In the cabin Sally stared down at the bathing-cap. It deflated and inflated, expanded and was sucked in against Gaskell’s lace and Sally squirmed with pleasure. She was the liberatedest woman in the world, but the liberatedest. Gaskell was dying and she would be free to be with a million dollars in the kitty. And no one would ever know. When he was dead she would take the cap off and untie him and push his body over the side into the water. Gaskell Pringsheim would have died a natural death by drowning. And at that moment the cabin door opened and she looked up at the silhouette of the Rev St John Froude in the cabin doorway.
‘What the hell…’ she muttered and leapt off Gaskell.
The Rev St John Froude hesitated. He had come to say his piece and say it he would but he had clearly intruded on a very naked woman with a horribly made-up face in the act of making love to a man who as far as a quick glance enabled him to tell had no face at all.
‘I…’ he began and stopped. The man on the bunk had rolled on to the floor and was writhing there in the most extraordinary fashion. The Rev St John Froude stared down at him aghast. The man was not only faceless but his hands were tied behind his back.
‘My dear fellow,’ said the Vicar, appalled at the scene and looped up at the naked woman for some sort of explanation.’ She was staring at him demonically and holding a large kitchen knife. The Rev St John Froude stumbled back into the cockpit as the woman advanced towards him holding the knife in front of her with both hands. She was clearly quite demented. So was the man on the floor. He rolled about and dragged his head from side to side. The bathing-cap came off but the Rev St. John Froude was too busy scrambling over the side into his rowing boat to notice. He cast off as the ghastly woman lunged towards him and began to row away his original mission entirely forgotten. In the cockpit Sally stood screaming abuse at him and behind her a shape had appeared in the cabin door. The Vicar was grateful to see that the man had a face now, not a nice face, a positively horrible face but a face for all that, and he was coming up behind the woman with some hideous intention. The next moment the intention was carried out. The man hurled himself at her, the knife dropped onto the deck, the woman scrabbled at the side of the boat and then slid forward into the water. The Rev St John Froude waited no longer. He rowed vigorously away. Whatever appalling orgy of sexual perversion he had interrupted, he wanted none of it on painted women with knives who called him a motherfucking sort of a cuntsucker, among other things didn’t elicit sympathy when the object of their obscene passions pushed them into the water. And in any case they were Americans. The Rev St John Froude had no time for Americans. They epitomized everything he found offensive about the modern world. Imbued with a new disgust for the present and an urge to hit the whisky he rowed home and tied up at the bottom of the garden.
Behind him in the cabin cruiser Gaskell ceased shouting. The priest who had saved his life had ignored his hoarse pleas for further help and Sally was standing waist-deep in water beside the boat. Well she could stay there. He went back into the cabin, turned so that he could lock the door with his tied hands and then looked around for something to cut the silk scarf with. He was still very frightened.
‘Right,’ said Inspector Flint, ’so what did you do then?’
‘Got up and read the Sunday papers’
‘After that?’
‘I ate a plate of All-Bran and drank some tea.
‘Tea? You sure it was tea? Last time you said coffee.’
‘Which time?’
‘The last time you told it.’
‘I drank tea.’
‘What then?’
‘I gave Clem his breakfast.’
‘What sort?’
‘Chappie.’
‘Last time you said Bonzo.’
‘This time I say Chappie.’
‘Make up your mind. Which sort was it?’
‘What the fuck does it matter which sort it was?’
‘It matters to me.’
‘Chappie.’
‘And when you had fed the dog.’
‘I shaved.’
‘Last time you said you had a bath.’
‘I had a bath and then I shaved. I was trying to save time.’
‘Forget the time, Wilt, we’ve got all the time in the world.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Shut up. What did you do then?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, what does it matter? What’s the point of going over and over the same things?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Right,’ said Wilt, ‘I will.’
‘When you had shaved what did you do?’
Wilt stared at him and said nothing.
‘When you had shaved?’
But Wilt remained silent. Finally Inspector Flint left the room and sent for Sergeant Yates.
‘He’s clammed up,’ he said wearily. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Try a little physical persuasion?’
Flint shook his head. ‘Gosdyke’s seen him. If he turns up in Court on Monday with so much as a hair out of place, he’ll be all over us for brutality. There’s got to be some other way. He must have a weak spot somewhere but I’m damned if I can find it. How does he do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Keep talking and saying nothing. Not one bloody useful thing. That sod’s got more opinions on every topic under the flaming sun than I’ve got hair on my head.’
‘If we keep him awake for another forty-eight hours he’s bound to crack up.’
‘He’ll take me with him,’ said Flint.’ We’ll both go into court in straitjackets.’
In the Interview Room Wilt put his head on the table. They would be back in a minute with more questions but a moment’s sleep was better than none. Sleep. If only they would let sleep. ‘What had Flint said? ‘The moment you sign a confession you can have all the sleep you want.’ Wilt considered the remark and its possibilities. A confession. But it would have to be plausible enough to keep them occupied while he got some rest and at the same time so impossible that it would rejected by the court. A delaying tactic to give Eva time to come back and prove his innocence. It would be like Gasfitters Two Shane to read while be sat and thought about putting Eva down the pile shaft. He should be able to think up something complicated that would keep them frantically active. How he had killed them? Beat them to death in the bathroom? Not enough blood. Even Flint had admitted that much. So how? What was a nice gentle way to go? Poor old Pinkerton had chosen a peaceful death when he stuck a tube up the exhaust pipe of his car…That was it. But why? There had to be a motive. Eva was having it off with Dr Pringsheim? With that twit? Not in a month of Sundays. Eva wouldn’t have looked twice at Gaskell. But Flint wasn’t to know that. And what about that bitch Sally? All three having it off together? Well at least it would explain why he killed them all and it would provide the sort of motive Flint would understand. And besides it was right for that kind of party. So he got this pipe…What pipe? There was no need for a pipe. They were in the garage to get away from everyone else. No, that wouldn’t do. It had to be the bathroom. How about Eva and Gaskell doing it in the bath? That was better. He had bust the door down in a fit of jealousy. Much better. Then he had drowned them. And then Sally had come upstairs and he had had to kill her too. That explained the blood. There had been a struggle. He hadn’t meant to kill her but she had fallen in the bath. So far so good. But where had he put them? It had to be something good. Flint wasn’t going to believe anything like the river. Somewhere that made sense of the doll down the hole. Flint had it firmly fixed in his head that the doll had been a diversionary tactic. That meant that time entered into their disposal.