She’d just reached this conclusion when she heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive. It wasn’t the usual police car but an ambulance. What the hell was an ambulance doing outside the house? And where on earth were Wilfred and Pickles? They usually went into the hall when a car arrived. She found them in their baskets in the kitchen, fast asleep. She prodded them with her foot but they didn’t stir. That was strange but before she could do anything to wake them the ambulance had turned in the driveway and had backed up to the front door. For a brief moment Ruth Rottecombe thought they must have found Harold. She opened the door and a moment later had been hustled into the back of the ambulance by two hefty policewomen dressed as nurses and was being held face down on a stretcher. Four constables had entered the house only to return carrying the bull terriers, still sound asleep in their baskets. They joined her on the floor. Ruth tried to turn her head but failed.
‘Where are the keys of the Volvo?’ a woman asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Ruth tried to scream but her face was pressed against the canvas and her words were muffled.
‘What she say?’
For a moment they lifted her head and this time Ruth called them fucking bitches before being shoved down again.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find them,’ the Woman Sergeant called Helen said and got on the walkie-talkie. ‘Just see you open the gate when I come down in the Volvo and clear that mob out of the way. I’ll be moving fast.’
As the rear doors of the ambulance were slammed shut she went into the house and the ambulance drove off at high speed. Ten minutes later she emerged wearing Ruth Rottecombe’s skirt and twin set. She had the keys of the Volvo and was driving very fast when she swung through the open gate, nearly taking a reporter with her. As he leapt to one side she turned to the left at speed and took a side road to Oston.
‘Which hospital they going to?’ a cameraman who had taken refuge in the hedge asked one of the cops on the gate.
‘Blocester, I’d say. That’s where emergency cases go. Wouldn’t be anywhere else. You turn right on the main road,’ he said and padlocked the gate. The media mob ran for their cars and set off in pursuit. The leading car was stopped by a patrol car a mile further on and the driver was threatened with dangerous driving. Behind it the other cars skidded to a halt. A mile ahead the ambulance turned left, slowed down and waited in a lay-by for the Volvo. By the time the reporters’ cars reached the T-junction and were heading for Blocester, Ruth Rottecombe had been transferred to the Volvo. And at Oston Police Station she was taken through to a cell that had been occupied by a drunk who had puked the previous night. It still stank of vomit. Ruth had slumped on to the metal bed bolted to the floor and with her head between her hands was staring at the floor. Outside, the empty ambulance had turned and was moving at normal speed towards Blocester. After three hours she was escorted to the Superintendent’s office, demanding to know why she had been treated in this outrageous fashion and promising her husband would be making official complaint to the Home Secretary.
‘That’s going to be a little difficult,’ came the answer. ‘You want to know why?’
Ruth Rottecombe did.
‘Because he’s dead. We’ve found his body and it looks very much as though he was murdered.’ He paused to let this news sink in. As Ruth sagged in her chair and was apparently going to faint he went on. ‘Take her back to her cell. She’s had a tiring day. We’ll question her in the morning.’ There was no sympathy in his voice.
