Rottecombe, wife of the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement?
Mrs Rottecombe said coldly that she was.
‘And at 4 a.m. you were in the company of a man called Battleby when the police seized some whips, a gag and handcuffs together with a quantity of paedophile S&M magazines in his possession?’ It was less a question than a statement of fact.
Mrs Rottecombe lost her cool. And her head. ‘That’s a downright lie!’ she shouted. Harold held the phone away from his ear. ‘If you print that I’ll sue for libel.’
‘The source is good,’ said the man. ‘Very good. We’ve traced the call. This bloke Battleby’s been charged. Got an arson rap against him too. Slugged a policeman. Source told us you’ve been giving ‘Bobby Beat Me’ his medicine for some time. Like with whips and him handcuffed. Known as ‘Ruthless Ruth Rottecombe’ locally, according to our information.’
Mrs Rottecombe slammed the phone down. Harold waited a moment and heard the reporter ask someone if they’d got that on tape. The answer was, ‘Yes. And we’ve got a story too. He is the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement. Juicy’s the word and the bitch’s reaction confirms the info we got from the cops.’
Harold Rottecombe replaced the extension. His hand was shaking uncontrollably now. His entire career was at stake. He went through to the kitchen.
‘I knew this would happen!’ he shouted. ‘You have to get involved with the local piss artist…Beat Me Bobby and Ruth the Ruthless. Oh, God. And you have to threaten them with libel. What a bloody mess.’ He helped himself to some cooking brandy. The other bottle was empty. Mrs Rottecombe eyed him icily. Power and influence were slipping away fast. She had to find a socially acceptable explanation for her actions. It was too late to deny she’d associated with the wretched Battleby but she could always claim she’d only done so to stop him losing his driving licence. Or was he simply a drunk? An idiot who could leave those porn mags in his Range Rover where they could be seen had to be out of his mind. And accidentally set fire to his own house? Ruth Rottecombe knew that full-blown alcoholics frequently behaved insanely and Bob had been blind drunk last night. That was undoubtedly true. He’d been mad enough to hit that Superintendent but all the same…Not that she cared about Battleby. She had herself to think of. And Harold. He was up to his eyebrows too but even so a Shadow Minister still had influence. At least for the moment. There had to be some way of using that influence in a damage-limitation exercise. Finally there was that unconscious man in the garage. Mrs Rottecombe applied her mind to the problem. She had to keep Harold out of the scandal. As the MP gulped the brandy his wife acted. She snatched the bottle from him.
‘No more of that,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve got to drive back to London immediately and you’ll be over the limit if you have any more. I’ll stay here and deal with any further inquiries.’
‘All right, I’ll go, I’ll go,’ he said but it was already too late. A car had turned in to the drive and had pulled up outside the front door. Two men got out and one was carrying a camera. With a curse Harold Rottecombe dashed towards the back of the house and out across the lawn past the swimming-pool and over the low wall into the artificial ditch beyond it. He’d be hidden there. Ruth was right. He mustn’t be known to have come back from London. He’d be off like a shot the moment they left. He sat down with his back to the wall and looked out across the rolling countryside with the dark thread of the river running in the distance down to the sea. It had all looked so peaceful before. It didn’t now.
At the front door events were about to prove him right. Mrs Rottecombe’s feelings for investigative journalists had developed from intense dislike to downright fury. She was followed by Wilfred and Pickles. The bull terriers had sensed the atmosphere of
