‘I can’t, Doctor, I mean…well…I just can’t,’ he said, adopting the shifty whine he had heard so often in the Disadvantaged Single Sex Seminars he had been forced to attend as part of Ms Lashskirt’s Gender Affirmation Awareness Programme. Wilt was using that whine to his own advantage now.
In front of him Dr Dedge softened noticeably. He felt safer with that whine. It smacked of dependence. ‘I’m interested in anything you have to say,’ he said.
Wilt doubted it. What Dr Dedge was interested in was finding out if he was shamming. ‘Well, it’s just that I’m sitting in this room and suddenly I feel like I don’t know why I’m here or who I am. It doesn’t make sense. Sounds so silly, doesn’t it?’
‘No, not at all. This is a not uncommon occurrence. Does this sensation last long?’
‘I don’t know, Doctor. I can’t remember. I just know I have it and it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘And have you discussed it with your wife?’ Dr Dedge asked.
‘Well, no. Can’t say I have,’ said Wilt sheepishly. ‘I mean, she’s got enough on her plate without me not knowing who I am. What with the quads and all.’
‘Mrs Wilt…? Are you telling me you have quadruplets?’ asked the psychiatrist.
Wilt gave a sickly smile. ‘Yes, Doctor, four of them. All girls. And even the cat’s neutered. Got no tail either. So I just sit there and try to think who I am.’
By the time Wilt went back to the ward, Dr Dedge had no doubt that he was a deeply disturbed man. As he explained to Dr Soltander, the neurological insult had resulted in the emergence of partial amnesia as a complicating factor to a preexisting depressive condition. And a bed had become available in an isolation room because the previous patient, a youth on a drug charge, had hanged himself. Dr Soltander was glad to hear it. He had had enough of Wilt and more importantly he had had far more than enough of Mrs Wilt who had been besieging his ward and disturbing the terminally ill patients. ‘Best place for him and those bloody policemen.’
‘He’s in Psychiatry, is he? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,’ Inspector Flint said when he found Wilt was no longer in Geriatrics 3 next day. ‘If you ask me, he should have been certified years ago when he stuffed that inflatable doll down the hole. All the same, I don’t think he’s half as sick as he’s making out. I think he’s holding something back. I didn’t like the way he was acting when I was there.’
‘In what way, sir?’ Sergeant Yates asked.
‘Pretending he doesn’t know who he is and he’s never seen me in his life. Bullshit, Yates, pure Grade A unadulterated bullshit. And he doesn’t know Eva Wilt either? My eye and Betty Martin he doesn’t. He could have had half his brain removed and he’d still remember her. Mrs Wilt isn’t someone even a brain-damaged coma case would be capable of forgetting. No, our Henry was having her on. And me. Why, Yates, why? You tell me.’
But the Sergeant couldn’t. He was still having trouble with that ‘brain-damaged coma case’ and trying to work out how one could be in a coma without having some sort of brain damage. Didn’t make sense. But then half the things Inspector Flint said these days didn’t make sense to Sergeant Yates. Must be getting old or something.
‘Any new suspects out at New Estate?’
The Sergeant shook his head. ‘The place is loaded with junkies and hooligans. All those empty tower blocks. It would take a week or more to search them all. Anyway, they could have moved on somewhere else.’
‘True,’ said Flint and sighed. ‘Probably stoned out of their minds and don’t even remember doing him over. What beats me is why he wasn’t wearing trousers.’
‘Could be he was looking for a bit of–’ Yates began.
The Inspector stopped him. ‘If you’re suggesting Wilt’s gay, don’t. Not that I’d blame him if he was with a wife like Eva. Can’t be much fun having it off with a woman that size. We’ve checked with the staff at the Tech and, if what I’ve heard is true, he’s reckoned to be practically a homophobe. No, you can forget that idea. There’s something weird about this case. Anyway, that phone call from Oston gives us a line on what he’s been up to. I got the impression that this case isn’t a simple case of our Wilty being mugged. That Super spoke about Scotland Yard being called in which means they’ve got bigger fish to fry. Much bigger fish.’
‘Torching a manor house is big enough. I know Wilt’s not right in the head but I can’t see him doing that.’
‘He didn’t. That’s out of the question. Wilt wouldn’t know how to light a bonfire let alone a bloody great house. That’s definitely not on. And as for leaving his gear behind too. Not even Wilt would do that. Still, it does give us some sort of lead on where he’s been.’
The phone rang again in the next office. ‘It’s for you,’ Yates told him.
Flint went through and took it. Ten minutes later he returned with a smile. ‘Looks as if we’re off the case. They’re sending two CID men up from London to interrogate our Mr Wilt. I wish them luck. They going to need it if they think they can get any information out of the lunatic.’
Chapter 31
‘This blasted business is getting out of hand,’ the Chief Constable told the Superintendent at Oston. He’d driven over in his wife’s small car to convey this message unostentatiously. The disappearance of the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement had aggravated an already difficult situation. The media had returned in force and were encamped outside Leyline Lodge in even larger numbers than before. ‘I’ve had the Home Secretary on the line asking where the precious Shadow Minister has got to and the Shadow Cabinet are practically hysterical at the adverse publicity they are getting. First Battleby and the arson and paedophile charges, then the ghastly woman with those damned bull terriers and now that idiot Rottecombe’s disappeared. They’re sending someone up from Scotland Yard or MI5. I have an idea there’s something else. Has to do with the Americans but hopefully it’s not our pigeon. Now then, I want those media blighters out of the way when you pick her up. But it’s got to be done tactfully. Any ideas?’
The Superintendent tried to think. ‘I suppose we could create some sort of diversion and get them away from the house for a time,’ he said finally. ‘It would have to be something pretty sensational. Ruth the Ruthless is the one they’re after. And I can’t say I blame them. She’ll make good headlines.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the Chief Constable considering the damage the wretched Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement and his sadistic wife had inflicted on the county.
The Superintendent was more preoccupied with his idea of a diversion. ‘If only some lunatics would let off a bomb. The Real IRA would be perfect. The media horde would be off like a shot…’
The Chief Constable shook his head. One gaggle of media hounds was bad enough, a second swarming over the place would only bring more awful publicity. ‘I can’t take responsibility for anything like that. Besides, where the hell could you get a bomb? You’ve got to come up with something less complicated.’
‘I suppose so. I’ll let you know,’ he told the Chief Constable who’d got up to go.
‘What we don’t want is anything that’s sensational. You understand that?’
The Superintendent said he did. He sat on in his office thinking dark thoughts and cursing the Rottecombes. An hour later a Woman Police Sergeant came in and asked if he’d like a cup of coffee. She was slim and fair-haired and had good legs. By the time she’d fetched the stuff they called coffee he’d made up his mind. He crossed the room and locked the door.