‘Did Mrs Wilt?’
‘No,’ said Wilt, ’she was always very…’
‘I thank you,’ said Sergeant Yates, ‘I knew it would come out in the end.’
‘What would?’ said Wilt, his mind still on teeth.
‘That “was”. The past tense. That’s the give away. Right, so you admit she’s dead. Let’s go on from there.’
‘I didn’t say anything of the sort. You said “Did she wear dentures?” and I said she didn’t…’
‘You said “she was”. It’s that “was” that interests me. If you had said “is” it would have been different’
‘It might have sounded different,’ said Wilt, rallying his defences, ‘but it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference to the facts.’
‘Which are?’
‘That my wife is probably still around somewhere alive and kicking…’
‘You don’t half give yourself away, Wilt,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Now it’s “probably” and as for “kicking” I just hope for your sake we don’t find she was still alive when they poured that concrete down on top of her. The Court wouldn’t take kindly to that.’
‘I doubt if anyone would,’ said Wilt. ‘Now when I said “probably” what I meant was that if you had been held in custody for a day and half the night being questioned on the trot by detectives you’d begin to wonder what had happened to your wife. It might even cross your mind that, all evidence to the contrary, she might not be alive. You want to try sitting on this side of the table before you start criticising me for using terms like “probable”. Anything more improbable than being accused of murdering your wife when you know for a fact that you haven’t you can’t imagine.’
‘Listen, Wilt,’ said the Sergeant, ‘I’m not criticising you for your language. Believe me I’m not. I’m merely trying as patiently as I can to establish the facts.’
‘The facts are these’ said Wilt. ‘Like a complete idiot I made the mistake of dumping an inflatable doll down the bottom of a pile shaft and someone poured concrete in and my wife is away from home and…’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Sergeant Yates told Inspector Flint when he came on duty at seven in the morning. ‘This one is a hard nut to crack. If you hadn’t told me he hadn’t a record I’d have sworn he was an old hand and a good one at that. Are you sure Central Records have got nothing on him?’ Inspector Flint shook his head.
‘He hasn’t started squealing for a lawyer yet?’
‘Not a whimper. I tell you he’s either as nutty as a fruit cake or he’s been through this lot before.’
And Wilt had. Day after day, year in year out. With Gasfitters One and Printers Three, with Day Release Motor Mechanics and Meat Two. For ten years he had sat in front of classes, answering irrelevant questions, discussing why Piggy’s rational approach to life was preferable to Jack’s brutishness, why Pangloss’ optimism was so unsatisfactory, why Orwell hadn’t wanted to shoot that blasted elephant or hang that man, and all the time fending off verbal attempts to rattle him and reduce him to the state poor old Pinkerton was in when he gassed himself. By comparison with Bricklayers Four, Sergeant Yates and Inspector Flint were child’s play. If only they would let him get some sleep he would go on running inconsequential rings round them.
‘I thought I had him once,’ the Sergeant told Flint as they conferred in the corridor. ‘I had got him on to teeth.’
‘Teeth?’ said the Inspector.
‘I was just explaining we can always identify bodies from their dental charts and he
