Wilt in Nowhere

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘Then don’t. It might burst and we don’t know what is in it.’

  ‘Whatever it is I don’t want it,’ said Josephine.

  Nobody wanted it. In the end they threw it out the window where it landed in the swimming-pool.

  ‘Now if it’s a bomb it won’t do any harm,’ said Emmeline.

  ‘Unless Uncle Wally’s taking his early-morning dip. He could be blown up.’

  ‘Serve him right. He’s a big mouth,’ said Samantha.

  12

  By the time Ruth Rottecombe got to bed it was after 7 a.m. Her night had been an exceedingly unpleasant one. The police station at Oston was not a new one and while it might have held some quaint charm for old lags, it had held none whatsoever for Mrs Rottecombe. For one thing it smelt and the smells were all horrible and revoltingly unhygienic. Tobacco smoke mingled with the various foul by-products of far too many beers and too much fear and sweat. Even the Superintendent’s attitude had changed once they were inside. His nose hadn’t stopped bleeding and the police surgeon summoned from his bed to take blood from a man who had failed the breathalyser test was of the opinion that it might well have been broken. The Superintendent greeted this piece of information by ignoring Mrs Rottecombe’s presence and giving vent to his feelings about ‘that drunken bastard, Battleby’ in several words of four letters. He also expressed his belief that the drunken swine had in all likelihood burnt his own house down for the insurance money.

  ‘Doubt?’ he had said with a muffled snarl through the bloodstained handkerchief. ‘Doubt? Ask Robson, the Fire Chief. He’ll tell you. A plastic dustbin in the middle of the kitchen catches fire of its own accord and all the doors locked? It’s as plain as the nose … ouch. Wait till I’ve had him for forty-eight hours.’

  At this point Mrs Rottecombe had asked faintly if she could sit down and the Superintendent regained some slight composure. It wasn’t much. She might be the wife of the local MP but she was also the regular associate of a suspected arsonist and paedophile and the bastard who had broken his nose. One thing was certain, she wasn’t above the Law. He’d show her that.

  ‘You can go in there,’ he said gruffly, indicating the office next door. Mrs Rottecombe then made the mistake of asking if she could use the toilet.

  ‘Feel free,’ he said and pointed down a passage. Five utterly horrifying minutes later, she emerged ashen. She had vomited twice and it was only by holding her nose with one hand while supporting herself against a wall smeared with excreta that she was able to avoid sitting down. Not that there was a seat but even if there had been she wouldn’t have dreamt of sitting on it. In any case the water-closet didn’t live up to its name.

  ‘Are those the best toilet facilities you can provide?’ she asked when she came back and instantly regretted it. The Superintendent raised his head. He had stuffed his nostrils with cotton wool and they were already a horrid red. His eyes weren’t much pleasanter.

  ‘I don’t provide any facilities,’ he said, sounding like a bad case of adenoids in a foul temper. ‘The Local Authority does. Ask your husband. Now then, about your movements this evening. I understand from the other suspect that you habitually meet at the Country Club every Thursday night and … Well, would you care to explain your relationship with him?’

  In the face of that ‘the other suspect’ Mrs Rottecombe drew on her reserves of arrogance. ‘What’s that got to do with you? I find the question highly irregular,’ she said haughtily.

  The Superintendent’s nostrils flared. ‘And I find your relationship irregular too, Mrs Rottecombe, not to say peculiar.’

  Mrs Rottecombe stood up. ‘How dare you address me in that manner?’ she squawked. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  The Superintendent took a deep breath through his mouth and let it out with a snort through his nose. Two red blobs fell on to the blotter in front of him. He reached for some fresh cotton wool and took his time replacing them.

  ‘Trying to pull social rank, are we? Coming the old high horse. It won’t wash, not here and not with me. Now sit down or stand, just as you like, but you’re going to answer some questions. First of all, did you know that “Bobby Beat Me” … Ah, I see you did know the locals’ name for him. Well, your little friend is very interesting about Thursday nights. Calls it “Slap and Tickle Night” and would you be interested to know what he calls you? Ruthless mean anything to you, Ruth the Ruthless? Now, I wonder why he calls you that. Fits in with those filthy mags he’s fond of. What do you say to that?’

