Wilt w-1

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Sergeant Yates told Inspector Flint when he came on duty at seven in the morning. ‘This one is a hard nut to crack. If you hadn’t told me he hadn’t a record I’d have sworn he was an old hand and a good one at that. Are you sure Central Records have got nothing on him?’ Inspector Flint shook his head.

  ‘He hasn’t started squealing for a lawyer yet?’

  ‘Not a whimper. I tell you he’s either as nutty as a fruit cake or he’s been through this lot before.’

  And Wilt had. Day after day, year in year out. With Gasfitters One and Printers Three, with Day Release Motor Mechanics and Meat Two. For ten years he had sat in front of classes, answering irrelevant questions, discussing why Piggy’s rational approach to life was preferable to Jack’s brutishness, why Pangloss’ optimism was so unsatisfactory, why Orwell hadn’t wanted to shoot that blasted elephant or hang that man, and all the time fending off verbal attempts to rattle him and reduce him to the state poor old Pinkerton was in when he gassed himself. By comparison with Bricklayers Four, Sergeant Yates and Inspector Flint were child’s play. If only they would let him get some sleep he would go on running inconsequential rings round them.

  ‘I thought I had him once,’ the Sergeant told Flint as they conferred in the corridor. ‘I had got him on to teeth.’

  ‘Teeth?’ said the Inspector.

  ‘I was just explaining we can always identify bodies from their dental charts and he almost admitted she was dead. Then he got away again.’

  ‘Teeth, eh? That’s interesting. I’ll have to pursue that line of questioning. It maybe his weak link.’

  ‘Good luck on you,’ said the Sergeant. ‘I’m off to bed.’

  ‘Teeth?’ said Wit. ‘We’re not going through that again are we? I thought we’d exhausted that topic. The last bloke wanted to know if Eva had them in the past tense. I told him she did and…’

  ‘Wilt,’ said Inspector Flint, ‘I am not interested in whether or not Mrs Wilt had teeth. I presume she must have done. What I want to know is if she still has them. Present tense.’

  ‘I imagine she must have,’ said Wilt patiently. ‘You’d better ask her when you find her.’

  ‘And when we find her will she be in a position to tell us?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? All I can say is that if for some quite inexplicable reason she’s lost all her teeth there’ll be the devil to pay. I’ll never hear the end of it. She’s got a mania for cleaning the things and sticking bits of dental floss down the loo. You’ve got no idea the number of times I’ve thought I’d got worms.’

  Inspector Flint sighed. Whatever success Sergeant Yates had had with teeth, it was certainly eluding him. He switched to other matters.

  ‘Let’s go over what happened at the Pringsheims’ party again,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s not,’ said Wilt who had so far managed to avoid mentioning his contretemps with the doll in the bathroom. ‘I’ve told you five times already and it’s wearing a bit thin. Besides it was a filthy party. A lot of trendy intellectuals boosting their paltry egos.’

  ‘Would you say you were an introverted sort of man, Wilt? A solitary type of person?’

  Wilt considered the question seriously. It was certainly more to the point than teeth.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said finally. ‘I’m fairly quiet but I’m gregarious too. You have to be to cope with the classes, I teach.’

  ‘But you don’t like parties?’

  ‘I don’t like parties like the Pringsheims’, no.’

  ‘Their sexual behaviour outrages you? Fills you with disgust?’

  ‘Their sexual behaviour? I don’t know why you pick on that. Everything about them disgusts me. All that crap about Women’s Lib for one thing when all it means to someone like Mrs Pringsheim is that she can go around behaving like a bitch on heat while her husband spends the day slaving over a hot test tube and comes home to cook supper, wash up and is lucky if he’s got enough energy to wank himself off before going to sleep. Now if we’re talking about real Women’s Lib that’s another matter. I’ve got nothing against…’

  ‘Let’s just hold it there,’ said the Inspector. ‘Now two things you said interest me. One, wives behaving like bitches on heat. Two, this business of you wanking yourself off.’

  ‘Me?’ said Wilt indignantly. ‘I wasn’t talking about myself.’

  ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘So you don’t masturbate?’

