property, it’s your own fault if you get bitten. There’s a sign by the gate. It
says quite clearly ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG’. You must have seen it. You ignored it and
trespassed and attacked a perfectly harmless family pet and then you are surprised when
it defends itself. You are a criminal. And what is that other fellow doing up in my
tree?’
Jones’s eyes rolled in his head. A woman who could call the murderous brute which had
been on the point of gnawing his leg off ‘a harmless family pet’ had to be clean off her
fucking head.
‘For Christ’s sake…’ he began but Mrs Rottecombe brushed his prayer aside.
‘Name and address,’ she snapped. ‘Both your names and addresses.’ Then realising she
was still in her dressing gown, she turned towards the house. ‘And just you wait where you
are,’ she said as she went. ‘I intend to call the police and have you both prosecuted for
trespass and cruelty to animals.’
The threat was too much for Flashgun. He sank back on to the horse manure and passed out.
It was left to Butcher Cassidy, now three branches further up the tree, to protest.
‘Cruelty to animals, you fucking bitch,’ he shouted at her as she led the chastened
Wilfred into the house. ‘You’re the one who’s going to be done for cruelty. We’ll fucking
crucify you. You see if we don’t. We’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.’
Mrs Rottecombe smiled and patted Wilfred. ‘Good dog, Wilfie. You’re a good dog, aren’t
you? Nasty man kicked you, didn’t he?’
She went into the house and fetched a tube of tomato puree from the kitchen. Holding him
by the collar she poured the stuff on to his back. Then she led him out into the garden
again and left him underneath the oak tree. He was still there when the ambulance came and
shortly afterwards the police. There was blood from Butch’s ankle all over the ground
under the tree and quite a lot on Wilfred’s back where it added authenticity to the
tomato puree. Mrs Rottecombe had achieved her object. In an emergency she was a
resourceful woman.
Chapter 14
The Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement sat in the grass against the wall with his
head in his hands. He knew now he should never have come home a day early. He was equally
certain about his marriage. He should never have come within a mile of the damned woman
who could let loose those terrible dogs on two reporters. The sounds of snarls and screams,
not to mention the knowledge that there was an unconscious man, his head covered in blood,
lying on the floor of the garage convinced him of that. Harold Rottecombe had no
intention of being an accessory after the fact of the poor devil being there and
possibly even of his murder. If that lot hit the headlines, as it was almost bound to now,
his position not only as Shadow Minister but also as an MP would be ended. And it was
all the fault of that insane bitch. He should never have married her. A new thought struck
him. There had been something genuine about her horror when she’d returned from the garage
which almost convinced him she hadn’t put him there. Cut that ‘almost’. She really hadn’t
known he was in there. In that case someone else was responsible. Harold Rottecombe
searched for another explanation and found one. Someone was out to ruin his career.
That was why the newspapers had been informed. Anyway it was too late to do anything about
that now. The first thing he had to do was to get back to London by train. There was no way he
could drive. A glance over the wall showed him the group of journalists and the TV men down
at the bottom of the drive. They would be there all day and the police from Oston would
undoubtedly come to the house. He couldn’t use the train station there. He’d have to get to
Slawford to catch the train to Bristol and London. The town was outside his constituency
and he’d be less likely to be recognised there.
says quite clearly ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG’. You must have seen it. You ignored it and
trespassed and attacked a perfectly harmless family pet and then you are surprised when
it defends itself. You are a criminal. And what is that other fellow doing up in my
tree?’
Jones’s eyes rolled in his head. A woman who could call the murderous brute which had
been on the point of gnawing his leg off ‘a harmless family pet’ had to be clean off her
fucking head.
‘For Christ’s sake…’ he began but Mrs Rottecombe brushed his prayer aside.
‘Name and address,’ she snapped. ‘Both your names and addresses.’ Then realising she
was still in her dressing gown, she turned towards the house. ‘And just you wait where you
are,’ she said as she went. ‘I intend to call the police and have you both prosecuted for
trespass and cruelty to animals.’
The threat was too much for Flashgun. He sank back on to the horse manure and passed out.
It was left to Butcher Cassidy, now three branches further up the tree, to protest.
‘Cruelty to animals, you fucking bitch,’ he shouted at her as she led the chastened
Wilfred into the house. ‘You’re the one who’s going to be done for cruelty. We’ll fucking
crucify you. You see if we don’t. We’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.’
Mrs Rottecombe smiled and patted Wilfred. ‘Good dog, Wilfie. You’re a good dog, aren’t
you? Nasty man kicked you, didn’t he?’
She went into the house and fetched a tube of tomato puree from the kitchen. Holding him
by the collar she poured the stuff on to his back. Then she led him out into the garden
again and left him underneath the oak tree. He was still there when the ambulance came and
shortly afterwards the police. There was blood from Butch’s ankle all over the ground
under the tree and quite a lot on Wilfred’s back where it added authenticity to the
tomato puree. Mrs Rottecombe had achieved her object. In an emergency she was a
resourceful woman.
Chapter 14
The Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement sat in the grass against the wall with his
head in his hands. He knew now he should never have come home a day early. He was equally
certain about his marriage. He should never have come within a mile of the damned woman
who could let loose those terrible dogs on two reporters. The sounds of snarls and screams,
not to mention the knowledge that there was an unconscious man, his head covered in blood,
lying on the floor of the garage convinced him of that. Harold Rottecombe had no
intention of being an accessory after the fact of the poor devil being there and
possibly even of his murder. If that lot hit the headlines, as it was almost bound to now,
his position not only as Shadow Minister but also as an MP would be ended. And it was
all the fault of that insane bitch. He should never have married her. A new thought struck
him. There had been something genuine about her horror when she’d returned from the garage
which almost convinced him she hadn’t put him there. Cut that ‘almost’. She really hadn’t
known he was in there. In that case someone else was responsible. Harold Rottecombe
searched for another explanation and found one. Someone was out to ruin his career.
That was why the newspapers had been informed. Anyway it was too late to do anything about
that now. The first thing he had to do was to get back to London by train. There was no way he
could drive. A glance over the wall showed him the group of journalists and the TV men down
at the bottom of the drive. They would be there all day and the police from Oston would
undoubtedly come to the house. He couldn’t use the train station there. He’d have to get to
Slawford to catch the train to Bristol and London. The town was outside his constituency
and he’d be less likely to be recognised there.
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