Wilt w-1

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘Confidential? What the hell do you mean confidential’

  ‘Well I don’t know really. It’s just that I couldn’t take it on myself to provide you with inside information…’ She stopped. Inspector Flint was staring at her with a quite horrible expression on his face.

  ‘Well, miss,’ he said finally, ‘while we’re on the topic of inside information, it may interest you to know that what has been inside your pork pies is by way of being inside information. Vital information.’

  ‘Vital information? I don’t know what you mean. Our pies contain perfectly wholesome ingredients.’

  ‘Wholesome?’ shouted the Inspector. ‘You call three human bodies wholesome? You call the boiled, bleached, minced and cooked remains of three murdered bodies wholesome?’

  ‘But we only use…’ the secretary began and fell sideways, off her chair in a dead faint.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ shouted the Inspector, ‘you’d think a silly bitch who can work in an abattoir wouldn’t be squeamish…’ Find out who the manager is and where he lives and tell him to come down here at the double.’

  He sat down in a chair while Sergeant Yates rummaged in the desk. ‘Wakey, wakey,’ he said, prodding the secretary with his foot. ‘If anyone has got a right to lie down on the job, it’s me. I’ve been on my feet for three days and nights and I’ve been an accessory after the fact of murder.’

  ‘An accessory?’ said Yates. ‘I don’t see how you can say that.’

  ‘Can’t you? Well what would you call helping to dispose parts of a murder victim? Concealing evidence of a crime?’

  ‘I never thought of it that way,’ said Yates.

  ‘I did,’ said the Inspector, ‘I can’t think of anything else.

  In his cell Wilt stared up at the ceiling peacefully. He was astonished that it had been so easy. All you had to do was tell people what they wanted to hear and they would believe you no matter how implausible your story might be. And three days and nights without sleep had suspended Inspector Flint’s disbelief with a vengeance. Then again Wilt’s hesitations had been timed perfectly and his final confession a nice mixture of conceit and matter-of-factness. On the details of the murder he had been coldly precise and in describing their disposal he had been a craftsman taking pride in his work. Every now and then when he got to a difficult spot he would veer away into a manic arrogance at once boastful and cowardly with ‘You’ll never be able to prove it. They’ll have disappeared without trace now. And the Harpic had come in useful once again, adding a macabre touch of realism about evidence being flushed down thousands of U-bends with Harpic being poured after it like salt from a salt cellar. Eva would enjoy that when he told her about it, which was more than could be said for Inspector Flint. He hadn’t even seen the irony of Wilt’s remark that while he had been looking for the Pringsheims they had been under his nose all the time. He had been particularly upset by the crack about gut reactions and the advice to stick to health foods in future. Yes, in spite of his tiredness Wilt had enjoyed himself watching the Inspector’s bloodshot eyes turn from glee and gloating self-satisfaction to open amazement and finally undisguised nausea. And when finally Wilt had boasted that they would never be able to bring him to trial without the evidence, Flint had responded magnificently.

  ‘Oh yes, we will,’ he had shouted hoarsely. ‘If there is one single pie left from that batch we’ll get it and when we do the Lab boys will…’

  ‘Find nothing but pork in it,’ said Wilt before being dragged off to his cell. At least that was the truth and if Flint didn’t believe it that was his own fault. He had asked for a confession and he had got one by courtesy of Meat one, the apprentice butchers who had spent so many hours of Liberal Studies explaining the workings of Sweetbreads Meat Factory to him and had actually taken him down there one afternoon to show him how it all worked. Dear lads. And how he had loathed them at the time. Which only went to show how wrong you could be about people. Wilt was just wondering if he had been wrong about Eva and perhaps she was dead when he fell asleep.

  In the churchyard Eva watched the Rev St John Froude walk down to the boathouse and start rowing towards the reeds. As soon as he had disappeared she made her way up the path towards the house. With the Vicar out of the way she was prepared to take the risk of meeting his wife. She stole through the doorway into the courtyard and looked about her. The place had a dilapidated air about it and a pile of empty bottles in one corner, whiskey and gin bottles, seemed to indicate that he might well be unmarried. Still clutching her ivy, she went across to the door, evidently the kitchen door, and knocked. There was no answer. She crossed to the window and looked inside. The kitchen was large, distinctly untidy and had all the hallmarks of a bachelor existence about it. She went back to the door and knocked again and she was just wondering what to do now when there was the sound of a vehicle coming down the drive.