  What Mrs Rottecombe would have liked to say was unspeakable. ‘I shall issue a writ for slander.’

  The Superintendent smiled. There was blood on his teeth now. ‘Very sensible of you. Nail the bastard. And after all they do say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ He paused and looked at his notes. ‘Now, the fire, the actual fire that is known to have started just after midnight. Are you prepared to swear that at midnight you were in the company of the accused at the Club?’

  ‘I was at the Club, yes, and Mr Battleby was there too. The Club Secretary can testify to that. I would not say I was in his company, as you put it.’

  ‘In that case I suppose he drove himself there.’

  Mrs Rottecombe tried to be patronising. ‘My dear Superintendent, I assure you I had absolutely nothing to do with the fire. The first I knew about it was when the Secretary called me to the phone.’

  That hadn’t worked either. It had merely infuriated the Superintendent. As soon as she left he got the Sergeant to call the News on Sunday and the Daily Rag and give them the word that there was a story involving a Shadow Minister’s wife to be had at Meldrum Slocum. A juicy story involving arson and sex. Having done that he went home. His nose had stopped bleeding.

  She was therefore in no condition to be shaken awake at 8.30 by an obviously demented husband. She peered blearily up into his ashen face. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his head and had an awful intensity about them.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she mumbled blearily. ‘What’s happened, Harold?’

  There was a moment’s silence while the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement struggled to control himself and his wife slowly realised that he must have heard about the fire at the Manor.

  ‘Happened? Happened? You’re asking me what’s happened?’ he yelled when he could bring himself to say anything.

  ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am. And please don’t bawl like that. And what are you doing here? You usually come home on Friday night.’

  Mr Rottecombe’s vicelike hands twitched convulsively in front of her. He had a terrible impulse to strangle the bitch. Even Ruth could tell that. Instead he controlled the urge by ripping the bedclothes off the bed and hurling them on to the floor.

  ‘Go and look in the fucking garage,’ he snarled and dragged her by the arm out of bed. For the first time in her married life Ruth the Ruthless was afraid of him. ‘Go on, you bitch. Go and see what you’ve landed us in this time. And you don’t need a fucking dressing gown.’

  Mrs Rottecombe put her feet into a pair of slippers and tottered downstairs to the kitchen. For a second she paused by the door into the garage.

  ‘What’s wrong in there?’ she asked.

  The question was too much for Harold. ‘Don’t just stand there. Go!’ he bellowed.

  Mrs Rottecombe went. For several minutes she stood staring down at Wilt’s body, her mind desperately trying to come to grips with yet another disaster. By the time she returned she had come to one conclusion. For once in her life she was innocent and in the crude parlance of her youth, she wasn’t going to take the can back. She found Harold sitting at the kitchen table with a large brandy. Ruth took advantage of his attitude.

  ‘You don’t seriously think I had anything to do with him being there,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen the man in my life before.’

  The statement galvanised her husband. He rose to his feet. ‘I suppose it was too fucking dark,’ he shouted. ‘You pick up some poor bastard … Wa
s that swine Battleby too drunk to satisfy your sadistic needs so you find that bloke and … Dear God!’

  The telephone was ringing in the study.

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ said Ruth, feeling slightly more in control.

  ‘Well? Who was it?’ he asked when she came back.

  ‘Only the News on Sunday. They want to interview you.’

  ‘Me? That filthy rag? What the hell about?’

  Mrs Rottecombe took her time. ‘I think we’d better have some coffee,’ she said and busied herself at the stove with the electric kettle.

  ‘Well, for goodness’ sake, get on with it. What do they want to interview me about?’

  For a moment she hesitated before deciding where to strike. ‘Only about your bringing young men into the house.’

  For a moment Harold Rottecombe was left speechless. The word ‘only’ did the damage. Incredulity struggled with fury. Then the dam burst.

  ‘I didn’t bring the bastard into the house, for Christ’s sake. You did. I’ve never brought any young men to the house. And anyway he isn’t young. He’s fifty if he’s a day. I don’t believe this. I’m not hearing right. I can’t be.’

