by Tom Sharpe
‘I’m afraid it can’t be helped. Whoever put her down there made a good job of it. Still, we’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible.’
Out of the window the Principal could see four police cars, a fire engine and a big blue van. ‘This is really most unfortunate,’ he murmured.
‘Murder always is,’ said the Inspector, and got to his feet. ‘It’s in the nature of the thing. In the meantime we are sealing off the site and we’d be grateful for your cooperation.’
‘Anything you require,’ said the Principal, with a sigh.
*
In the Staff Room the presence of so many uniformed men peering down a pile hole provoked mixed reactions. So did the dozen policemen scouring the building site, stopping now and then to put things carefully into envelopes, but it was the arrival of the dark blue caravan that finally clinched matters.
‘That’s a Mobile Murder Headquarters,’ Peter Fenwick explained. ‘Apparently some maniac has buried a woman at the bottom of one of the piles.’
The New Left, who had been clustered in a corner discussing the likely implications of so many paramilitary Fascist pigs, heaved a sigh of unmartyred regret but continued to express doubts.
‘No, seriously,’ said Fenwick, ‘I asked one of them what they were doing. I thought it was some sort of bomb scare.’
Dr Cox, Head of Science, confirmed it. His office looked directly on to the hole. ‘It’s too dreadful to contemplate,’ he murmured. ‘Every time I look up I think what she must have suffered.’
‘What do you suppose they are putting into those envelopes?’ asked Dr Mayfield.
‘Clues,’ said Dr Board, with evident satisfaction. ‘Hairs. Bits of skin and bloodstains. The usual trivial detritus of violent crime.’
Dr Cox hurried from the room and Dr Mayfield looked disgusted. ‘How revolting,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it possible that there has been some mistake? I mean why should anyone want to murder a woman here?’
Dr Board sipped his coffee and looked wistfully at him. ‘I can think of any number of reasons,’ he said happily. ‘There are at least a dozen women in my Evening Class whom I would cheerfully beat to death and drop down holes. Sylvia Swansbeck for one.’
‘Whoever did it must have known they were going to pour concrete down today,’ said Fenwick. ‘It looks like an inside job to me.’
‘One of our less community-conscious students perhaps,’ suggested Dr Board, ‘I don’t suppose they’ve had time to check if any of the staff are missing.’
‘You’ll probably find it had nothing to do with the Tech,’ said Dr Mayfield. ‘Some maniac …’
‘Come now, give credit where credit is due,’ interrupted Dr Board. ‘There was obviously an element of premeditation involved. Whoever the murderer was … is, he planned it pretty carefully. What puzzles me is why he didn’t shovel earth down on top of the wretched woman so that she couldn’t be seen. Probably intended to but was disturbed before he could get around to it. One of those little accidents of fate.’
In the corner of the Staff Room Wilt sat and drank coffee, conscious that he was the only person not staring out of the window. What the hell was he to do? The sensible thing would be to go to the police and explain that he had been trying to get rid of an inflatable doll that someone had given him. But would they believe him? If that was all that had happened why had he dressed it up in a wig and clothes? And why had he left it inflated? Why hadn’t he just thrown the thing away? He was just rehearsing the pros and cons of the argument when the Head of Engineering came in and announced that the police intended boring another hole next to the first one instead of digging down through the concrete.
‘They’ll probably be able to see bits of her sticking out the side,’ he explained. ‘Apparently she had one arm up in the air and with all that concrete coming down on top of her there’s a chance that arm will have been pressed against the side of the hole. Much quicker that way.’
‘I must say I can’t see the need for haste,’ said Dr Board. ‘I should have thought she’d be pretty well preserved in all that concrete. Mummified I daresay.’
In his corner Wilt rather doubted it. With twenty tons of concrete on top of her even Judy who had been an extremely resilient doll was hardly likely to have withstood the pressure. She would have burst as sure as eggs were eggs in which case all the police would find was the empty plastic arm of a doll. They would hardly bother to dig a burst plastic doll out.