  ‘Now look here, Inspector. You’re prying into areas of my private life which don’t concern you. If you want to know about masturbation read the Kinsey Report. Don’t ask me.’

  Inspector Flint restrained himself with difficulty. He tried another tack. ‘So when Mrs Pringsheim lay on the bed and asked you to have intercourse with her…’

  ‘Fuck is what she said,’ Wilt corrected him.’

  ‘You said no?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Wilt.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’

  ‘What, her lying there or me saying no?’

  ‘You saying no.’

  Wilt looked at him incredulously.

  ‘Odd?’ he said. ‘Odd? A woman comes in here and throws herself flat on her back on this table, pulls up her skirt and says “Fuck me, honey, prick me to the quick.” Are you going to leap onto her with a “Whoopee, let’s roll baby”? Is that what you mean by not odd?’

  ‘Jesus wept, Wilt,’ snarled the Inspector, ‘you’re walking a fucking tightrope with my patience.’

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ said Wilt. ‘All I do know is that your notion of what is odd behaviour and what isn’t doesn’t begin to make sense with me.’

  Inspector Flint got up and left the room. ‘I’ll murder the bastard, so help me God I’ll murder him,’ he shouted at the Duty Sergeant. Behind him in the interview Room Wilt put his head on the table and fell asleep.

  At the Tech Wilt’s absence was making itself felt in more ways than one. Mr Morris had had to take Gasfitters One at nine o’clock and had come out an hour later feeling that he had gained fresh insight into Wilt’s sudden excursion into homicide. The Vice-Principal was fighting off waves of crime reporters anxious to find out more about the man who was helping the police with their enquiries into a particularly macabre and newsworthy crime. And the Principal had begun to regret his criticisms of Liberal Studies to the Education Committee. Mrs Chatterway had phoned to say that she had found his remarks in the worst of taste and had hinted that she might well ask for an enquiry into the running of the Liberal Studies Department. But it was at the meeting of the Course Board that there was most alarm.

  ‘The visitation of the Council for National Academic Awards takes place on Friday,’ Dr Mayfield, Head of Sociology, told the committee. ‘They are hardly likely to approve the joint Honours degree in the present circumstances.’

  ‘If they had any sense they wouldn’t approve it in any circumstances,’ said Dr Board. ‘Urban Studies and Medieval Poetry indeed. I know academic eclecticism is the vogue these days but Helen Waddell and Lewis Mumford aren’t even remotely natural bedfellows. Besides the degree lacks academic content.’

  Dr Mayfield bristled. Academic content was his strong point. ‘I don’t see how you can say that,’ he said. ‘The course has been structured to meet the needs of students looking for a thematic approach.’

  ‘The poor benighted creatures we manage to lure away from universities to take this course wouldn’t know a thematic approach if they saw one,’ said Dr Board. ‘Come to think of it I wouldn’t either.’

  ‘We all have our limitations,’ said Dr Mayfield suavely.

  ‘Precisely’ said Dr Board, ‘and in the circumstances we should recognise them instead of concocting joint Honours degrees which don’t make sense for students who if their A-level results are anything to go by, haven’t any chance in the first place. Heaven knows I’m all for educational opportunity but–’

  ‘The po
int is,’ interjected Dr Cox, Head of Science, ‘that it is not the degree course as such that is the purpose of the visitation. As I understand it they have given their approval to the degree in principle. They are coming to look at the facilities the College provides and they are hardly likely to be impressed by the presence of so many murder squad detectives. That blue caravan is most off-putting.’

  ‘In any case with the late Mrs Wilt structured into the foundations…’ began Dr Board.

  ‘I am doing my best to get the police to remove her from…’

  ‘The syllabus?’ asked Dr Board.

  ‘The premises,’ said Dr Mayfield. ‘Unfortunately they seem to have hit a snag.’

  ‘A snag?’

  They have hit bedrock at eleven feet.’

  Dr Board smiled. ‘One wonders why there was any need for thirty-foot piles in the first instance if there is bedrock at eleven,’ he murmured.

