Wilt In Nowhere Part 12

'What in G.o.d's name did they ask that for? It's crazy. It's not possible.'

'Said they were doing a project on exploitation of coloured folk in the South for the school they go to back in Britain and they had to fill in a questionnaire,' Maybelle said.

'And what did you tell them, for Chrissake?'

'I'd rather not say, Sheriff. Nothing more than the truth.'

The Sheriff shuddered. If the truth was anything like what he'd heard at a thousand decibels up near the lake, Wally Immelmann would have to get the h.e.l.l out of Wilma but fast. Either that or be lucky to die in the Coronary Unit.

Chapter 30.

Two days later Wilt was sitting in a chair explaining what it felt like not to know who he was to a doctor who seemed to find Wilt's symptoms quite common and of rather less interest than Wilt himself.

'And you really don't know who you are? Are you quite sure about that?' the psychiatrist asked for the fifth time. 'Are you absolutely certain?'

Wilt considered the question very carefully. It wasn't so much the question as the way it was put that concerned him. It had a familiar tone to it. In his years of teaching confirmed and convincing liars he had used that tone himself too often not to recognise what it meant. Wilt changed his tactics.

'Do you know who you are?' he asked.

'As a matter of fact, I do. My name is Dr Dedge.'

'That's not what I meant,' said Wilt. 'That is your ident.i.ty. But do you know who you are?'

Dr Dedge regarded him with a new interest. Patients who distinguished between personal ident.i.ty and who they were came into a rather different category from his usual ones. On the other hand, the fact that Wilt's notes mentioned 'Police inquiries following head injuries' still inclined him to believe he was feigning amnesia. Dr Dedge took up the challenge.

'When you say 'who you are' what exactly do you mean? 'Who' surely implies personal ident.i.ty, doesn't it?'

'No,' said Wilt. 'I know perfectly well that I am Henry Wilt of 45 Oakhurst Avenue. That is my ident.i.ty and my address. What I want to know is who Henry Wilt is.'

'You don't know who Henry Wilt is?'

'Of course I don't, any more than I know how I came to be in the ward.'

'It says here that you suffered head injuries'

'I know that,' Wilt interrupted. 'I've got bandages round my head. Not that that is proof positive but even the most overworked NHS doctor would hardly make the mistake of treating my head when I'd broken my ankle. At least I don't suppose so. Of course anything is possible these days. On the other hand, who I am is still a mystery to me. Are you sure you really know who you are, Dr Dredger?'

The psychiatrist smiled professionally. 'My name happens to be Dedge, not Dredger.'

'Well, mine is Wilt and I still don't know who I am.'

Dr Dedge decided to go back to the safer ground of clinical questions. 'Do you remember what you were doing when this neurological insult occurred?' he asked.

'Not offhand I don't,' said Wilt, after a moment's hesitation. 'When would that be, this neurological insult?'

'When you suffered the head injuries.'

'Bit more of an insult being beaten over the head, I'd have thought. Still, if that's what you call it...'

'That is the technical term for what occurred to you, Mr Wilt. Now do you know what you were doing just before the incident?'

Wilt pretended to think about the question. Not that it needed much thinking about. He had no idea. 'No,' he said finally.

'No? Nothing at all?'

Wilt shook his head carefully. 'Well, I can remember watching the news and thinking how wrong it was to stop Meals on Wheel to those old people in Burling just to save on the Council Tax. Then Evathat's my wifecame in and said supper was ready. I can't remember much after that. Oh, and I washed the car some time and the cat had to go to the vet again. I can't remember much after that.'

The psychiatrist made a number of notes and nodded encouragingly. 'Any little thing will be of help, Henry,' he said. 'Take your time.'

Wilt did. He needed to find out how far back his memory would have been affected by a neurological insult. He'd nearly fallen into a trap when he'd said he didn't know his own name. Clearly that didn't fit the pattern. Not knowing who he was, on the other hand, still had some mileage to it. Wilt tried again.

'I remember...no, you wouldn't be interested in that.'

'Let me be the one who decides that, Henry. You just tell me what you remember.'

'I can't, Doctor, I mean...well...I just can't,' he said, adopting the shifty whine he had heard so often in the Disadvantaged Single s.e.x Seminars he had been forced to attend as part of Ms Lashskirt's Gender Affirmation Awareness Programme. Wilt was using that whine to his own advantage now.

