by Tom Sharpe
‘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 an 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 his 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 drives 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 not 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 can 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 Sweetbreads 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 of homicidal mania could have … Flint put the thought out of 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 he 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 that 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 was 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 …’
‘Shut up,’ shouted Flint. ‘I don’t care what you think. It’s what you’ve done and what you’ve said that worries me. You’ve gone out of your way to mislead me …’
‘I’ve done nothing of the sort,’ said Wilt. ‘Until last night I had told you nothing but the truth and you wouldn’t accept it. Last night I handed you, in the absurd shape of a pork pie, a lie you wanted to believe. If you crave crap and use illegal methods like sleep deprivation to get it you can’t blame me for serving it up. Don’t come in here and bluster. If you’re stupid that’s your problem. Go and find my wife.’
‘Someone stop me from killing the bastard,’ yelled Flint, as he hurled himself from the room. He went to his office and sent for Sergeant Yates. ‘Cancel the pie hunt. It’s a load of bull,’ he told him.
‘Bull?’ said the Sergeant uncertainly.
‘Shit,’ said Flint. ‘He’s done it again.’
‘You mean …’
‘I mean that that little turd in there has led us up the garden path again.’
‘But how did he know about the factory and all that?’
Flint looked up at him pathetically. ‘If you want to know why
he’s a walking encyclopaedia, you go and ask him yourself.’
Sergeant Yates went out and returned five minutes later. ‘Meat One,’ he announced enigmatically.
‘Meet won?’
‘A class of butchers he used to teach. They took him round the factory.’
‘Jesus,’ said Flint, ‘is there anybody that little swine hasn’t taught?’
‘He says they were most instructive.’
‘Yates, do me a favour. Just go back and find out all the names of the classes he’s taught. That way we’ll know what to expect next.’
‘Well I have heard him mention Plasterers Two and Gasfitters One …’
‘All of them, Yates, all of them. I don’t want to be caught out with some tale about Mrs Wilt being got rid of in the Sewage Works because he once taught Shit Two.’ He picked up the evening paper and glanced at the headlines.
POLICE PROBE PIES FOR MISSING WIFE.
‘Oh my God,’ he groaned. This is going to do our public image no end of good.’
*
At the Tech the Principal was expressing the same opinion at a meeting of the Heads of Departments.
‘We’ve been held up to public ridicule,’ he said. ‘First it is popularly supposed that we make a habit of employing lecturers who bury their unwanted wives in the foundations of the new block. Secondly we have lost all chance of attaining Polytechnic status by having the Joint Honours degree turned down by the CNAA on the grounds that those facilities we do provide are not such as befit an institution of higher learning. Professor Baxendale expressed himself very forcibly on that point and particularly on a remark he heard from one of the senior staff about necrophilia …’
‘I merely said …’ Dr Board began.
‘We all know what you said, Dr Board. And it may interest you to know that Dr Cox in his lucid moments is still refusing cold meat. Dr Mayfield has already tendered his resignation. And now to cap it all we have this.’
He held up a newspaper, across the top of whose second page there read
SEX LECTURES STUN STUDENTS.
‘I hope you have all taken good note of the photograph,’ said the Principal bitterly, indicating a large and unfortunately angled picture of Judy hanging from the crane. ‘The article goes on … well never mind. You can read it for yourselves. I would merely like answers to the following questions. Who authorized the purchase of thirty copies of Last Exit From Brooklyn for use with Fitters and Turners?’
Mr Morris tried to think who had taken FTs. ‘I think that must have been Watkins,’ he said. ‘He left us last term. He was only a part-time lecturer.’
‘Thank God we were spared him full-time,’ said the Principal. ‘Secondly which lecturer makes a habit of advocating to Nursery Nurses that they wear … er … Dutch Caps all the time?’
‘Well Mr Sedgwick is very keen on them,’ said Mr Morris.
‘Nursery Nurses or Dutch Caps?’ enquired the Principal.
‘Possibly both together?’ suggested Dr Board sotto voce.
‘He’s got this thing against the Pill,’ said Mr Morris.
‘Well please ask Mr Sedgwick to see me in my office on Monday at ten. I want to explain the terms under which he is employed here. And finally, how many lecturers do you know of who make use of Audio Visual Aid equipment to show blue movies to the Senior Secs?’
Mr Morris shook his head emphatically. ‘No one in my department,’ he said.
‘It says here that blue movies have been shown,’ said the Principal, ‘in periods properly allocated to Current Affairs.’
‘Wentworth did show them Women in Love,’ said the Head of English.
‘Well never mind. There’s just one more point I want to mention. We are not going to conduct an Evening Class in First Aid with particular reference to the Treatment of Abdominal Hernia for which it was proposed to purchase an inflatable doll. From now on we are going to have to cut our coats to suit our cloth.’
‘On the grounds of inflation?’ asked Dr Board.
‘On the grounds that the Education Committee has been waiting for years for an opportunity to cut back our budget,’ said the Principal. ‘That opportunity has now been given them. The fact that we have been providing a public service by keeping, to quote Mr Morris, “a large number of mentally unbalanced and potentially dangerous psychopaths off the streets” unquote seems to have escaped their notice.’
