A Long Time Dead by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page A

the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue are pressuring me to back off!’
    It was undoubtedly true that they were, the Chief of Staff thought. And, in some ways – given the international situation – he could quite sympathize with the White House’s position. But if this Administration – or indeed
any
administration – really believed that it could bully Eugene Kineally into submission, then it didn’t know him at all.
    Kineally had been so badly wounded at the Battle of Guadalcanal, in February 1942, that his doctors told him he would never walk again. They had further hinted that his best course of action would be to grab his disability pension with both hands, and settle down to a life as a chronic invalid. Kineally had treated that advice with the contempt he felt it deserved. In November 1944, leaning heavily on a walking stick, he had been elected junior senator for Connecticut by a margin which left his opponent reeling with shock. Now, twenty-one years later, he was the senior senator for his state, the chairman of one of the most powerful committees in the Senate, and though he still walked with a slight limp, his leg only really troubled him when he was either very tired or very angry.
    This was not a man, then, the Chief of Staff thought, who was going to be pushed around by anybody lower down the scale than the Lord God Almighty – and even against God, he might resist a
little
.
    â€˜I want justice for my kid brother,’ the Senator said, ‘and if I don’t get it, I’ll block every piece of legislation this penny-ante Administration tries to force through the Senate.’
    â€˜They are doing what you wanted them to,’ the Chief of Staff reminded him. ‘They may not like it – they’d probably reverse it if they possibly could – but they are
doing
it.’
    The Senator grimaced, as a shooting pain passed through his leg. ‘The FBI’s already on the case, is it?’ he asked.
    â€˜Mr Hoover’s told us that he’s already sent one of his best teams over to England.’
    â€˜And how are the Brits taking it?’
    â€˜Very well – under the circumstances. They’ve assigned one of their own investigators to the case.’ The Chief of Staff consulted his notes. ‘A Chief Inspector Charles Woodend. It seems he knew your brother.’
    â€˜Chuck Woodend!’ the Senator exclaimed. ‘Sergeant Chuck Woodend!’
    â€˜You’ve heard of him?’ the Chief of Staff asked, amazed.
    â€˜Damned right, I’ve heard of him,’ the Senator replied.

Five
    T he first official acknowledgement that Haverton Camp actually existed did not appear until the Wolseley and its occupants were only a few miles from the place itself. And when it did come, it was in the form of an old and battered signpost which – as if to make up for the previous lack of information – indicated the camp both to the north and the south.
    â€˜That’s because it’s on a loop,’ Woodend explained. ‘You can’t approach the camp directly, you see. You have to go through either Haverton Village or Coxton first.’
    â€˜Which is quicker?’ Paniatowski asked.
    â€˜Through Haverton Village,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜Then should I—’
    â€˜But I think we’ll go via Coxton.’
    â€˜Any particular reason for us going the long way round?’ wondered the sergeant, who had been behind the wheel for over three hours and was about ready for a break.
    â€˜Aye, there is,’ Woodend told her. ‘It’ll give you the opportunity to see for yourself what we now know to be the Trail of the Red Herring.’
    Coxton was a pretty village which since the arrival of the railway, some time in the nineteenth century, had been doing its very best to pretend it was actually a small town. The station which was the basis for such pretensions was located at Coxton’s southern end,