In front of him Dr Dedge softened noticeably. He felt safer with that whine. It smacked of dependence. 'I'm interested in anything you have to say,' he said.

Wilt doubted it. What Dr Dedge was interested in was finding out if he was shamming. 'Well, it's just that I'm sitting in this room and suddenly I feel like I don't know why I'm here or who I am. It doesn't make sense. Sounds so silly, doesn't it?'

'No, not at all. This is a not uncommon occurrence. Does this sensation last long?'

'I don't know, Doctor. I can't remember. I just know I have it and it doesn't make any sense.'

'And have you discussed it with your wife?' Dr Dedge asked.

'Well, no. Can't say I have,' said Wilt sheepishly. 'I mean, she's got enough on her plate without me not knowing who I am. What with the quads and all.'

'Mrs Wilt...? Are you telling me you have quadruplets?' asked the psychiatrist.

Wilt gave a sickly smile. 'Yes, Doctor, four of them. All girls. And even the cat's neutered. Got no tail either. So I just sit there and try to think who I am.'

By the time Wilt went back to the ward, Dr Dedge had no doubt that he was a deeply disturbed man. As he explained to Dr Soltander, the neurological insult had resulted in the emergence of partial amnesia as a complicating factor to a preexisting depressive condition. And a bed had become available in an isolation room because the previous patient, a youth on a drug charge, had hanged himself. Dr Soltander was glad to hear it. He had had enough of Wilt and more importantly he had had far more than enough of Mrs Wilt who had been besieging his ward and disturbing the terminally ill patients. 'Best place for him and those b.l.o.o.d.y policemen.'

'He's in Psychiatry, is he? Well, I can't say I'm surprised,' Inspector Flint said when he found Wilt was no longer in Geriatrics 3 next day. 'If you ask me, he should have been certified years ago when he stuffed that inflatable doll down the hole. All the same, I don't think he's half as sick as he's making out. I think he's holding something back. I didn't like the way he was acting when I was there.'

'In what way, sir?' Sergeant Yates asked.

'Pretending he doesn't know who he is and he's never seen me in his life. Bulls.h.i.t, Yates, pure Grade A unadulterated bulls.h.i.t. And he doesn't know Eva Wilt either? My eye and Betty Martin he doesn't. He could have had half his brain removed and he'd still remember her. Mrs Wilt isn't someone even a brain-damaged coma case would be capable of forgetting. No, our Henry was having her on. And me. Why, Yates, why? You tell me.'

But the Sergeant couldn't. He was still having trouble with that 'brain-damaged coma case' and trying to work out how one could be in a coma without having some sort of brain damage. Didn't make sense. But then half the things Inspector Flint said these days didn't make sense to Sergeant Yates. Must be getting old or something.

'Any new suspects out at New Estate?'

The Sergeant shook his head. 'The place is loaded with junkies and hooligans. All those empty tower blocks. It would take a week or more to search them all. Anyway, they could have moved on somewhere else.'

'True,' said Flint and sighed. 'Probably stoned out of their minds and don't even remember doing him over. What beats me is why he wasn't wearing trousers.'

'Could be he was looking for a bit of' Yates began.

The Inspector stopped him. 'If you're suggesting Wilt's gay, don't. Not that I'd blame him if he was with a wife like Eva. Can't be much fun having it off with a woman that size. We've checked with the staff at the Tech and, if what I've heard is true, he's reckoned to be practically a h.o.m.ophobe. No, you can forget that idea. There's something weird about this case. Anyway, that phone call from Oston gives us a line on what he's been up to. I got the impression that this case isn't a simple case of our Wilty being mugged. That Super spoke about Scotland Yard being called in which means they've got bigger fish to fry. Much bigger fish.'

'Torching a manor house is big enough. I know Wilt's not right in the head but I can't see him doing that.'

'He didn't. That's out of the question. Wilt wouldn't know how to light a bonfire let alone a b.l.o.o.d.y great house. That's definitely not on. And as for leaving his gear behind too. Not even Wilt would do that. Still, it does give us some sort of lead on where he's been.'

The phone rang again in the next office. 'It's for you,' Yates told him.

Flint went through and took it. Ten minutes later he returned with a smile. 'Looks as if we're off the case. They're sending two CID men up from London to interrogate our Mr Wilt. I wish them luck. They going to need it if they think they can get any information out of the lunatic.'

Chapter 31.

