by Tom Sharpe
‘Yes,’ said Wilt.
‘You wouldn’t prefer to save everyone concerned a lot of time and bother by admitting here and now that what is at present resting, hopefully at peace, under twenty tons of concrete at the bottom of that pile is the body of a murdered woman?’
‘No,’ said Wilt, ‘I most definitely wouldn’t.’
Inspector Flint sighed again. ‘You know, we’re going to get to the bottom of this thing,’ he said. ‘It may take time and it may take expense and God knows it’s taking patience but when we do get down there–’
‘You’re going to find an inflatable doll,’ said Wilt.
‘With a vagina?’
‘With a vagina.’
In the Staff Room Peter Braintree staunchly defended Wilt’s innocence. ‘I tell you I’ve known Henry well for the past seven years and whatever has happened he had nothing to do with it.’
Mr Morris, the Head of Liberal Studies, looked out of the window sceptically. ‘They’ve had him in there since ten past two. That’s four hours,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t do that unless they thought he had some connection with the dead woman.’
‘They can think what they like. I know Henry and even if the poor sod wanted to he’s incapable of murdering anyone.’
‘He did punch that Printer on Tuesday. That shows he’s capable of irrational violence.’
‘Wrong again. The Printer punched him,’ said Braintree.
‘Only after Wilt had called him a snivelling fucking moron,’ Mr Morris pointed out. ‘Anyone who goes into Printers Three and calls one of them that needs his head examined. They killed poor odd Pinkerton, you know. He gassed himself in his car.’
‘They had a damned good try at killing old Henry come to that.’
‘Of course, that blow might have affected his brain,’ said Mr Morris, with morose satisfaction. ‘Concussion can do funny things to a man’s character. Change him overnight from a nice quiet inoffensive little fellow like Wilt into a homicidal maniac who suddenly goes berserk. Stranger things have happened.’
‘I daresay Henry would be the first to agree with you,’ said Braintree. ‘It can’t be very pleasant sitting in that caravan being questioned by detectives. I wonder what they’re doing to him.’
‘Just asking questions. Things like “How have you been getting on with your wife?” and “Can you account for your movements on Saturday night?” They start off gently and then work up to the heavy stuff later on.’
Peter Braintree sat in silent horror. Eva. He’d forgotten all about her and as for Saturday night he knew exactly what Henry had said he had been doing before he turned up on the doorstep covered with mud and looking like death…
‘All I’m saying,’ said Mr Morris, ‘is that it seems very strange to me that they find a dead body at the bottom of a shaft filled with concrete and the next thing you know they’ve got Wilt in that Murder HQ for questioning. Very strange indeed. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes.’ He got up and left the room and Peter Braintree sat on wondering if there was anything he should do like phone a lawyer and ask him to come round and speak to Henry. It seemed a bit premature and presumably Henry could ask to see a lawyer himself if he wanted one.
Inspector Flint lit another cigarette with an air of insouciant menace. ‘How well do you get on with your wife?’ he asked.
Wilt hesitated. ‘Well enough,’ he said.
‘Just well enough? No more than that?’
‘We get along just fine,’ said Wilt, conscious that be had made an error.
‘I see. And I suppose she can substantiate your story about this inflatable doll.’
‘Substantiate it?’
‘The fact that you made a habit of dressing it up and carrying on with it.’
‘I didn’t make a habit of anything of the sort,’ said Wilt indignantly.
‘I’m only asking. You were the one who first raised the fact that it had a vagina. I didn’t. You volunteered the information and naturally I assumed…’
‘What did you assume?’ said Wilt ‘You’ve got no right…’
‘Mr Wilt,’ said the Inspector, ‘put yourself in my position. I am investigating a case of suspected murder, and a man comes along and tells me that what two eye-witnesses describe as the body of a well-nourished woman in her early thirties…’
‘In her early thirties? Dolls don’t have ages. If that bloody doll was more than six months old…’
‘Please, Mr Wilt, if you’ll just let me continue. As I was saying we have a prima facie case of murder and you admit yourself to having put a doll with a vagina down that hole. Now if you were in my shoes what sort of inference would you draw from that?’