  ‘I’m only telling you what the man said. He said “young men”. And that’s not all. He also mentioned “rent-boys”,’ said Mrs Rottecombe to deepen the crisis. It took the heat off her.

  The MP’s eyes bulged in his head. He looked as though he was going to have an apoplectic fit. For once his wife rather hoped he would. It would save a lot of very difficult explanations. Instead the phone in the hall rang again.

  ‘I’ll get it this time,’ Harold yelled and stormed out of the kitchen. For a moment she heard him telling someone he’d already called a bugger to fuck off and leave him alone. Then she shut the door and poured herself a cup of coffee and planned her next move. Harold was a long time gone. He came back a chastened man.

  ‘That was Charles,’ he said grimly.

  Mrs Rottecombe nodded. ‘I thought it might be. Nothing like calling the Chairman of the Local Party a bugger and telling him to fuck off. And this was such a safe seat.’

  The Member of Parliament for Otterton looked at her with loathing. Then he brightened up briefly and fought back. ‘The good news is that your lover boy Battleby’s been charged with assaulting a police officer and is being held in custody pending the more serious charges of possessing obscene material of a paedophile nature, and very possibly arson. Apparently Meldrum Manor was burnt to the ground last night.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Rottecombe coolly. ‘I saw it afterwards. Anyway, that’s not our problem. He’ll probably dry out in prison.’

  The phone ran again. Stunned by his wife’s insouciance, Harold let her answer it.

  ‘Daily Graphic this time,’ she announced when she returned. ‘Wouldn’t say why they wanted to interview you which means they’re on the same track. Someone’s been talking.’

  Harold helped himself to another brandy with a shaking hand.

  Mrs Rottecombe shook her head wearily. There were times – and this was one of them – when she wondered how a man with so little gumption had done so well as a politician. No wonder the country had gone to the dogs. The phone rang again.

  ‘For heaven’s sake don’t answer it,’ Harold said.

  ‘Of course we’ve got to answer it. We can’t be seen to have cut ourselves off from the world. Now just leave this to me,’ she told him. ‘You’ll only make a mess of things by shouting.’

  She went back to the phone and Harold hurried through to his study and picked up the extension on his desk.

  ‘No, I’m afraid he’s still in London,’ he heard her say only to learn that the caller, a reporter from the Weekly Echo, had another source of information, and was she Mrs Rottecombe, wife of the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement?

  Mrs Rottecombe said coldly that she was.

  ‘And at 4 a.m. you were in the company of a man called Battleby when the police seized some whips, a gag and handcuffs together with a quantity of paedophile S & M magazines in his possession?’ It was less a question than a statement of fact.

  Mrs Rottecombe lost her cool. And her head. ‘That’s a downright lie!’ she shouted. Harold held the phone away from his ear. ‘If you print that I’ll sue for libel.’

  ‘The source is good,’ said the man. ‘Very good. We’ve traced the call. This bloke Battleby’s been charged. Got an arson rap against him too. Slugged a policeman. Source told us you’ve been giving “Bobby Beat Me” his medicine for some time. Like with whips and him handcuffed. Known as “Ruthless Ruth Rottecombe” locally, according to our information.’

  Mrs Rottecombe slammed the phone down. Harold waited a moment and heard the reporter ask someone if they’d got that on tape. The answer was, ‘Yes. And we’ve got a story too. He is the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement. Juicy’s the word and the bitch’s reaction confirms the info we got from the cops.’

  Harold Rottecombe replaced the extension. His hand was shaking uncontrollably now. His entire career was at stake. He went through to the kitchen.