  Eva hesitated for a second and then tried the door. It was unlocked. She stepped inside and shut the door as a milk van drove into the courtyard. Eva listened while the milkman put down several bottles and then drove away. Then she turned and went down the passage to the front hall. If she could find the phone she could ring Henry and he could come out in the car and fetch her. She would go back to the church and wait for him there. But the hall was empty. She poked her head into several rooms with a goad deal of care and found them largely bare of furniture or with dustcovers over chairs and sofas. The place was incredibly untidy too. Definitely the Vicar was a bachelor. Finally she found his study. There was a phone on the desk. Eva went over and lifted the receiver and dialled Ipford 66066. Then was no reply. Henry would be at the Tech. She dialled the Tech number and asked for Mr Wilt.

  ‘Wilt?’ said the girl on the switchboard. ‘Mr Wilt?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eva in a low voice.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’ said the girl.

  ‘Not there? But he’s got to be there.’

  ‘Well he isn’t.’

  ‘But he’s got to be. It’s desperately important I get in touch with him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.’ said the girl.

  ‘But…’ Eva began and glanced out of the window. The Vicar had returned and was walking up the garden path towards her, ‘Oh God,’ she muttered and put the phone down hurriedly. She turned and rushed out of the room in a state of panic. Only when she had made her way back along the passage to the kitchen did it occur to her that she had left her ivy behind in the study. There were footsteps in the passage. Eva looked frantically around, decided against the courtyard and went up a flight of stone steps to the first floor. There she stood and listened. Her heart was palpitating. She was naked and alone in a strange house with a clergyman and Henry wasn’t at the Tech when he should have been and the girl on the switchboard had sounded most peculiar, almost as though there was something wrong with wanting to speak to Henry. She had no idea what to do.

  In the kitchen the Rev St John Froude had a very good idea what he wanted to do; expunge for ever the vision of the inferno to which he had been lured by those vile things with their meaningless messages floating across the water. He dug a fresh bottle of Teachers out of the cupboard and took it back to his study what he had witnessed had been so grotesque, so evidently evil, so awful, so prescient of hell itself that he was in two minds whether it had been real or simply a waking nightmare. A man without a face, whose hands were tied behind his back, a woman with a painted face and a knife, the language…The Rev St John Froude opened the bottle and was about to pour a glass when his eye fell on the ivy Eva had left on the chair. He put the bottle down hastily and stared at the leaves. Here was another mystery to perplex him. How had a clump of ivy got on to the chair in his study? It certainly hadn’t been there when he had left the house. He picked it up gingerly and put it on his desk. Then he sat down and contemplated it with a growing sense of unease. Something was happening in his world that he could not understand. And what about the strange figure he had seen fli
tting about between the tombstones? He had quite forgotten her. The Rev St John Froude got up and went out on to the terrace and down the path to the church.

  ‘On a Sunday?’ shouted the manager of Sweetbreads. ‘On a Sunday? But we don’t work on a Sunday. There’s nobody here, The place is shut.’

  ‘It wasn’t last Sunday and there was someone here, Mr Kidney,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Kidley, please,’ said the manager. ‘Kidley with an L.’

  The Inspector nodded. ‘OK Mr Kidley, now what I’m telling you is that this man Wilt was here last Sunday and he…’

  ‘How did he get in?’

  ‘He used a ladder against the back wall from the car park.’

  ‘In broad daylight? He’d have been seen.’

  ‘At two o’clock in the morning, Mr Kidney.’

  ‘Kidley, Inspector, Kidley.’

  ‘Look Mr Kidley, if you work in a place like this with name like that you’re asking for it.’

  Mr Kidley looked at him belligerently. ‘And if you’re telling me that some bloody maniac came in here with three dead bodies last Sunday and spent the day using our equipment to convert them into cooked meat edible for human consumption under the Food Regulations Act, I’m telling you that that come under the head of…Head? What did he do with the heads?’ Tell me that?’