Wilt tried to think of some totally innocent interpretation and couldn’t.
‘Wouldn’t you be the first to agree that it does look a bit peculiar?’
Wilt nodded. It looked horribly peculiar.
‘Right,’ continued the Inspector. ‘Now if we put the nicest possible interpretation on your actions and particularly on your emphasis that this doll had a vagina–’
‘I didn’t emphasise it. I only mentioned the damned thing to indicate that it was extremely lifelike. I wasn’t suggesting I made a habit of…’ He stopped and looked miserably at the floor.
‘Go on, Mr Wilt, don’t stop now. It often helps to talk.’
Wilt stared at him frantically. Talking to Inspector Flint wasn’t helping him one iota. ‘If you’re implying that my sex life was confined to copulating with an inflatable fucking doll dressed in my wife’s clothes…’
‘Hold it there,’ said the Inspector, stubbing out his cigarette significantly. ‘Ah, so we’ve taken another step forward. You admit then that whatever is down that hole is dressed in your wife’s clothes? Yes or no.’
‘Yes,’ said Wilt miserably.
Inspector Flint stood up. ‘I think it’s about time we all went and had a little chat with Mrs Wilt,’ he said. ‘I want to hear what she has to say about your funny little habits.’
‘I’m afraid that’s going to be a little difficult,’ said Wilt.
‘Difficult?’
‘Well you see the thing is she’s gone away.’
‘Gone away?’ said the Inspector. ‘Did I hear you say that Mrs Wilt has gone away?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where has Mrs Wilt gone to?’
‘That’s the trouble. I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No, I honestly don’t know,’ said Wilt.
‘She didn’t tell you where she was going?’
‘No. She just wasn’t there when I got home.’
‘She didn’t leave a note or anything like that?’
‘Yes,’ said Wilt, ‘as a matter of fact she did.’
‘Right, well let’s just go up to your house and have a look at that note.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ said Wilt. ‘I got rid of it.’
‘You got rid of it?’ said the Inspector. ‘You got rid of it? How?’
Wilt looked pathetically across at the police stenographer. ‘To tell the truth I wiped my bottom with it,’ he said.
Inspector Flint gazed at him demonically. ‘You did what?’
‘Well, there was no toilet paper in the lavatory so I…’ he stopped. The Inspector was lighting yet another cigarette. His hands were shaking and he had a distant look in his eyes that suggested he had just peered over some appalling abyss. ‘Mr Wilt,’ he said when he had managed to compose himself, ‘I trust that I am a reasonably tolerant man, a patient man and a humane man, but if you seriously expect me to believe one word of your utterly preposterous story you must be insane. First you tell me you put a doll down that hole. Then you admit that it was dressed in your wife’s clothes. Now you say that she went away without telling you where she was going and finally to cap it all you have the temerity to sit there and tell me that you wiped your arse with the one piece of solid evidence that could substantiate your statement.’
‘But I did,’ said Wilt.
‘Balls,’ shouted the Inspector. ‘You and I both know where Mrs Wilt has gone and there’s no use pretending we don’t. She’s down at the bottom of that fucking hole and you put her there.’
‘Are you arresting me?’ Wilt asked as they walked in a tight group across the road to the police car.
‘No,’ said Inspector Flint, ‘you’re just helping the police with their enquiries. It will be on the news tonight.’
‘My dear Braintree, of course we’ll do all we can,’ said the Vice-Principal. ‘Wilt has always been a loyal member of staff and there has obviously been some dreadful mistake. I’m sure you needn’t worry. The whole thing will right itself before long.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Braintree, ‘but there are complicating factors. For one thing there’s Eva…’
‘Eva? Mrs Wilt? You’re not suggesting…’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. All I’m saying is…well, she’s missing from home. She walked out on Henry last Friday.
‘Mrs Wilt walked…well I hardly knew her, except by reputation of course. Wasn’t she the woman who broke Mr Lockyer’s collar-bone during a part-time Evening Class in judo some years back?’
‘That was Eva,’ said Braintree.
