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