  ‘What do you do with heads, Mr Kidley?’ asked the Inspector.

  ‘That rather depends. Some of them go with the offal into the animal food bins…’

  ‘Right. So that’s what Wilt said he did with them. And you keep those in the No. 2 cold storage room. Am I right?’

  Mr Kidley nodded miserably. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘we do.’ He paused and gaped at the Inspector. ‘But there’s a world of difference between a pig’s head and a…’

  ‘Quite,’ said the Inspector hastily, ‘and I daresay you think someone was bound to spot the difference.’

  ‘Of course they would.’

  ‘Now I understand from Mr Wilt that you have an extremely efficient mincing machine…’

  ‘No,’ shouted Mr Kidley desperately. ‘No. I don’t believe it. It’s not possible. It’s…’

  ‘Are you saying he couldn’t possibly have…’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying he shouldn’t have. It’s monstrous. It’s horrible.’

  ‘Of course it’s horrible.’ said the Inspector. ‘The fact remains that he used that machine.’

  ‘But we keep our equipment meticulously clean.’

  ‘So Wilt says. He was definite on that point. He says he cleaned up carefully afterwards.’

  ‘He must have done,’ said Mr Kidley. ‘There wasn’t a thing out of place on Monday morning. You heard the foreman say, so.’

  ‘And I also heard this swine Wilt say that he made a list of where everything came from before he used it so that he could put it back exactly where he’d found it. He thought of everything.’

  ‘And what about our reputation for hygiene? He didn’t think of that, did he? For twenty-flue years we’ve been known for the excellence of our products and now this has to happen. We’ve been at the head of…’ Mr Kidley stopped suddenly and sat down.

  ‘Now then,’ said the Inspector, ‘what I have to know is who you supply to. We’re going to call in every pork pie and sausage…

  ‘Call them in? You can’t call them in,’ screamed Mr Kidley, ‘they’ve all gone.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean they’ve gone?’

  ‘What I say. They’ve gone. They’ve either been eaten or destroyed by now.’

  ‘Destroyed? You’re not going to tell me that there aren’t any left. It’s only five days since they went out.’

  Mr Kidley drew himself up. ‘Inspector, this is as old fashioned firm and we use traditional methods and a Sweetbreads pork pie is a genuine pork pie. It’s not one of your ersatz pies with preservatives that…’

  It was Inspector Flint’s turn to slump into a chair. ‘Am I to understand that your fucking pies don’t keep?’ he asked.

  Mr Kidley nodded. ‘They are for immediate consumption he said proudly. ‘Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s our motto. You’ve seen our advertisements of course.’

  Inspector Flint hadn’t.

  ‘Today’s pie with yesterday’s flavour, the traditional pie with the family filling.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ said Inspector Flint.

  Mr Gosdyke regarded Wilt sceptically and shook leis head ‘You should have listened to me,’ he said, ‘I told you not to talk.’

  ‘I had to say something,’ said Wilt. ‘They wouldn’t let me sleep and they kept asking me the same stupid questions over and over again. You’ve no idea what that does to you. It drive you potty.’

  ‘Frankly, Mr Wilt, in the light of the confession you have made I find it hard to believe there was any need to. A man who can, of his own free will make a statement like this to the police is clearly insane.’

  ‘But it’s nor true,’ said Wilt, ‘it’s all pure invention.’

  ‘With a wealth of such revolting detail? I must say I find that hard to believe. I do indeed. The bit about hip and thighs. It makes my stomach turn over.’

  ‘But that’s from the Bible.’ said Wilt, ‘and besides I had to put in the gory bits or they wouldn’t have believed me. Take the part where I say I sawed their…’

  ‘Mr Wilt, for God’s sake…’

  ‘Well, all I can say is you’ve never taught Meat One. I got it all from them and once you’ve taught them life can hold few surprises.’

  Mr Gosdyke raised an eyebrow. ‘Can’t it? Well I think I disabuse you of that notion,’ he said solemnly. ‘In the light of this confession you have made against my most earnest advice, and as a result of my firm belief that every word in it is true, I am no longer prepared to act on your behalf.’ He collected his papers and stood up. ‘You will have to get someone else.’