  ‘I knew this would happen!’ he shouted. ‘You have to get involved with the local piss artist … Beat Me Bobby and Ruth the Ruthless. Oh, God. And you have to threaten them with libel. What a bloody mess.’ He helped himself to some cooking brandy. The other bottle was empty. Mrs Rottecombe eyed him icily. Power and influence were slipping away fast. She had to find a socially acceptable explanation for her actions. It was too late to deny she’d associated with the wretched Battleby but she could always claim she’d only done so to stop him losing his driving licence. Or was he simply a drunk? An idiot who could leave those porn mags in his Range Rover where they could be seen had to be out of his mind. And accidentally set fire to his own house? Ruth Rottecombe knew that full-blown alcoholics frequently behaved insanely and Bob had been blind drunk last night. That was undoubtedly true. He’d been mad enough to hit that Superintendent but all the same … Not that she cared about Battleby. She had herself to think of. And Harold. He was up to his eyebrows too but even so a Shadow Minister still had influence. At least for the moment. There had to be some way of using that influence in a damage-limitation exercise. Finally there was that unconscious man in the garage. Mrs Rottecombe applied her mind to the problem. She had to keep Harold out of the scandal. As the MP gulped the brandy his wife acted. She snatched the bottle from him.

  ‘No more of that,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve got to drive back to London immediately and you’ll be over the limit if you have any more. I’ll stay here and deal with any further inquiries.’

  ‘All right, I’ll go, I’ll go,’ he said but it was already too late. A car had turned in to the drive and had pulled up outside the front door. Two men got out and one was carrying a camera. With a curse Harold Rottecombe dashed towards the back of the house and out across the lawn past the swimming-pool and over the low wall into the artificial ditch beyond it. He’d be hidden there. Ruth was right. He mustn’t be known to have come back from London. He’d be off like a shot the moment they left. He sat down with his back to the wall and looked out across the rolling countryside with the dark thread of the river running in the distance down to the sea. It had all looked so peaceful before. It didn’t now.

  At the front door events were about to prove him right. Mrs Rottecombe’s feelings for investigative journalists had developed from intense dislike to downright fury. She was followed by Wilfred and Pickles. The bull terriers had sensed the atmosphere of alarm that pervaded the house. There had been shouting downstairs, the telephone had rung rather more frequently than was normal and the master had used an expression they knew from bitter experience to mean trouble. As they stood beside her inside the front door they could smell her anger and fear.

  13

  Outside, the journalist and cameraman from the News on Sunday were less perceptive. In any case they were accustomed to annoying and terrifying the people they were sent to interview. Even by the standards of th
e gutter press the News on Sunday was held in awe by hardened editors and other newspaper men. It excelled in intrusive journalism. In short it purveyed pure sewage, and Butcher Cassidy and the Flashgun Kid, as the two reporters were aptly nicknamed by others in their profession, were sewer rats and proud of their reputation. They’d already made inquiries in Meldrum Slocum about Battleby and ‘Ruthless Ruth’ and had had an interesting chat with an off-duty policeman. After that they had decided on their usual brutish approach and had driven over to Leyline Lodge. A sign on the gate which read ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG’ hadn’t deterred them for a moment. Over the years they had encountered any number of dogs and, while not always coming away entirely unscathed, they weren’t to be deterred. They had their reputation to maintain. A really juicy story about a Shadow Minister who was into rent-boys would do them no end of good.

  Before ringing the doorbell they turned to survey the garden with its trees and shrubberies and beds of old roses. They were particularly impressed by a large oak tree which Cassidy would presently attempt to climb. It was the perfect setting for a high-class sexual scandal involving an important politician. For one brief moment, as the door began to open and they turned exuding false charm and bonhomie, they glimpsed Mrs Rottecombe’s unsmiling face. A second later two heavy white objects hurtled towards them. Wilfred leapt at Butcher Cassidy’s throat and fortunately missed. Pickles on the other hand went for a softer target and sank her teeth into Flashgun’s thigh. In the ensuing rout the oak tree took on a new attraction. With Wilfred hard on his heels Butcher raced for that tree and managed to grab the lowest branch before Wilfred took a firm grip on his left ankle and locked his jaw. Flashgun, on the other hand, hampered by Pickles’s attachment to his left thigh, had tried to get away through the rose bed. It was not the wisest route to take. By the time he reached the other side his hands were torn almost as badly as his leg was bitten and he was yelling for help. His yells were largely drowned by the Butcher’s screams. At 70 pounds Wilfred was a heavy dog and given to shaking things he had locked on to.