‘No, I’m fucking not,’ she had squawked at her time and time again. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than turn the light on and come in and ask that damn-fool question?’
Each time the detective had said she was just making sure she hadn’t committed suicide and she had finally left the light on all the time. After three such sleepless nights Ruth Rottecombe was almost prepared to confess she had murdered Harold. Instead she refused to answer any more questions.
‘I did not, repeat not, murder Harold. I didn’t harm him in any way at all. I have no idea who did, either. And that’s my last word.’
‘All right, we’ll talk about something we know you did do,’ the senior detective said. ‘We have proof that you drove to Ipford New Estate with a man in the back of your Volvo estate and dumped him there. We also have proof that he had been in your garage and had been bleeding. You know all that so–’
‘I’ve told you I won’t answer any more questions!’ Ruth shouted hoarsely.
‘I’m not asking any. I’m telling you what is undeniable evidence.’
‘Oh, God, why can’t you stop? I know all that and it is deniable.’
‘Right, but what you don’t know is that we have a witness who saw you drag the man out of the back of your car and dump him in the road. A very reliable witness indeed.’ He paused to let this sink into Ruth Rottecombe’s weary mind before going on. ‘What we now need to know is why if, as you’ve said repeatedly, you don’t have any idea what he had done to land up lying unconscious and bleeding in your garage–you drove him down to that New Estate.’
Ruth began to cry. This time she wasn’t faking the tears. ‘Harold found him there when he came back from London. At least he said he had. He was out of his mind and tried to pin the blame on me. He was shouting and raving and said I’d picked the man up to have sex with him. I thought he was going to kill me.’
‘Go on. Give us the rest.’
‘He made me go out to the garage and look at the bloody man. I’d never seen him in my life. I swear I hadn’t.’
‘What happened then?’
‘The telephone rang and it was some bloody newspaper said they wanted to interview Harold about bringing young men to the house, you know, rent-boys.’
For another hour they went on with the questions and got nowhere. In the end they left her sobbing in the Interrogation Room with her head on the table, and went into another office.
‘Could be true except for one thing,’ said the senior Scotland Yard man. ‘That bit of cloth from this fellow Wilt’s jeans found in the garage and the fact that they discovered those jeans in the lane behind the Manor House two days after the fire and they hadn’t been there when they searched the area the first time. Second, he wasn’t wearing any when he was picked up in Ipford. On top of that all his gear, the boots, socks and knapsack, were in the attic of the Rottecombe house.’
‘You think she planted the jeans there?’
‘I’m damned sure someone did.’
‘Christ, what a case. And London’s demanding a quick arrest,’ said the Superintendent.
They were interrupted by a Woman Sergeant. ‘She’s passed out or is pretending to have,’ she told them. ‘We’ve put her back in the cell.’
The CID man picked up the phone and called Ipford. When he put it down again he shook his head. ‘They’ve moved the bloke Wilt to a mental hospital for what they call ‘assessment’, whatever that means. I suppose to see if he’s a psychopath.’ He paused and considered the possibilities. There didn’t seem to be many rational ones.
One of the other detectives took up the theme. ‘Whoever set this little lot up had to be damned abnormal. And this bloke Wilt has been in some weird trouble before. Could be he was paid to torch the house.’
The senior CID man gave the matter some thought. ‘I suppose it’s just possible but this Inspector Flint doesn’t think so. Reckons the man Wilt’s too bloody incompetent. Wouldn’t know how to set fire to a pile of newspapers soaked in petrol, he’s that impractical. In any case, if he’d come to set fire to the house he wouldn’t have left such an obvious trail staying at bed and breakfasts and giving his real name. No, there has to be someone else. What beats me is that he and that damned Shadow Minister had head wounds. The Shadow Minister’s dead and this other fellow might well have been if they hadn’t found him in the road when they did. No, I reckon this Rottecombe cow knows more than she’s letting on. I don’t care if she has passed out. I’m going to break her. She knows more than she’s telling. In any case her background stinks. False birth certificate, high-class prostitute who dupes an MP into marrying her, and on top of that she goes in for sado-masochism with that drunken paedophile swine, Battleby. And of course he’s tried to shift the blame on to her. Says she deliberately encouraged him to become an alcoholic so she could control him. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t an element of truth there.’
And so the questioning went on and got nowhere.
Chapter 35
At the Methuen Mental Hospital the female psychiatrist assigned to assessing Wilt’s psychological state was having as much difficulty. Wilt had passed all the standard visual and symbolic tests with such surprising ease that the psychiatrist could have sworn he’d spent considerable time practising doing them. His verbal skills were even more disconcerting. Only his attitude to sex remained suspicious. It appeared that he found copulation boring and exhausting, not to say ludicrous and fairly repulsive. His admiration for the procreative habits of earthworms and amoebas who simply reproduced by dividing themselves, voluntarily in the case of amoebas and, as far as Wilt knew, involuntarily by earthworms when they were cut in half by a spade, seemed to indicate a severely depressed libido. Since the lady shrink was completely ignorant on the subject of amoebas and earthworms but keen on what little sex her looks attracted, this information came as a nasty revelation to her.
‘Are you saying you would rather bisect yourself than sleep with your wife?’ she asked, hoping to draw the inference that Wilt had a tendency towards a split personality.
‘Of course not,’ Wilt replied indignantly. ‘Mind you, when you meet my wife you’ll understand why I might be.’
‘Your wife does not attract you physically?’
‘I did not say that and in any case, I can’t see what that has to do with you.’
‘I am merely trying to help you,’ said the psychiatrist.
Wilt looked at her sceptically. ‘Really? I thought I had been brought here for assessment, not for prurient inquiries into my sex life.’
‘Your sexual attitude forms part of the assessment process. We want to get a rounded picture of your mental condition.’
‘My mental condition has not been affected by being mugged, left unconscious and beaten over the head. I am not a criminal and by this time I should have thought you’d have recognised that I have all my wits about me. Having realised that, I suggest you mind your own business about my married life. And if you think I am some sort of pervert, let me tell you that my wife and I have produced four daughters or, to put it absolutely correctly, my wife Eva had quadruplets fourteen years ago. I hope that satisfies you that I am a normal heterosexual and a father to boot. Now if you want to make me do some more absurdly simple mental tests, I will happily oblige. What I don’t intend to do is discuss my marital sex life any further. You can do that with Eva. I think I can hear her voice now. How clever of her to come to my side at such an opportune moment. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll get police protection.’