'This blasted business is getting out of hand,' the Chief Constable told the Superintendent at Oston. He'd driven over in his wife's small car to convey this message unostentatiously. The disappearance of the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement had aggravated an already difficult situation. The media had returned in force and were encamped outside Leyline Lodge in even larger numbers than before. 'I've had the Home Secretary on the line asking where the precious Shadow Minister has got to and the Shadow Cabinet are practically hysterical at the adverse publicity they are getting. First Battleby and the arson and paedophile charges, then the ghastly woman with those d.a.m.ned bull terriers and now that idiot Rottecombe's disappeared. They're sending someone up from Scotland Yard or MI5. I have an idea there's something else. Has to do with the Americans but hopefully it's not our pigeon. Now then, I want those media blighters out of the way when you pick her up. But it's got to be done tactfully. Any ideas?'

The Superintendent tried to think. 'I suppose we could create some sort of diversion and get them away from the house for a time,' he said finally. 'It would have to be something pretty sensational. Ruth the Ruthless is the one they're after. And I can't say I blame them. She'll make good headlines.'

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the Chief Constable considering the damage the wretched Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement and his s.a.d.i.s.tic wife had inflicted on the county.

The Superintendent was more preoccupied with his idea of a diversion. 'If only some lunatics would let off a bomb. The Real IRA would be perfect. The media horde would be off like a shot...'

The Chief Constable shook his head. One gaggle of media hounds was bad enough, a second swarming over the place would only bring more awful publicity. 'I can't take responsibility for anything like that. Besides, where the h.e.l.l could you get a bomb? You've got to come up with something less complicated.'

'I suppose so. I'll let you know,' he told the Chief Constable who'd got up to go.

'What we don't want is anything that's sensational. You understand that?'

The Superintendent said he did. He sat on in his office thinking dark thoughts and cursing the Rottecombes. An hour later a Woman Police Sergeant came in and asked if he'd like a cup of coffee. She was slim and fair-haired and had good legs. By the time she'd fetched the stuff they called coffee he'd made up his mind. He crossed the room and locked the door.

'Take a seat, Helen,' he said. 'I've got a job for you. You don't have to take it but...'

By the time he had finished the Sergeant had reluctantly agreed. 'What about those two bull terriers? I mean, I don't want to be torn to bits by them. What they did to those two reporters wasn't funny.'

'We'll have taken care of them. Dropped some doped meat into the garden from a helicopter. They'll be snoring their heads off in no time at all.'

'I certainly hope so,' said the Sergeant.

'We'll go in this evening when those fellows down by the gate are taking it in turns to go to the pub.'

Inside Leyline Lodge Ruth Rottecombe was expecting the raid. She'd been phoned a number of times by the police asking her to go to Oston to answer some more questions and had, after the first call, simply not bothered to answer the phone. She took only those she could identify on the LCD panel. She'd also been bothered by a great many calls from the Central Office demanding to know where the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement had got to.

For a moment Ruth was tempted to say he was probably holed up with a rent-boy but Harold still had his uses if only she could find him. The journalists besieging the Lodge made it impossible to leave the house. She'd been up to the skylight to check and had seen something else that scared her. Two uniformed policemen in the field across the old stone wall. They weren't hiding, either, just making it obvious she was under surveillance. But why? It had to be something to do with what the forensic men had found on the floor of the garage and taken away in plastic bags. That was the only explanation she could think of. Bloodstained earth from the man's head wound. That had to be the answer. She cursed herself for not having scrubbed the floor. As the sun began to sink in the West Ruth the Ruthless sat in her husband's study and tried to think what to do. About the only thing she could come up with was to lay the blame on Harold. After all, his Jaguar had been parked over the patch of oil and blood and there was nothing to indicate she had moved it there.

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 h.e.l.l 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 m.u.f.fled.

'What she say?'

For a moment they lifted her head and this time Ruth called them f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.hes 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.

Chapter 32.

Flint's hopes that the two men from London would take him off the case had been dashed. In the first place they weren't from Scotland Yard or, if they were, the shortage of officers in London was even more desperate than he'd supposed. The Metropolitan Police had to be recruiting abroad, in this case in America. That was his first impression when they entered his office with Hodge grinning in the background. The impression didn't last. The two Americans sat down unasked and stared at Flint for a moment. They evidently didn't like what they were seeing.

'You Inspector Flint?' the bigger of the two asked.

'I am,' said Flint. 'And who may you be?'