‘On which side?’
‘On the right,’ said Barney.
Then we’ll go down on the left. That way if the hand is sticking out we won’t cut it off.’
They went down on the left and cut off the main electricity cable to the canteen.
‘Forget that bleeding hand,’ said the Sergeant, ‘we go down on the right and trust to luck. Just so long as we don’t cut the bitch in half.’
They went down on the right and hit bedrock at eleven feet.
This is going to slow us up no end,’ said Barney. ‘Who would have thought there’d be rock down there.’
‘Who would have thought some nut would incorporate his misses in the foundation of a college of further education where he worked,’ said the Sergeant.
‘Gruesome,’ said Barney.
In the meantime the staff had as usual divided into factions.
Peter Braintree led those who thought Wilt was innocent and was joined by the New Left on the grounds that anyone in conflict with the fuzz must be in the right. Major Millfield reacted accordingly and led the Right against Wilt on the automatic assumption that anyone who incurred the support of the left must be in the wrong and that anyway the police knew what they were doing. The issue was raised at the meeting of the Union called to discuss the annual pay demand. Major Millfield proposed a motion calling on the union to support the campaign for the reintroduction of capital punishment. Bill Trent countered with a motion expressing solidarity with Brother Wilt. Peter Braintree proposed that a fund be set up to help Wilt with his legal fees. Dr Lomax, Head of Commerce, argued against this and pointed out that Wilt had, by dismembering his wife, brought the profession into disrepute. Braintree said Wilt hadn’t dismembered anyone and that even the police hadn’t suggested he had, and there was such a thing as a law against slander. Dr Lomax withdrew his remark. Major Millfield insisted that there were good grounds for thinking Wilt had murdered his wife and that anyway Habeas Corpus didn’t exist in Russia. Bill Trent said that capital punishment didn’t either. Major Millfield said, ‘Bosh.’ In the end, after prolonged argument, Major Millfield’s motion on hanging was passed by a block vote of the Catering Department while Braintree’s proposal and the motion of the New Left were defeated, and the meeting went on to discuss a pay increase of forty-five per cent, to keep Teachers in Technical institutes in line with comparably qualified professions. Afterwards Peter Braintree went down to the Police Station to see if there was anything Henry wanted.
‘I wonder if I might see him,’ he asked the Sergeant at the desk.
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said the Sergeant, ‘Mr Wilt is still helping us with our enquiries.’
‘But isn’t there anything I can get him? Doesn’t he need anything?’
‘Mr Wilt is well provided for,’ said the Sergeant, with the private reservation that what Wilt needed was his head read.
‘But shouldn’t he have a solicitor?’
‘When Mr Wilt asks for a solicitor he will be allowed to see one,’ said the Sergeant, ‘I can assure you that so far he hasn’t asked.’
And Wilt hadn’t. Having finally been allowed three hours sleep he had emerged from his cell at twelve o’clock and had eaten a hearty breakfast in the police canteen. He returned to the Interview Room, haggard and unshaven, and with his sense of the improbable markedly increased.
‘Now then, Henry,’ said Inspector Flint, dropping an official octave nomenclaturewise in the hope that Wilt would respond, ‘about this blood.’
‘What blood?’ said Wilt, looking round the aseptic room.
The blood on the walls of the bathroom at the Pringsheims’ house. The blood on the landing. Have you any idea how it got there? Any idea at all?’
‘None,’ said Wilt, ‘I can only assume that someone was bleeding.’
‘Right,’ said the Inspector, ‘who?’
‘Search me,’ said Wilt.
‘Quite, and you know what we’ve found?’
Wilt shook his head.
‘No idea?’
‘None,’ said Wilt.
‘Bloodspots on a pair of grey trousers in your wardrobe’ said the Inspector. ‘Bloodspots. Henry, bloodspots.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Wilt. ‘I mean if you looked hard enough you’d be bound to find some bloodspots in anyone’s wardrobe. The thing is I wasn’t wearing grey trousers at that party. I was wearing blue jeans.’
‘You were wearing blue jeans? You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the bloodspots on the bathroom wall and the bloodspots on your grey trousers have nothing to do with one another?’
‘Inspector,’ said Wilt. ‘far be it from me to teach you your own business but you have a technical branch that specialises in matching bloodstains. Now may I suggest that you make use of their skills to establish…’
‘Wilt,’ said the Inspector, ‘Wilt, when I need your advice on how to conduct a murder investigation I’ll not only ask for it but resign from the force.’
‘Well?’ said Wilt.
‘Well what?’
‘Do they match? Do the bloodstains match’ The Inspector studied him grimly. ‘If I told you they did?’ he asked.
Wilt shrugged. ‘I’m not in any position to argue,’ he said. ‘If you say they do, I take it they do.’
‘They don’t,’ said Inspector Flint, ‘but that proves nothing,’ he continued ‘before Wilt could savour his satisfaction. ‘Nothing at all. We’ve got three people missing. There’s Mrs Wilt at the bottom of that shaft…No, don’t say it. Wilt, don’t say it. There’s Dr Pringsheim and there’s Mrs Fucking Pringsheim.’
‘I like it,’ said Wilt appreciatively. ‘I definitely like it’
‘Like what?’
‘Mrs Fucking Pringsheim. It’s apposite.’
‘One of these days, Wilt,’ said the Inspector softly, ‘you’ll go too far.’
‘Patiencewise? To use a filthy expression,’ asked Wilt.
The Inspector nodded and lit a cigarette.
‘You know something, Inspector,’ said Wilt, beginning to feel on top of the situation, ‘you smoke too much. Those things are bad for you. You should try…’
‘Wilt,’ said the Inspector, ‘in twenty-five years in the service I have never once resorted to physical violence while interrogating a suspect but there comes a time, a time and a place and a suspect when with the best will in the world…’ He got up and went out. Wilt sat back in his chair and looked up at the fluorescent light. He wished it would stop buzzing. It was getting on his nerves.
Chapter 12
On Eel Stretch–Gaskell’s map-reading had misled him and they were nowhere near Frogwater Reach or Fen Broad–the situation was getting on everyone’s nerves. Gaskell’s attempts to mend the engine had had the opposite effect. The cockpit was flooded with fuel and it was difficult to walk on deck without slipping.
‘Jesus, G, anyone would think to look at you that this was a goddam oil rig,’ said Sally.
‘It was that fucking fuel line,’ said Gaskell, ‘I couldn’t get it back on.’
‘Say why try starting the motor with it off?’
‘To see if it was blocked.’
‘So now you know. What you going to do about it? Sit here till the food runs out? You’ve gotta think of something.’
‘Why me? Why don’t you come up with something?’
‘If you were any sort of a man…’
‘Shit,’ said Gaskell. ‘The voice of the liberated woman. Comes the crunch and all of a sudden I’ve got to be a man. What’s up with you, man-woman? You want us off here, you do it. Don’t ask me to be a man, uppercase M, in an emergency. I’ve forgotten how.’
‘There must be some way of getting help,’ said Sally.