‘And another thing,’ continued the Head of Engineering, ‘if the arm is sticking out they’ll be able to take fingerprints straight away.’
Wilt smiled to himself. That was one thing they weren’t going to find on Judy, fingerprints. He finished his coffee more cheerfully and went off to a class of Senior Secretaries. He found them agog with news of the murder.
‘Do you think it was a sex killing?’ a small blonde girl in the front row asked as Wilt handed out copies of This Island Now. He had always found the chapter on the Vicissitudes of Adolescence appealed to Senior Secs. It dealt with sex and violence and was twelve years out of date but then so were the Senior Secretaries. Today there was no need for the book.
‘I don’t think it was any sort of killing,’ said Wilt, taking his place behind the desk.
‘Oh but it was. They saw a woman’s body down there,’ the small blonde insisted.
‘They thought they saw something down there that looked like a body,’ said Wilt. ‘That doesn’t mean it was one. People’s imaginations play tricks with them.’
‘The police don’t think so,’ said a large girl whose father was something in the City. ‘They must be certain to go to all that trouble. We had a murder on our golf course and all they found were bits of body cut up and put in the water hazard on the fifteenth. They’d been there six months. Someone sliced a ball on the dogleg twelfth and it went into the pond. They fished out a foot first. It was all puffy and green …’ A pale girl from Wilstanton fainted in the third row. By the time Wilt had revived her and taken her to the Sick Room, the class had got on to Crippen, Haigh and Christie. Wilt returned to find them discussing acid baths.
‘… and all they found were her false teeth and gallstones.’
‘You seem to know a lot about murder,’ Wilt said to the large girl.
‘Daddy plays bridge with the Chief Constable,’ she explained. ‘He comes to dinner and tells super stories. He says they ought to bring back hanging.’
‘I’m sure he does,’ said Wilt grimly. It was typical of Senior Secs that they knew Chief Constables who wanted to bring back hanging. It was all mummy and daddy and horses with Senior Secretaries.
‘Anyway, hanging doesn’t hurt,’ said the large girl. ‘Sir Frank says a good hangman can have a man out of the condemned cell and on to the trap with a noose around his neck and pull the lever in twenty seconds.’
‘Why confine the privilege to men?’ asked Wilt bitterly. The class looked at him with reproachful eyes.
‘The last woman they hanged was Ruth Ellis,’ said the blonde in the front row.
‘Anyway with women it’s different,’ said the large girl.
‘Why?’ said Wilt inadvisedly.
‘Well it’s slower.’
‘Slower?’
‘They had to tie Mrs Thomson to a chair,’ volunteered the blonde. ‘She behaved disgracefully.’
‘I must say I find your judgements peculiar,’ said Wilt. ‘A woman murdering her husband is doubtless disgraceful. The fact that she puts up a fight when they come to execute her doesn’t strike me as disgraceful at all. I find that …’
‘It’s not just that,’ interrupted the large girl, who wasn’t to be diverted.
‘What isn’t?’ said Wilt.
‘It’s being slower with women. They have to make them wear waterproof pants.’
Wilt gaped at her in disgust. ‘Waterproof what?’ he asked without thinking.
‘Waterproof pants,’ said the large girl.
‘Dear God,’ said Wilt.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ said the girl. ‘Anyone would think I had said something beastly.’
In the corridor Wilt leant against the wall and felt sick. Those fucking girls were worse than Gasfitters. At least Gasfitters didn’t go in for such disgusting anatomical details and besides Senior Secs all came from so-called respectable families. By the time he felt strong enough to face them again the hour had ended. Wilt went back into the classroom sheepishly and collected the books.
*
‘Name of Wilt mean anything to you? Henry Wilt?’ asked the Inspector.
‘Wilt?’ said the Vice-Principal, who had been left to cope with the police while the Principal spent his time more profitably trying to offset the adverse publicity caused by the whole appalling business. ‘Well, yes it does. He’s one of our Liberal Studies lecturers. Why? Is there …’
‘If you don’t mind, sir. I’d just like a word with him. In private.’