‘I presume he was referring to the Day Release Apprentices,’ said Dr Board charitably.
‘He was not,’ said the Principal. ‘Correct me if I am wrong, Morris, but hadn’t you in mind the members of the Liberal Studies Department?’
The meeting broke up. Later that day Mr Morris sat down to compose his letter of resignation.
19
From the window of an empty bedroom on the first floor of the Vicarage, Eva Wilt watched the Rev St John Froude walk pensively down the path to the church. As soon as he had passed out of sight she went downstairs and into the study. She would phone Henry again. If he wasn’t at the Tech he must be at home. She crossed to the desk and was about to pick up the phone when she saw the ivy. Oh dear, she had forgotten all about the ivy and she had left it where he was bound to have seen it. It was all so terribly embarrassing. She dialled 34 Parkview Avenue and waited. There was no reply. She put the phone down and dialled the Tech. And all the time she watched the gate into the churchyard in case the Vicar should return.
‘Fenland College of Arts and Technology,’ said the girl on the switchboard.
‘It’s me again,’ said Eva, ‘I want to speak to Mr Wilt.’
‘I’m sorry but Mr Wilt isn’t here.’
‘But where is he? I’ve dialled home and …’
‘He’s at the Police Station.’
‘He’s what?’ Eva said.
‘He’s at the Police Station helping the police with their enquiries …’
‘Enquiries? What enquiries?’ Eva shrieked.
‘Didn’t you know?’ said the girl. ‘It’s been in all the papers. He’s been and murdered his wife …’
Eva took the phone from her ear and stared at it in horror. The girl was still speaking but she was no longer listening. Henry had murdered his wife. But she was his wife. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have been murdered. For one horrible moment Eva Wilt felt sanity slipping from her. Then she put the receiver to her ear again.
‘Are you there?’ said the girl.
‘But I am his wife,’ Eva shouted. There was a long silence at the other end and she heard the girl telling someone that there was a crazy woman on the line who said she was Mrs Wilt and what ought she to do.
‘I tell you I am Mrs Wilt. Mrs Eva Wilt,’ she shouted, but the line had gone dead. Eva put the phone down weakly. Henry at the Police Station … Henry had murdered her … Oh God. The whole world had gone mad. And here she was naked in a vicarage at … Eva had no idea where she was. She dialled 999.
‘Emergency Services. Which department do you require?’ said the operator.
‘Police,’ said Eva. There was a click and a man’s voice came on.
‘Police here.’
‘This is Mrs Wilt,’ said Eva.
‘Mrs Wilt?’
‘Mrs Eva Wilt. Is it true that my husband has murdered … I mean has my husband … oh dear I don’t know what to say.’
‘You say you’re Mrs Wilt, Mrs Eva Wilt?’ said the man.
Eva nodded and then said, ‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ said the man dubiously. ‘You’re quite sure you’re Mrs Wilt?’
‘Of course I’m sure. That’s what I’m ringing about.’
‘Might I enquire where you’re calling from?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Eva. ‘You see I’m in this house and I’ve got no clothes and … oh dear.’ The Vicar was coming up the path on to the terrace.
‘If you could just give us the address.’
‘I can’t stop now,’ said Eva and put the phone down. For a moment she hesitated and then grabbing
the ivy from the desk she rushed out of the room.
*
‘I tell you I don’t know where she is,’ said Wilt. ‘I expect you’ll find her under missing persons. She has passed from the realm of substantiality into that of abstraction.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ asked the Inspector, reaching for his cup of coffee. It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning but he persisted. He had twenty-eight hours to get to the truth.
‘I always warned her that Transcendental Meditation carried potential dangers,’ said Wilt, himself in a no-man’s-land between sleeping and waking. ‘But she would do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Meditate transcendentally. In the lotus position. Perhaps she has gone too far this time. Possibly she has transmogrified herself.’
‘Trans what?’ said Inspector Flint suspiciously.
‘Changed herself in some magical fashion into something else.’
‘Jesus, Wilt, if you start on those pork pies again …’
‘I was thinking of something more spiritual, Inspector, something beautiful.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Ah, but think. Here am I sitting in this room with you as a direct result of going for walks with the dog and thinking dark thoughts about murdering my wife. From those hours of idle fancy I have gained the reputation of being a murderer without committing a murder. Who is to say but that Eva whose thoughts were monotonously beautiful has not earned herself a commensurately beautiful reward? To put it in your terms, Inspector, we get what we ask for.’
‘I fervently hope so, Wilt,’ said the Inspector.
‘Ah,’ said Wilt, ‘but then where is she? Tell me that. Mere speculation will not do …’
‘Me tell you?’ shouted the Inspector upsetting his cup of coffee. ‘You know which hole in the ground you put her in or which cement mixer or incinerator you used.’
‘I was speaking metaphorically … I mean rhetorically,’ said Wilt. ‘I was trying to imagine what Eva would be if her thoughts such as they are took on the substance of reality. My secret dream was to become a ruthless man of action, decisive, unhindered by moral doubts or considerations of conscience, a Hamlet transformed into Henry the Fifth without the patriotic fervour that inclines one to think that he would not have approved of the Common Market, a Caesar …’