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…Was 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.