‘But Wilt’s a most inoffensive man,’ said the Vice-Principal. ‘I’m sure he couldn’t help you at all.’
‘Possibly not but all the same …’
‘You’re not suggesting for one moment that Henry Wilt had anything to do with …’ the Vice-Principal stopped and studied the expression on the Inspector’s face. It was ominously neutral.
‘I’d rather not go into details,’ said Inspector Flint, ‘and it’s best if we don’t jump to conclusions.’
The Vice-Principal picked up the phone. ‘Do you want him to come across to the … er … caravan?’ he asked.
Inspector Flint shook his head. ‘We like to be as inconspicuous as possible. If I could just have the use of an empty office.’
‘There’s an office next door. You can use that.’
*
Wilt was in the canteen having lunch with Peter Braintree when the Vice-Principal’s secretary came down with a message.
‘Can’t it wait?’ asked Wilt.
‘He said it was most urgent.’
‘It’s probably your Senior Lectureship come through at last,’ said Braintree brightly. Wilt swallowed the rest of his Scotch egg and got up.
‘I doubt that,’ he said, and went wanly out of the canteen and up the stairs. He had a horrid suspicion that promotion was the last thing the Vice-Principal wanted to see him about.
*
‘Now, sir,’ said the Inspector when they were seated in the office, ‘my name is Flint. Inspector Flint, CID, and you’re Mr Wilt? Mr Henry Wilt?’
‘Yes,’ said Wilt.
‘Now, Mr Wilt, as you may have gathered we are investigating the suspected murder of a woman whose body is believed to have been deposited at the bottom of one of the foundation holes for the new building. I daresay you know about it.’ Wilt nodded. ‘And naturally we are interested in anything that might be of assistance. I wonder if you would mind having a look at these notes.’
He handed Wilt a piece of paper. It was headed ‘Notes on Violence and the Break-Up of Family Life’, and underneath were a number of sub-headings.
1 Increasing use of violence in public life to attain political ends.
a Bombing
b Hijacking
c Kidnapping
d Assassination
2 Ineffectuality of Police Methods in combating Violence.
a Negative approach. Police able only to react to crime after it has taken place.
b Use of violence by police themselves.
c Low level of intelligence of average policeman.
d Increasing use of sophisticated methods such as diversionary tactics by criminals.
3 Influence of media. TV brings crime techniques into the home.
There was more. Much more. Wilt looked down the list with a sense of doom.
‘You recognize the handwriting?’ asked the Inspector.
‘I do,’ said Wilt, adopting rather prematurely the elliptical language of the witness box.
‘You admit that you wrote those notes?’ The Inspector reached out a hand and took the notes back.
‘Yes.’
‘They express your opinion of police methods?’
Wilt pulled himself together. ‘They were jottings I was making for a lecture to Sandwich-Course Trainee Firemen,’ he explained. ‘They were simply rough ideas. They need amplifying of course …’
‘But you don’t deny you wrote them?’
‘Of course I don’t. I’ve just said I did, haven’t I?’
The Inspector nodded and picked up a book. ‘And this is yours too?’
Wilt looked at Bleak House. ‘It says so, doesn’t it?’
Inspector Flint opened the cover. ‘So it does,’ he said with a show of astonishment, ‘so it does.’
Wilt stared at him. There was no point in maintaining the pretence any longer. The best thing to do was to get it over quickly. They had found that bloody book in the basket of the bicycle and the notes must have fallen out of his pocket on the building site.
‘Look, Inspector,’ he said, ‘I can explain everything. It’s really quite simple. I did go into that building site …’
The Inspector stood up. ‘Mr Wilt, if you’re prepared to make a statement I think I should warn you …’
*
Wilt went down to the Murder Headquarters and made a statement in the presence of a police stenographer. His progress to the blue caravan and his failure to come out again were noted with interest by members of the staff teaching in the Science block, by students in the canteen and by twenty-five fellow lecturers gaping through the windows of the Staff Room.
