question?’
Each time the detective had said she was just making sure she hadn’t committed suicide and she had finally left the light on all the time. After three such sleepless nights Ruth Rottecombe was almost prepared to confess she had murdered Harold. Instead she refused to answer any more questions.
‘I did not, repeat not, murder Harold. I didn’t harm him in any way at all. I have no idea who did, either. And that’s my last word.’
‘All right, we’ll talk about something we know you did do,’ the senior detective said. ‘We have proof that you drove to Ipford New Estate with a man in the back of your Volvo estate and dumped him there. We also have proof that he had been in your garage and had been bleeding. You know all that so–’
‘I’ve told you I won’t answer any more questions!’ Ruth shouted hoarsely.
‘I’m not asking any. I’m telling you what is undeniable evidence.’
‘Oh, God, why can’t you stop? I know all that and it is deniable.’
‘Right, but what you don’t know is that we have a witness who saw you drag the man out of the back of your car and dump him in the road. A very reliable witness indeed.’ He paused to let this sink into Ruth Rottecombe’s weary mind before going on. ‘What we now need to know is why if, as you’ve said repeatedly, you don’t have any idea what he had done to land up lying unconscious and bleeding in your garage–you drove him down to that New Estate.’
Ruth began to cry. This time she wasn’t faking the tears. ‘Harold found him there when he came back from London. At least he said he had. He was out of his mind and tried to pin the blame on me. He was shouting and raving and said I’d picked the man up to have sex with him. I thought he was going to kill me.’
‘Go on. Give us the rest.’
‘He made me go out to the garage and look at the bloody man. I’d never seen him in my life. I swear I hadn’t.’
‘What happened then?’
‘The telephone rang and it was some bloody newspaper said they wanted to interview Harold about bringing young men to the house, you know, rent-boys.’
For another hour they went on with the questions and got nowhere. In the end they left her sobbing in the Interrogation Room with her head on the table, and went into another office.
‘Could be true except for one thing,’ said the senior Scotland Yard man. ‘That bit of cloth from this fellow Wilt’s jeans found in the garage and the fact that they discovered those jeans in the lane behind the Manor House two days after the fire and they hadn’t been there when they searched the area the first time. Second, he wasn’t wearing any when he was picked up in Ipford. On top of that all his gear, the boots, socks and knapsack, were in the attic of the Rottecombe house.’
‘You think she planted the jeans there?’
‘I’m damned sure someone did.’
‘Christ, what a case. And London’s demanding a quick arrest,’ said the Superintendent.
They were interrupted by a Woman Sergeant. ‘She’s passed out or is pretending to have,’ she told them. ‘We’ve put her back in the cell.’
The CID man picked up the phone and called Ipford. When he put it down again he shook his head. ‘They’ve moved the bloke Wilt to a mental hospital for what they call ‘assessment’, whatever that means. I suppose to see if he’s a psychopath.’ He paused and considered the possibilities. There didn’t seem to be many rational ones.
One of the other detectives took up the theme. ‘Whoever set this little lot up had to