‘She hardly sounds the sort of woman who would allow Wilt to put her down…’
‘She isn’t,’ said Braintree hastily. ‘If anyone was liable to be murdered in the Wilt household it was Henry. I think the police should be informed of that.’
They were interrupted by the Principal who came in with a copy of the evening paper. ‘You’ve seen this I suppose,’ he said, waving it distraughtly. ‘It’s absolutely appalling.’ He put the paper down on the desk and indicated the headlines. MURDERED WOMAN BURIED IN CONCRETE AT TECH. LECTURER HELPING POLICE.
‘Oh dear,’ said the Vice-Principal. ‘Oh dear. How very unfortunate. It couldn’t have come at a worse moment’
‘It shouldn’t have come at all,’ snapped the Principal. ‘And that’s not all. I’ve already had half a dozen phone calls from parents wanting to know if we make a habit of employing murderers on the full-time staff. Who is this fellow Wilt anyway?’
‘He’s in Liberal Studies,’ said the Vice-Principal. ‘He’s been with us ten years.’
‘Liberal Studies. I might have guessed it. If they’re not poets mangoes they’re Maoists or…I don’t know where the hell Morris gets them from. And now we’ve got a blasted murderer. God knows what I’m going to tell the Education Committee tonight. They’ve called an emergency meeting for eight.’
‘I must say I resent Wilt being called a murderer,’ said Braintree loyally. ‘There is nothing to suggest that he has murdered anyone.’
The Principal studied him for a moment and then looked back at the headlines. ‘Mr Braintree, when someone is helping the police with their enquiries into a murder it may not be proven that he is a murderer but the suggestion is there.’
‘This certainly isn’t going to help us get the new CNAA degree off the ground,’ intervened the Vice-Principal tactfully. ‘We’ve got a visit from the Inspection Committee scheduled for Friday.’
‘From what the police tell me it isn’t going to help get the new Administration block off the ground either,’ said the Principal. ‘They say it’s going to take at least three days to bore down to the bottom of that pile and then they’ll have to drill through the concrete to get the body out That means they’ll have to put a new pile down and we’re already well behind schedule and our building budget has been halved. Why on earth couldn’t he have chosen somewhere else to dispose of his damned wife’
‘I don’t think…’ Braintree began.
‘I don’t care what you think,’ said the Principal, ‘I’m merely telling you what the police think.’
Braintree left them still wrangling and trying to figure out ways and means of counteracting the adverse publicity the case had already brought the Tech. He went down to the Liberal Studies office and found Mr Morris in a state of despair. He was trying to arrange stand-in lecturers for all Wilt’s classes.
‘But he’ll probably be back in the morning,’ Braintree said.
‘Like hell he will.’ said Mr Morris. ‘When they take them in like that they keep them. Mark my words. The police may make mistakes, I’m not saying they don’t, but when they act this swiftly they’re on to a sure thing. Mind you. I always thought Wilt was a bit odd.’
‘Odd? I’ve just come from the VP’s office. You want to hear what the Principal’s got to say about Liberal Studies staff.’
‘Christ.’ said Mr Morris, ‘don’t tell me.’
‘Anyway what’s so odd about Henry?’
‘Too meek and mild for my liking. Look at the way he accepted remaining a Lecturer Grade Two all these years.’
‘That was hardly his fault.’
‘Of course it was his fault. All he had to do was threaten to resign and go somewhere else and he’d have got promotion like a shot. That’s the only way to get on in this place. Make your presence felt’
‘He seems to have done that now,’ said Braintree. ‘The Principal is already blaming him for throwing the building programme off schedule and if we don’t get the joint Honours degree past the CNAA, Henry’s going to be made the scapegoat. It’s too bad. Eva should have had more sense than to walk out on him like that.’
Mr Morris took a more sombre view. ‘She’d have shown a damned sight more sense if she’d walked out on him before the sod took it into his head to beat her to death and dump her down that bloody shaft. Now who the hell can I get to take Gasfitters one tomorrow?’
Chapter 10
At 34 Parkview Avenue Wilt sat in the kitchen with Clem while the detectives ransacked the house. ‘You’re not going to find anything incriminating here,’ he told Inspector Flint.
