Scold's Bridle

you're lying and that Ruth is telling the truth, but the question is can we persuade her to stand up in court and tell the whole truth? You made a bad choice there, Mr. Hughes. She doesn't have a father, you see, only a mother, and you probably know as well as I do that women are far harder on their daughters than men ever could be. Mrs. Lascelles won't protect Ruth the way Julia's father protected her. Apart from anything else, she positively loathes the girl. It would have been different, I suspect, if Mrs. Gillespie were still alive, she would probably have hushed it up for the sake of the family's reputation, but as she isn't I can't see anybody championing Ruth.'

Hughes grinned. 'Well, go ahead then. Prosecute the thieving little bitch. It's no skin off my nose.'

It was Charlie's turn to look surprised. 'You don't like her?'

'She was okay for the odd screw, no great shakes but okay. Look, I told you, they only make out with me because they want to get back at their folks. So what am I supposed to do? Tug my forelock in gratitude for the use of their very ordinary bodies? I can get as good if not better down the nightclub of a Saturday.' He grinned again, a captivatingly wicked grin, guaranteed to melt female hearts but totally lost on Jones and Cooper. 'I do the business for them, give them their thrills, and I only complain when they try and lay their fucking thieving on me. It really gets up my nose, if you want the truth. You're such bloody suckers, you lot. A pretty face, a posh accent, a sob story, and, bingo, get Dave Hughes down here and give him the works. You just won't accept that they're slags, same as the prozzies on the streets in the red light district.'

Charlie looked thoughtful. 'That's the second time you've called Miss Lascelles a slag. What's your definition of a slag, Mr. Hughes?'

'The same as yours, I guess.'

'A vulgar, coarse woman who sells her body for money. I wouldn't say that was a description of Miss Lascelles.'

Hughes looked amused. 'A slag's an easy lay. Ruth was so bloody easy, it was pathetic.'

'You said she was no great shakes as a screw,' Charlie carried on imperturbably. 'That's a very revealing admission, don't you think?'

'Why?'

'It says more about you than it does about her. Didn't she fancy you? Did you have to force her? What is it you like doing that she didn't like you enough to go along with? I find that fascinating.'

'I've had better, that's all I meant.'

'Better what, Mr. Hughes?'

'Lovers, for Christ's sake. Women who know what they're doing. Women who handle themselves and me with more fucking finesse. Screwing Ruth was like screwing blancmange. It was me had to do all the work while she just lay there telling me how much she loved me. It pisses me off, that, it really does.'

Charlie frowned. 'Why did you bother with her then?'

Hughes smiled cynically at the all-too-patent trap. 'Why not? She was free, she was available, and I get horny like the next man. Are you going to charge me with doing what comes naturally?'

Charlie thought for a moment or two. 'Did you ever go into Cedar House?'

'The old biddy's place?' He shook his head. 'No way. She'd have done her nut if she'd got wind of who Ruth had hitched herself to. I don't go looking for trouble though you'd be amazed at the girls. Half of them think their parents are going to welcome me with open arms.' He mimicked the clipped diction of the upper classes. 'Mummy, Daddy, I'd like you to meet my new boyfriend, Dave.' The boyish grin again. 'They're so bloody thick, you wouldn't believe.'

'There've been a lot of these girls then. We thought there might have been.'

Hughes tilted his chair back, relaxed, complacent, unbelievably confident. 'I appeal to them, Inspector. It's a talent I have. Don't ask me where it comes from, though, because I couldn't tell you. Perhaps it's the Irish in me.'

'On your mother's side, presumably.'

'How did you guess?'

'You're a type, Mr. Hughes. Probably the illegitimate son of a whore who screwed anything for money, if your extreme prejudice against prostitutes is anything to go by. You wouldn't have a clue who your father was because he might have been any one of fifty who shafted her during the week you were conceived. Hence your contempt and hatred for women and your inability to conduct an adult relationship. You had no male role model to learn from or emulate. Tell me,' he murmured, 'does getting it free make you feel superior to the sad, anonymous little man who paid to father you? Is that why it's so important?'

The blue eyes narrowed angrily. 'I don't have to listen to this.'

'I'm afraid you do. You see, I'm very interested in your pathological dislike of women. You can't speak about them without being offensive. That isn't normal, Mr. Hughes, and as Sergeant Cooper and I are investigating an extraordinarily abnormal crime, your attitude alarms me. Let me give you a definition of psychopathic personality disorder.' He consulted the piece of paper again. 'It manifests itself in poor or non-existent job performance, persistent criminality, sexual promiscuity and aggressive sexual behaviour. People with this disorder are irresponsible and extremely callous; they feel no guilt over their antisocial acts and find it difficult to make lasting relationships.' He looked up. 'Rather a good description of you, don't you think? Have you ever been treated for this type of disorder?'

'No, I fucking well haven't,' he said furiously. 'Jesus, what is this garbage, anyway? Since when was thieving an abnormal crime?'

'We're not talking about thieving.'

Hughes looked suddenly wary. 'What are we talking about then?'

'The things you do to the girls.'

'I don't get you.'