Part 5 (1/2)

'Trying to pull social rank, are we? Coming the old high horse. It won't wash, not here and not with me. Now sit down or stand, just as you like, but you're going to answer some questions. First of all, did you know that 'Bobby Beat Me'...Ah, I see you did know the locals' name for him. Well, your little friend is very interesting about Thursday nights. Calls it 'Slap and Tickle Night' and would you be interested to know what he calls you? Ruthless mean anything to you, Ruth the Ruthless? Now, I wonder why he calls you that. Fits in with those filthy mags he's fond of. What do you say to that?'

What Mrs Rottecombe would have liked to say was unspeakable. 'I shall issue a writ for slander.'

The Superintendent smiled. There was blood on his teeth now. 'Very sensible of you. Nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And after all they do say there's no such thing as bad publicity.' He paused and looked at his notes. 'Now, the fire, the actual fire that is known to have started just after midnight. Are you prepared to swear that at midnight you were in the company of the accused at the Club?'

'I was at the Club, yes, and Mr Battleby was there too. The Club Secretary can testify to that. I would not say I was in his company, as you put it.'

'In that case I suppose he drove himself there.'

Mrs Rottecombe tried to be patronising. 'My dear Superintendent, I a.s.sure you I had absolutely nothing to do with the fire. The first I knew about it was when the Secretary called me to the phone.'

That hadn't worked either. It had merely infuriated the Superintendent. As soon as she left he got the Sergeant to call the _News on Sunday_ and the _Daily Rag_ and give them the word that there was a story involving a Shadow Minister's wife to be had at Meldrum Sloc.u.m. A juicy story involving arson and s.e.x. Having done that he went home. His nose had stopped bleeding.

She was therefore in no condition to be shaken awake at 8.30 by an obviously demented husband. She peered blearily up into his ashen face. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his head and had an awful intensity about them.

'What's the matter?' she mumbled blearily. 'What's happened, Harold?'

There was a moment's silence while the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement struggled to control himself and his wife slowly realised that he must have heard about the fire at the Manor.

'Happened? Happened? You're asking me what's happened?' he yelled when he could bring himself to say anything.

'Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am. And please don't bawl like that. And what are you doing here? You usually come home on Friday night.'

Mr Rottecombe's vicelike hands twitched convulsively in front of her. He had a terrible impulse to strangle the b.i.t.c.h. Even Ruth could tell that. Instead he controlled the urge by ripping the bedclothes off the bed and hurling them on to the floor.

'Go and look in the f.u.c.king garage,' he snarled and dragged her by the arm out of bed. For the first time in her married life Ruth the Ruthless was afraid of him. 'Go on, you b.i.t.c.h. Go and see what you've landed us in this time. And you don't need a f.u.c.king dressing gown.'

Mrs Rottecombe put her feet into a pair of slippers and tottered downstairs to the kitchen. For a second she paused by the door into the garage.

'What's wrong in there?' she asked.

The question was too much for Harold. 'Don't just stand there. Go!' he bellowed.

Mrs Rottecombe went. For several minutes she stood staring down at Wilt's body, her mind desperately trying to come to grips with yet another disaster. By the time she returned she had come to one conclusion. For once in her life she was innocent and in the crude parlance of her youth, she wasn't going to take the can back. She found Harold sitting at the kitchen table with a large brandy. Ruth took advantage of his att.i.tude.

'You don't seriously think I had anything to do with him being there,' she said. 'I've never seen the man in my life before.'

The statement galvanised her husband. He rose to his feet. 'I suppose it was too f.u.c.king dark,' he shouted. 'You pick up some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d...Was that swine Battleby too drunk to satisfy your s.a.d.i.s.tic needs so you find that bloke and...Dear G.o.d!'

The telephone was ringing in the study.

'I'll answer it,' said Ruth, feeling slightly more in control.

'Well? Who was it?' he asked when she came back.

'Only the _News on Sunday._ They want to interview you.'

'Me? That filthy rag? What the h.e.l.l about?'

Mrs Rottecombe took her time. 'I think we'd better have some coffee,' she said and busied herself at the stove with the electric kettle.

'Well, for goodness' sake, get on with it. What do they want to interview me about?'

For a moment she hesitated before deciding where to strike. 'Only about your bringing young men into the house.'

For a moment Harold Rottecombe was left speechless. The word 'only' did the damage. Incredulity struggled with fury. Then the dam burst.

'I didn't bring the b.a.s.t.a.r.d into the house, for Christ's sake. You did. I've never brought any young men to the house. And anyway he isn't young. He's fifty if he's a day. I don't believe this. I'm not hearing right. I can't be.'

'I'm only telling you what the man said. He said 'young men'. And that's not all. He also mentioned 'rent-boys',' said Mrs Rottecombe to deepen the crisis. It took the heat off her.

The MP's eyes bulged in his head. He looked as though he was going to have an apoplectic fit. For once his wife rather hoped he would. It would save a lot of very difficult explanations. Instead the phone in the hall rang again.

'I'll get it this time,' Harold yelled and stormed out of the kitchen. For a moment she heard him telling someone he'd already called a b.u.g.g.e.r to f.u.c.k off and leave him alone. Then she shut the door and poured herself a cup of coffee and planned her next move. Harold was a long time gone. He came back a chastened man.

'That was Charles,' he said grimly.

Mrs Rottecombe nodded. 'I thought it might be. Nothing like calling the Chairman of the Local Party a b.u.g.g.e.r and telling him to f.u.c.k off. And this was such a safe seat.'

The Member of Parliament for Otterton looked at her with loathing. Then he brightened up briefly and fought back. 'The good news is that your lover boy Battleby's been charged with a.s.saulting a police officer and is being held in custody pending the more serious charges of possessing obscene material of a paedophile nature, and very possibly arson. Apparently Meldrum Manor was burnt to the ground last night.'

'I know,' said Mrs Rottecombe coolly. 'I saw it afterwards. Anyway, that's not our problem. He'll probably dry out in prison.'

The phone ran again. Stunned by his wife's insouciance, Harold let her answer it.

'_Daily Graphic_ this time,' she announced when she returned. 'Wouldn't say why they wanted to interview you which means they're on the same track. Someone's been talking.'

Harold helped himself to another brandy with a shaking hand.

Mrs Rottecombe shook her head wearily. There were timesand this was one of themwhen she wondered how a man with so little gumption had done so well as a politician. No wonder the country had gone to the dogs. The phone rang again.

'For heaven's sake don't answer it,' Harold said.

'Of course we've got to answer it. We can't be seen to have cut ourselves off from the world. Now just leave this to me,' she told him. 'You'll only make a mess of things by shouting.'

She went back to the phone and Harold hurried through to his study and picked up the extension on his desk.

'No, I'm afraid he's still in London,' he heard her say only to learn that the caller, a reporter from the _Weekly Echo,_ had another source of information, and was she Mrs Rottecombe, wife of the Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement?