She was therefore in no condition to be shaken awake at 8.30 by an obviously demented husband. She peered blearily up into his ashen face. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his head and had an awful intensity about them.
‘What’s the matter?’ she mumbled blearily. ‘What’s happened, Harold?’
There was a moment’s silence while the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement struggled to control himself and his wife slowly realised that he must have heard about the fire at the Manor.
‘Happened? Happened? You’re asking me what’s happened?’ he yelled when he could bring himself to say anything.
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am. And please don’t bawl like that. And what are you doing here? You usually come home on Friday night.’
Mr Rottecombe’s vicelike hands twitched convulsively in front of her. He had a terrible impulse to strangle the bitch. Even Ruth could tell that. Instead he controlled the urge by ripping the bedclothes off the bed and hurling them on to the floor.
‘Go and look in the fucking garage,’ he snarled and dragged her by the arm out of bed. For the first time in her married life Ruth the Ruthless was afraid of him. ‘Go on, you bitch. Go and see what you’ve landed us in this time. And you don’t need a fucking dressing gown.’
Mrs Rottecombe put her feet into a pair of slippers and tottered downstairs to the kitchen. For a second she paused by the door into the garage.
‘What’s wrong in there?’ she asked.
The question was too much for Harold. ‘Don’t just stand there. Go!’ he bellowed.
Mrs Rottecombe went. For several minutes she stood staring down at Wilt’s body, her mind desperately trying to come to grips with yet another disaster. By the time she returned she had come to one conclusion. For once in her life she was innocent and in the crude parlance of her youth, she wasn’t going to take the can back. She found Harold sitting at the kitchen table with a large brandy. Ruth took advantage of his attitude.
‘You don’t seriously think I had anything to do with him being there,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen the man in my life before.’
The statement galvanised her husband. He rose to his feet. ‘I suppose it was too fucking dark,’ he shouted. ‘You pick up some poor bastard…Was that swine Battleby too drunk to satisfy your sadistic needs so you find that bloke and…Dear God!’
The telephone was ringing in the study.
‘I’ll answer it,’ said Ruth, feeling slightly more in control.
‘Well? Who was it?’ he asked when she came back.
‘Only the _News on Sunday._ They want to interview you.’
‘Me? That filthy rag? What the hell about?’
Mrs Rottecombe took her time. ‘I think we’d better have some coffee,’ she said and busied herself at the stove with the electric kettle.
‘Well, for goodness’ sake, get on with it. What do they want to interview me about?’
For a moment she hesitated before deciding where to strike. ‘Only about your bringing young men into the house.’
For a moment Harold Rottecombe was left speechless. The word ‘only’ did the damage. Incredulity struggled with fury. Then the dam burst.
‘I didn’t bring the bastard into the house, for Christ’s sake. You did. I’ve never brought any young men to the house. And anyway he isn’t young. He’s fifty if he’s a day. I don’t believe this. I’m not hearing right. I can’t be.’
‘I’m only telling you what the man said. He said ‘young men’. And that’s not all. He also mentioned ‘rent-boys’,’ said Mrs Rottecombe to deepen the crisis. It took the heat off her.
The MP’s eyes bulged in his head. He looked as though he was going to have an apoplectic fit. For once his wife rather hoped he would. It would save a lot of very difficult explanations. Instead the phone in the hall rang again.
‘I’ll get it this time,’ Harold yelled and stormed out of the kitchen. For a moment she heard him telling someone he’d already called a bugger to fuck off and leave him alone. Then she shut the door and poured herself a cup of coffee and planned her next move. Harold was a long time gone. He came back a chastened man.
‘That was Charles,’ he said grimly.
Mrs Rottecombe nodded. ‘I thought it might be. Nothing like calling the Chairman of the Local Party a bugger and telling him to fuck off. And this was such a safe seat.’
The Member of Parliament for Otterton looked at her with loathing. Then he brightened up briefly and fought back. ‘The good news is that your lover boy Battleby’s been charged with assaulting a police officer and is being held in custody pending the more serious charges of possessing obscene material of a paedophile nature, and very possibly arson. Apparently Meldrum Manor was burnt to the ground last night.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Rottecombe coolly. ‘I saw it afterwards. Anyway, that’s not our problem. He’ll probably dry out in prison.’
The phone ran again. Stunned by his wife’s insouciance, Harold let her answer it.
‘_Daily Graphic_ this time,’ she announced when she returned. ‘Wouldn’t say why they wanted to interview you which means they’re on the same track. Someone’s been talking.’
Harold helped himself to another brandy with a shaking hand.
Mrs Rottecombe shook her head wearily. There were times–and this was one of them–when she wondered how a man with so little gumption had done so well as a politician. No wonder the country had gone to the dogs. The phone rang again.
‘For heaven’s sake don’t answer it,’ Harold said.
‘Of course we’ve got to answer it. We can’t be seen to have cut ourselves off from the world. Now just leave this to me,’ she told him. ‘You’ll only make a mess of things by shouting.’
She went back to the phone and Harold hurried through to his study and picked up the extension on his desk.
‘No, I’m afraid he’s still in London,’ he heard her say only to learn that the caller, a reporter from the _Weekly Echo,_ had another source of information, and was she Mrs Rottecombe, wife of the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement?
Mrs Rottecombe said coldly that she was.
‘And at 4 a.m. you were in the company of a man called Battleby when the police seized some whips, a gag and handcuffs together with a quantity of paedophile S&M magazines in his possession?’ It was less a question than a statement of fact.
Mrs Rottecombe lost her cool. And her head. ‘That’s a downright lie!’ she shouted. Harold held the phone away from his ear. ‘If you print that I’ll sue for libel.’
‘The source is good,’ said the man. ‘Very good. We’ve traced the call. This bloke Battleby’s been charged. Got an arson rap against him too. Slugged a policeman. Source told us you’ve been giving ‘Bobby Beat Me’ his medicine for some time. Like with whips and him handcuffed. Known as ‘Ruthless Ruth Rottecombe’ locally, according to our information.’
Mrs Rottecombe slammed the phone down. Harold waited a moment and heard the reporter ask someone if they’d got that on tape. The answer was, ‘Yes. And we’ve got a story too. He is the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement. Juicy’s the word and the bitch’s reaction confirms the info we got from the cops.’
Harold Rottecombe replaced the extension. His hand was shaking uncontrollably now. His entire career was at stake. He went through to the kitchen.
‘I knew this would happen!’ he shouted. ‘You have to get involved with the local piss artist…Beat Me Bobby and Ruth the Ruthless. Oh, God. And you have to threaten them with libel. What a bloody mess.’ He helped himself to some cooking brandy. The other bottle was empty. Mrs Rottecombe eyed him icily. Power and influence were slipping away fast. She had to find a socially acceptable explanation for her actions. It was too late to deny she’d associated with the wretched Battleby but she could always claim she’d only done so to stop him losing his driving licence. Or was he simply a drunk? An idiot who could leave those porn mags in his Range Rover where they could be seen had to be out of his mind. And accidentally set fire to his own house? Ruth Rottecombe knew that full-blown alcoholics frequently behaved insanely and Bob had been blind drunk last night. That was undoubtedly true. He’d been mad enough to hit that Superintendent but all the same…Not that she cared about Battleby. She had herself to think of. And Harold. He was up to his eyebrows too but even so a Shadow Minister still had influence. At least for the moment. There had to be some way of using that influence in a damage-limitation exercise. Finally there was that unconscious man in the garage. Mrs Rottecombe applied her mind to the problem. She had to keep Harold out of the scandal. As the MP gulped the brandy his wife acted. She snatched the bottle from him.