‘At the very beginning.’
‘God made heaven and earth and all…’
‘Forget the wisecracks,’ said Sergeant Yates.
‘Now that,’ said Wilt, appreciatively, ‘is a more orthodox use of wise.’
‘What is?’
‘Wisecrack. It’s slang but it’s good slang wisewise if you get my meaning.’
Detective Sergeant Yates studied him closely. ‘This is a soundproof room,’ he said finally.
‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Wilt.
‘A man could scream his guts out in here and no one outside would be any the wiser.’
‘Wiser?’ said Wilt doubtfully. ‘Wisdom and knowledge are not the same thing. Someone outside might not be aware that…’
‘Shut up,’ said Sergeant Yates.
Wilt sighed. ‘If you would just let me get some sleep…’
‘You’ll get some sleep when you tell us why you murdered your wife, where you murdered her and how you murdered her.’
‘I don’t suppose it will do any good if I tell you I didn’t murder her.’
Sergeant Yates shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We know you did. You know you did. We know where she is. We’re going to get her out. We know you put her there. You’ve at least admitted that much.’
‘I keep telling you I put an inflatable…’
‘Was Mrs Wilt inflatable?’
‘Was she fuck,’ said Wilt.
‘Right, so we’ll forget the inflatable doll crap…’
‘I wish to God I could,’ sold Wilt. ‘I’ll be only too glad when you get down there and dig it out. It will have burst of course with all that concrete on it but it will still be recognisably an inflatable plastic doll.’
Sergeant Yates leant across the table. ‘Let me tell you some thing. When we do get Mrs Wilt out of there, don’t imagine she’ll be unrecognisable.’ He stopped and stared intently at Wilt. ‘Not unless you’ve disfigured her.’
‘Disfigured her?’ said Wilt with a hallow laugh. ‘She didn’t need disfiguring the last time I saw her. She was looking bloody awful. She had on these lemon pyjamas and her face was all covered with…’ He hesitated. There was a curious expression on the Sergeant’s face.
‘Blood?’ he suggested. ‘Were you going to say “blood”?’
‘No,’ said Wilt, ‘I most certainly wasn’t. I was going to say powder. White powder and scarlet lipstick. I told her she looked fucking awful.’
‘You must have had a very happy relationship with her,’ said the Sergeant. ‘I don’t make a habit of telling my wife she looks fucking awful.’
‘You probably don’t have a fucking awful-looking wife,’ said Wilt making an attempt to conciliate the man.
‘What I have or don’t have by way of a wife is my business. She lies outside the domain of this discussion.’
‘Lucky old her,’ said Wilt, ‘I wish to God mine did.’ By two o’clock they had left Mrs Wilt’s appearance and got on to teeth and the question of identifying dead bodies by dental chart.
‘Look,’ said Wilt wearily, ‘I daresay teeth fascinate you but at this time of night I can do without them.’
‘You wear dentures or something?’
‘No. No. I don’t,’ said Wilt, rejecting the plural.