  ‘I can only tell you what the police have told me,’ said Dr Mayfield. ‘However they have promised to do all they can to be off the site by Friday. Now I would just like to run over the arrangements again with you. The Visitation will start at eleven with an inspection of the library. We will then break up into groups to discuss Faculty libraries and teaching facilities with particular reference to our ability to provide individual tuition…’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought that was a point that needed emphasising,’ said Dr Board. ‘With the few students we’re likely to get we’re almost certain to have the highest teacher to student ratio in the country.’

  ‘If we adopt that approach the Committee will gain the impression that we are not committed to the degree. We must provide a united front,’ said Dr Mayfield ‘we can’t afford at this stage to have divisions among ourselves. This degree could mean our getting Polytechnic status.’

  There were divisions too among the men boring down on the building site. The foreman was still at home under sedation suffering nervous exhaustion brought on by his part in the cementation of a murdered woman and it was left to Barney to superintend operations. ‘There was this hand, see…’ he told the Sergeant in charge.

  ‘On which side?’

  ‘On the right,’ said Barney.

  Then we’ll go down on the left. That way if the hand is sticking out we won’t cut it off.’

  They went down on the left and cut off the main electricity cable to the canteen.

  ‘Forget that bleeding hand,’ said the Sergeant, ‘we go down on the right and trust to luck. Just so long as we don’t cut the bitch in half.’

  They went down on the right and hit bedrock at eleven feet.

  This is going to slow us up no end,’ said Barney. ‘Who would have thought there’d be rock down there.’

  ‘Who would have thought some nut would incorporate his misses in the foundation of a college of further education where he worked,’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘Gruesome,’ said Barney.

  In the meantime the staff had as usual divided into factions.

  Peter Braintree led those who thought Wilt was innocent and was joined by the New Left on the grounds that anyone in conflict with the fuzz must be in the right. Major Millfield reacted accordingly and led the Right against Wilt on the automatic assumption that anyone who incurred the support of the left must be in the wrong and that anyway the police knew what they were doing. The issue was raised at the meeting of the Union called to discuss the annual pay demand. Major Millfield proposed a motion calling on the union to support the campaign for the reintroduction of capital punishment. Bill Trent countered with a motion expressing solidarity with Brother Wilt. Peter Braintree proposed that a fund be set up to help Wilt with his legal fees. Dr Lomax, Head of Commerce, argued against this and pointed out that Wilt had, by dismembering his wife, brought the profession into disrepute. Braintree said Wilt hadn’t dismembered anyone and that even the police hadn’t suggested he had, and there was such a thing as a law against slander. Dr Lomax withdrew his remark. Major Millfield insisted that there were good grounds for thinking Wilt had murdered his wife and that anyway Habeas Corpus didn’t exist in Russia. Bill Trent said that capital punishment didn’t either. Major Millfield said, ‘Bosh.’ In the end, after prolonged argument, Major Millfield’s motion on hanging was passed by a block vote of the Catering Department while Braintree’s proposal and the motion of the New Left were defeated, and the meeting went on to discuss a pay increase of forty-five per cent, to keep Teachers in Technical institutes in line with comparably qualified professions. Afterwards Peter Braintree went down to the Police Station to see if there was anything Henry wanted.

  ‘I wonder if I might see him,’ he asked the Sergeant at the desk.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said the Sergeant, ‘Mr Wilt is still helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘But isn’t there anything I can get him? Doesn’t he need anything?’

  ‘Mr Wilt is well provided for,’ said the Sergeant, with the private reservation that what Wilt needed was his head read.

  ‘But shouldn’t he have a solicitor?’

  ‘When Mr Wilt asks for a solicitor he will be allowed to see one,’ said the Sergeant, ‘I can assure you that so far he hasn’t asked.’

  And Wilt hadn’t. Having finally been allowed three hours sleep he had emerged from his cell at twelve o’clock and had eaten a hearty breakfast in the police canteen. He returned to the Interview Room, haggard and unshaven, and with his sense of the improbable markedly increased.

  ‘Now then, Henry,’ said Inspector Flint, dropping an official octave nomenclaturewise in the hope that Wilt would respond, ‘about this blood.’

  ‘What blood?’ said Wilt, looking round the aseptic room.

