Wilt in Nowhere

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?’

They looked disparagingly round the office before answering. ‘American Embassy. Undercover,’ they said in unison and flashed ID cards so briefly Flint couldn’t read them.

‘We understand you’ve been interrogating a suspect called Wilt,’ the thinner man said.

But Flint had been riled. He was damned if he was going to be questioned by two Americans who wouldn’t identify themselves politely. Not with Hodge gloating in the background.

‘You can understand what you like,’ he said grimly and glared at Hodge. ‘Ask him. He’s the person who thinks he knows.’

‘He’s told us. The Superintendent has been very co-operative.’

It was on the tip of Flint’s tongue to say Hodge’s co-operation wasn’t worth a fly’s fart but he restrained himself. If these arrogant bastards wanted to pin a drug-dealing charge on Henry Wilt he was going to let them walk into the morass of misunderstanding the moronic Hodge would provide. He had better things to do. Like find out why Wilt had been assaulted and found half-naked in the New Estate.

He got up and walked past the two Americans. ‘If you want any information I’m sure the Super will give it to you,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘He’s the drugs expert.’

He went out and down to the canteen and had a cup of tea overlooking the car park. Presently Hodge and the two men came into view and climbed into a car with darkened windows parked next to his own. Flint moved back to another table where he could see them but remain out of sight himself. After five minutes the car was still there. The Inspector gave them another ten. No movement. So they were waiting to see where he went. The buggers could sit there all bloody day. He got up, went downstairs and out the front door and walked to the bus station and caught a bus going to the hospital. He sat at the back in a thoroughly belligerent mood.

‘Anyone would think this was Iraq,’ he muttered to himself and was assured by an intense woman in the next seat that it wasn’t and was he all right?

‘Schizophrenia,’ he said and looked at her in a distinctly sinister manner. The woman got off at the next stop and Flint felt better. He’d learnt something from Henry Wilt after all: the gift of confusing people.

By the time he reached the hospital and the bus turned round he’d begun to devise his new tactics. Hodge and those two arrogant Yanks would be bound to go up to 45 Oakhurst Avenue and ask Eva or, if she wasn’t there, the quads, where Wilty was and as sure as eggs were eggs she’d say, ‘At the hospital.’ Flint went into the empty bus shelter and took out his mobile and dialled the number he knew so well.

Eva answered.

Flint put his handkerchief over the mouthpiece and assumed what he hoped was a high-pitched la-di-da voice. ‘Is that Mrs Wilt?’ he asked.

Eva said it was.

‘I’m calling from the Methuen Mental Hospital. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband Mr Henry Wilt has been transferred to the Serious Head Injuries Unit for an exploratory operation and–’ He got no further. Eva gave an awful wail. Flint waited a moment and then went on.

‘I’m afraid he’s in no condition to have any visitors for the next three days. We’ll keep you informed of his progress. I repeat, he’s to have no visitors no matter who they are. Please ensure he is not disturbed by anyone. We are particularly anxious no attempt is made by the police to question him. He’s in no condition to be put under any pressure. Is that clear?’

It was an unnecessary question. Eva was sobbing noisily and in the background the quads were asking what the matter was. Flint cut the mobile off and went up to the hospital with a smile on his face. If Hodge and those two American goons turned up at Oakhurst Avenue they’d get a rough ride from Eva Wilt.

What Ruth Rottecombe was getting was a very rough ride indeed. Now that Harold’s battered body had been found still being buffeted by the waves on the rocks of the North Cornish coast near Morwenstow, and the local doctor’s original finding that the blow on his head had been inflicted before he drowned had been confirmed by a forensic expert helicoptered down from London, the police were taking a serious view of his death.

So were the Special Branch men sent down to assist the local police at Oston. They were particularly interested in the connecting evidence that the blood of the man named Wilt found on the New Estate in Ipford matched that on cloth found in the garage at Leyline Lodge and on the jeans Ruth had dumped in the lane behind Meldrum Manor. Worst of all from Ruth’s point of view was the fact that the number-plate of her Volvo estate had been recorded by a motorway camera as she’d driven back from the New Estate at nearly 100 m.p.h. in an attempt to get home before dawn. The finding of Wilt’s knapsack in the attic added to the evidence against her. For the first time she wished to hell Harold hadn’t been Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement. That fact made the police investigation very high priority indeed. Shadow Ministers who died in suspicious, very suspicious, circumstances meant that the rules of interrogation could be stretched. And to avoid any further intrusions by the media she had been moved from Oston to Rossdale.

At the same time the police methodically searched Leyline Lodge and took away a number of canes and any heavier objects which could have been used to inflict the head wound on Harold Rottecombe’s head before he had, as they imagined, been pushed unconscious into the river. Urged on by the Party Central Committee officials they dismissed the possibility that the Shadow Minister’s death had been accidental.

‘He drowned in the river and that’s for sure,’ the senior CID Inspector told the police group dealing with the case. ‘Forensic checked the water in his lungs and it wasn’t sea water. They’re absolutely definite about that. They can’t be certain of the date he died but it was almost certainly a week to ten days ago. Probably more. That’s one thing we know. Secondly, his Jag is still in the garage so he didn’t drive down to the coast and chuck himself off the cliffs. That goes without saying. Another thing, his wife had driven the car or moved it at any rate because her fingerprints were on the steering-wheel, weren’t they?’

The Superintendent from Oston confirmed this. ‘They indicated she was the last person to use the car,’ he said.

Then there was the blood on the floor of the Volvo estate where Wilt had bled. ‘Which confirms what she was doing in Ipford. So we’ve got her on any number of charges, and more importantly this bloke Wilt had the same type of head wound as her husband. So we go on questioning her round the clock until she breaks. Oh, and one other thing, we’ve been looking into her background and it stinks. False birth certificate, prostitute specialising in S&M, she’s done the lot. As hard as they come.’

‘Hasn’t she asked to phone her lawyer?’ another detective asked.

The CID Chief Inspector smiled. ‘Phoned her husband’s lawyer and strangely enough he’s not available. Says he’s on holiday. Well, that’s what he’s told me. Gone to France. Very wise of him. She can have legal aid, of course. Some dimmy who’ll do her more harm than good and she knows it so she’s refused.’

In the Interrogation Room Ruth the Ruthless was refusing to answer questions too.