9
‘Goddam the thing,’ said Gaskell, as he knelt greasily beside the engine of the cruiser, ‘you’d think that even in this pre-technological monarchy they’d fit a decent motor. This contraption must have been made for the Ark.’
‘Ark Ark the Lark,’ said Sally, ‘and cut the crowned heads foolery. Eva’s a reginaphile.’
‘A what?’
‘Reginaphile. Monarchist. Get it. She’s the Queen’s Bee so don’t be anti-British. We don’t want her to stop working as well as the motor. Maybe it isn’t the con rod.’
‘If I could only get the head off I could tell,’ said Gaskell.
‘And what good would that do? Buy you another?’ said Sally, and went into the cabin where Eva was wondering what they were going to have for supper. ‘Tarbaby is still tinkering with the motor. He says it’s the con rod.’
‘Con rod?’ said Eva.
‘Only connect, baby, only connect.’
‘With what?’
‘The thigh bone’s connected to the knee bone. The con rod’s connected to the piston and as everyone knows pistons are penis symbols. The mechanized male’s substitute for sex. The Outboard Motor Syndrome. Only this happens to be inboard like his balls never dropped. Honestly, Gaskell is so regressive.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Eva.
Sally lay back on the bunk and lit a cigar. ‘That’s what I love about you, Eva. You don’t know. Ignorance is blissful, baby. I lost mine when I was fourteen.’
Eva shook her head. ‘Men,’ she said disapprovingly.
‘He was old enough to be my grandfather,’ said Sally. ‘He was my grandfather.’
‘Oh no. How awful.’
‘Not really,’ said Sally, laughing, ‘he was an artist. With a beard. And the smell of paint on his smock and there was this studio and he wanted to paint me in the nude. I was so pure in those days. He made me lie on this couch and he arranged my legs. He was always arranging my legs and then standing back to look at me and painting. And then one day when I was lying there he came over and bent my legs back and kissed me and then he was on top of me and his smock was up and …’
Eva sat and listened, fascinated. She could visualize it all so clearly, even the smell of paint in the
studio and the brushes. Sally had had such an exciting life, so full of incident and so romantic in a dreadful sort of way. Eva tried to remember what she had been like at fourteen and not even going out with boys and there was Sally lying on a couch with a famous artist in his studio.
‘But he raped you,’ she said finally. ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’
‘The police? You don’t understand. I was at this terribly exclusive school. They would have sent me home. It was progressive and all that but I shouldn’t have been out being painted by this artist and my parents would never have forgiven me. They were so strict.’ Sally sighed, overcome by the rigours of her wholly fictitious childhood. ‘And now you can see why I’m so afraid of being hurt by men. When you’ve been raped you know what penile aggression means.’
‘I suppose you do,’ said Eva, in some doubt as to what penile aggression was.
‘You see the world differently too. Like G says, nothing’s good and nothing’s bad. It just is.’
‘I went to a lecture on Buddhism once,’ said Eva, ‘and that’s what Mr Podgett said. He said—’
‘Zen’s all wrong. Like you just sit around waiting. That’s passive. You’ve got to make things happen. You sit around waiting long enough, you’re dead. Someone’s trampled all over you. You’ve got to see things happen your way and no one else’s.’
‘That doesn’t sound very sociable,’ said Eva. ‘I mean if we all did just what we wanted all the time it wouldn’t be very nice for other people.’
‘Other people are hell,’ said Sally. ‘That’s Sartre and he should know. You do what you want is good and no moral kickback. Like G says, rats are the paradigm. You think rats go around thinking what’s good for other people?’
‘Well no, I don’t suppose they do,’ said Eva.
‘Right. Rats aren’t ethical. No way. They just do. They don’t get screwed up thinking.’
‘Do you think rats can think?’ asked Eva, now thoroughly engaged in the problems of rodent psychology.