  The blood on the walls of the bathroom at the Pringsheims’ house. The blood on the landing. Have you any idea how it got there? Any idea at all?’

  ‘None,’ said Wilt, ‘I can only assume that someone was bleeding.’

  ‘Right,’ said the Inspector, ‘who?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Wilt.

  ‘Quite, and you know what we’ve found?’

  Wilt shook his head.

  ‘No idea?’

  ‘None,’ said Wilt.

  ‘Bloodspots on a pair of grey trousers in your wardrobe’ said the Inspector. ‘Bloodspots. Henry, bloodspots.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Wilt. ‘I mean if you looked hard enough you’d be bound to find some bloodspots in anyone’s wardrobe. The thing is I wasn’t wearing grey trousers at that party. I was wearing blue jeans.’

  ‘You were wearing blue jeans? You’re quite sure about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So the bloodspots on the bathroom wall and the bloodspots on your grey trousers have nothing to do with one another?’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Wilt. ‘far be it from me to teach you your own business but you have a technical branch that specialises in matching bloodstains. Now may I suggest that you make use of their skills to establish…’

  ‘Wilt,’ said the Inspector, ‘Wilt, when I need your advice on how to conduct a murder investigation I’ll not only ask for it but resign from the force.’

  ‘Well?’ said Wilt.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Do they match? Do the bloodstains match’ The Inspector studied him grimly. ‘If I told you they did?’ he asked.

  Wilt shrugged. ‘I’m not in any position to argue,’ he said. ‘If you say they do, I take it they do.’

  ‘They don’t,’ said Inspector Flint, ‘but that proves nothing,’ he continued ‘before Wilt could savour his satisfaction. ‘Nothing at all. We’ve got three people missing. There’s Mrs Wilt at the bottom of that shaft…No, don’t say it. Wilt, don’t say it. There’s Dr Pringsheim and there’s Mrs Fucking Pringsheim.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Wilt appreciatively. ‘I definitely like it’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Mrs Fucking Pringsheim. It’s apposite.’

  ‘One of these days, Wilt,’ said the
Inspector softly, ‘you’ll go too far.’

  ‘Patiencewise? To use a filthy expression,’ asked Wilt.

  The Inspector nodded and lit a cigarette.

  ‘You know something, Inspector,’ said Wilt, beginning to feel on top of the situation, ‘you smoke too much. Those things are bad for you. You should try…’

  ‘Wilt,’ said the Inspector, ‘in twenty-five years in the service I have never once resorted to physical violence while interrogating a suspect but there comes a time, a time and a place and a suspect when with the best will in the world…’ He got up and went out. Wilt sat back in his chair and looked up at the fluorescent light. He wished it would stop buzzing. It was getting on his nerves.

  Chapter 12

  On Eel Stretch–Gaskell’s map-reading had misled him and they were nowhere near Frogwater Reach or Fen Broad–the situation was getting on everyone’s nerves. Gaskell’s attempts to mend the engine had had the opposite effect. The cockpit was flooded with fuel and it was difficult to walk on deck without slipping.

  ‘Jesus, G, anyone would think to look at you that this was a goddam oil rig,’ said Sally.

  ‘It was that fucking fuel line,’ said Gaskell, ‘I couldn’t get it back on.’

  ‘Say why try starting the motor with it off?’

  ‘To see if it was blocked.’

  ‘So now you know. What you going to do about it? Sit here till the food runs out? You’ve gotta think of something.’

  ‘Why me? Why don’t you come up with something?’

  ‘If you were any sort of a man…’

  ‘Shit,’ said Gaskell. ‘The voice of the liberated woman. Comes the crunch and all of a sudden I’ve got to be a man. What’s up with you, man-woman? You want us off here, you do it. Don’t ask me to be a man, uppercase M, in an emergency. I’ve forgotten how.’

  ‘There must be some way of getting help,’ said Sally.

  ‘Oh sure. You just go up top and take a crowsnest at the scenery. All you’ll get is a beanfeast of bullrushes.’ Saly climbed on top of the cabin and scanned the horizon. It was thirty feet away and consisted of an expanse of reeds.