things like that. When you’re married to a hawk, you have to behave like one.’ Titus said, ‘However cynical you are, Nadine - ‘ ‘Cynical!’ she burst out. She held up her half-empty sherry glass to Joe and said, This is terrible. Get me a martini.’ Then, to Titus again, ‘I’m not cynical, Titus darling. I’m just realistic. And adult.’
‘What I was going to say was that I know that I can trust you, cynical or not.’
She stared at him acutely. ‘What are you getting at?’ ‘I’m simply saying that I know that I can trust you.’ ‘Well, of course you can trust me. I don’t propose to give up the chance to be First Lady next year, just for the dubious pleasure of passing around the tedious little details of your grubby little plots. God, Titus, you haven’t ever said or done anything worth gossiping about.’
Titus said, ‘I want you to do something for me. I can’t do it myself, not now. Because of what happened at the Elkswood Hotel, I’ve got Secret Service men standing three deep all around me.’
‘I did notice rather a lot of men with short haircuts and dark suits milling around in the garden.’
Titus finished his martini and flicked the rim of the glass with his fingernail so that it rang. ‘Nadine, I want you to take care of our principal witness. The girl with whom Marshall was involved, the one who can help us stop the RING talks. I want you to meet her, set her up in a safe location, and then keep her happy until we need her.’
‘What do I have to do? Read her The Lives of the Presidents and feed her on Pepperidge Farm gingernuts?’
‘Nadine,’ cautioned Titus, quietly. Joe Jasper tried to smirk, but found it difficult.
The truth was that the marriage between Titus and Nadine Alexander was one of the spectacles of Washington, to be ranked beside the John Paul Jones statue and the National History Wax Museum. They were
fiercely attracted to each other sexually, and yet their politics and their personalities were at complete odds. All they shared, besides their hunger for each other in bed, was ambition. Nadine was a natural-born Southern Democrat (her father had been a warm friend of Herman Tal-madge and B. Everett Jordan) while Titus was a bullet-headed Yankee from Illinois, whose father had known nobody but the local tax-collector and a cop called Cum-mings with whom he had played Saturday-night poker.
Titus and Nadine had met at a cocktail party at the Nixon White House. They had both been drinking too much. Afterwards, they had gone to the Madison Hotel, ‘Washington’s Correct Address’, and made ferocious love all night and all the following morning. They had married because Titus wanted to be President and Nadine wanted to be First Lady. She still browsed through Architectural Digest, selecting furniture and tableware and hand-embroidered sheets for the White House. Their marriage, according to Joe Jasper, was straight As - acid, amatory juices, and ambition.
Nadine often thought she should have been a movie star, or a model. She was 5ft lOins, with thick wavy brunette hair, shoulders like Arnold Schwarzenegger and a magnificent 38-inch bust. Somebody had once said that she would have looked better as the figurehead for a ship. But she wanted the White House more than anything. She had once told her mother that she wanted the White House more than happiness. Her father had died when she was ten, of a coronary, on the t
op of a flight of stairs, at a birthday party. Since then, birthday cakes had always reminded Nadine of death. She said, ‘This girl, she’s a hooker I suppose?’ ‘Not so much a hooker,’ said Joe. ‘More of a hostess.’ ‘You realize that what you’re asking me to do is completely against my ethical and moral principles?’
‘Possibly,’ agreed Titus. ‘But not against your personal interests. If Marshall Roberts fails to pull off the RING talks, then there’s no question that he’s going to be badly
the picture, but not much else. It could have been a one-off souvenir; something she found; something she bought at one of those stores that sell old political campaign buttons. Photographs come into people’s possession in the oddest ways. My aunt used to have a family snapshot of Harry Truman. I think she found it in a bus-station wastebasket.’
Daniel gave her a long, expectant look. He began to realize what she was going to say next, and why she was hesitating. The simplest of all reasons for Margot Schneider owning the Polaroid carried the looniest of all implications; and once they spoke the lunacy out loud, they were going to have to accept that recorded history and political logic had for years been standing on their heads. Kathy said, with a slight catch in her throat, Then, of course, I had to consider the most obvious reason. Margot Schneider owned the picture because it belonged to her; because it had been given to her by President Kennedy. Maybe she had taken it herself.’
‘She was supposed to be an Air Force widow, so what had she been doing in Hollywood taking Polaroids of President Kennedy?’
‘Exactly. She was supposed to be an Air Force widow, a normal middle-aged lady living on a military pension, leading a routine, unexceptional life. Yet she had no Social Security card that anybody could find; there were no pictures of her anywhere, not even in the files at Luke Air Force Base, where her husband used to fly from; and for no apparent motive she was murdered by an unknown man or woman in the most gruesome way you can think of. She wasn’t raped and she wasn’t robbed. Her head was removed so that nobody could identify her; and within twenty-four hours the National Security Agency sent an agent down to remove the rest of her, too - an agent who had carte-blanche to kill anybody he liked, just so long as he got the body back.’
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