‘Never you mind what we’re going to find. We’re just having a look.’
He sent one detective upstairs to examine Mrs Wilt’s clothes or what remained of them.
‘If she went away she’d have taken half her wardrobe,’ he said. ‘I know women. On the other hand if she’s pushing up twenty tons of premix she wouldn’t need more than what she’s got on.’
Eva’s wardrobe was found to be well stocked. Even Wilt had to admit that she hadn’t taken much with her.
‘What was she wearing when you last saw her?’ the Inspector asked.
‘Lemon loungers.’ said Wilt.
‘Lemon what?’
‘Pyjamas,’ said Wilt, adding to the list of incriminating evidence against him. The Inspector made a note of the fact in his pocketbook.
‘In bed, was she?’
‘No,’ said Wilt. ‘Round at the Pringsheims.’
The Pringsheims? And who might they be?’
‘The Americans I told you about who live in Rossiter Grove.’
‘You haven’t mentioned any Americans to me.’ said the Inspector.
‘I’m sorry. I thought I had. I’m getting muddled. She went away with them.’
‘Oh did she? And I suppose we’ll find they’re missing too?’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Wilt. ‘I mean if she was going away with them they must have gone too and if she isn’t with them I can’t imagine where she has got to.’
‘I can,’ said the Inspector looking with distasteful interest at a stain on a sheet one of the detectives had found in the dirty linen basket. By the time they left the house the incriminating evidence consisted of the sheet, an old dressing-gown cord that had found its way mysteriously into the attic, a chopper that Wilt had once used to open a tin of red lead, and a hypodermic syringe which Eva had got from the vet for watering cacti very precisely during her Indoor Plant phase. There was also a bottle of tablets with no label on it.
‘How the hell would I know what they are?’ Wilt asked when confronted with the bottle. ‘Probably aspirins. And anyway it’s full’
‘Put it with the other exhibits,’ said the Insp
ector. Wilt looked at the box.
‘For God’s sake, what do you think I did with her? Poisoned her, strangled her, hacked her to bits with a chopper and injected her with Biofood?’
‘What’s Biofood?’ asked Inspector Flint with sudden interest.
‘It’s stuff you feed plants with,’ said Wilt. ‘The bottle’s on the windowsill.’
The Inspector added the bottle of Biofood to the box. ‘We know what you did with her, Mr Wilt,’ he said. ‘It’s how that interests us now.’
They went out to the police car and drove round to the Pringsheims’ house in Rossiter Grove. ‘You just sit in the car with the constable here while I go and see if they’re in,’ said Inspector Flint and went to the front door. Wilt sat and watched while he rang the bell. He rang again. He hammered on the doorknocker and finally he walked round through the gate marked Tradesman’s Entrance to the kitchen door. A minute later he was back and fumbling with the car radio.
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head all right, Wilt,’ he snapped. ‘They’ve gone away. The place is a bloody shambles. Looks like they’ve had an orgy. Take him out.’
The two detectives bundled Wilt, no longer Mr Wilt but plain Wilt and conscious of the fact, out of the car while the Inspector called Fenland Constabulary and spoke with sinister urgency about warrants and sending something that sounded like the D brigade up. Wilt stood in the driveway of 12 Rossiter Grove and wondered what the hell was happening to him. The order of things on which he had come to depend was disintegrating around him.
‘We’re going in the back way,’ said the Inspector. This doesn’t look good.’
They went down the path to the kitchen door and round to the back garden. Wilt could see what the Inspector had meant by a shambles. The garden didn’t look at all good. Paper plates lay about the lawn or, blown by the wind, had wheeled across the garden into honeysuckle or climbing rose while paper cups, some squashed and some still filled with Pringsheim punch and rainwater, littered the ground. But it was the beefburgers that gave the place its air of macabre filth. They were all over the lawn, stained wilt coleslaw so that Wilt was put in mind of Clem.
‘The dog returns to his vomit,’ said Inspector Flint evidently reading his mind. They crossed the terrace to the lounge windows and peered through. If the garden was bad the interior was awful.