  ‘But, Mr Gosdyke, you don’t really believe all that nonsense about putting Eva in a pork pie, do you?’ Wilt asked.

  ‘Believe it? A man who can conceive of such a disgusting thing is capable of anything. Yes I do and what is more so do the police. They are this moment scouring the shops, the pubs and the supermarkets and dustbins of the entire county in search of pork pies.’

  ‘But if they find any it won’t do any good.’

  ‘It may also interest you to know that they have impounded five thousand cans of Dogfill, an equal number of Catkin and have begun to dissect a quarter of a ton of Sweetbreads Best Bangers. Somewhere in that little lot they are bound to find some trace of Mrs Wilt, not to mention Dr and Mrs Pringsheim.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is that I wish them luck.’ said Wilt.

  ‘And so do I,’ said Mr Gosdyke disgustedly and left the room. Behind him Wilt sighed. If only Eva would turn up. Where the hell could she have got to?

  At the Police Laboratories Inspector Flint was getting restive. ‘Can’t you speed things up a bit?’ he asked.

  The Head of the Forensic Department shook his head. ‘It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ he said, glancing significantly at another batch of sausages that had just been brought in. ‘So far not a trace. This could take weeks.’

  ‘I haven’t got weeks,’ said the Inspector, ‘he’s due in Court on Monday!

  ‘Only for remand and in any case you’ve got his statement.’ But Inspector Flint had his doubts about that. He had been looking at that statement and had noticed a number of discrepancies about it which fatigue, disgust and an overwhelming desire to get the filthy account over and done with before he was sick had tended to obscure at the time. For one thing Wilt’s scrawled signature looked suspiciously like Little Tommy Tucker when examined closely and there was a QNED beside it, which Flint had a shrewd idea meant Quod Non Erat Demonstrandum and in any case there were rather too many references to pigs for his policeman’s fancy and fuzzy pigs at that. Finally the information that Wilt had made a special request for two pork pies for lunch and had
specified Sweet- breads in particular suggested an insane cannibalism that might fit in with what he had said he had done but seemed to be carrying things too far. The word ‘provocation’ sprang to mind and since the episode of the doll Flint had been rather conscious of bad publicity. He read through the statement again and couldn’t make up his mind about it. One thing was quite certain. Wilt knew exactly how Sweetbreads factory worked. The wealth of detail he had supplied proved that. On the other hand Mr Kidley’s incredulity about the heads and the mincing machine had seemed, on inspection, to be justified. Flint had looked gingerly at the beastly contraption and had found it difficult to believe that even Wilt in a fit homicidal mania could have…Flint put the thought out his mind. He decided to have another little chat with Henry Wilt. Feeling like death warmed up he went back to the Interview Room and sent for Wilt.

  ‘How’s it going?’ said Wilt when be arrived. ‘Had any luck with the frankfurters yet? Of course you could always try your hand at black puddings…’

  ‘Wilt,’ interrupted the Inspector, ‘why did you sign statement Little Tommy Tucker?’

  Wilt sat down. ‘So you’ve noticed that at last, have you, very observant of you I must say.’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘So you did,’ said Wilt. ‘Let’s just say I thought it appropriate.’

  ‘Appropriate?’

  ‘I was singing. I think that’s the slang term for it isn’t it for my sleep, so naturally…’

  ‘Are you telling me you made all that up?’

  ‘What the hell do, you think I did? You don’t seriously think I would inflict the Pringsheims and Eva on an unsuspecting public in the form of pork pies, do you? I mean there must be some limits to your credulity.’

  Inspector Flint glared at him. ‘My God, Wilt,’ he said, ‘if I find you’ve deliberately fabricated a story…’

  ‘You can’t do very much more.’ said Wilt. ‘You’ve already charged me with murder. What more do you want? You drag me in here, you humiliate me, you shout at me, you keep me awake for days and nights bombarding me with questions about dog food, you announce to the world that I am helping you in your enquiries into a multiple murder thus leading every citizen in the country to suppose that I have slaughtered my wife and a beastly biochemist and…’