Against that it was a hell of a long way to
have to walk.
On the other hand there was the river. It flowed through Slawford, and along the wall he
could see the roof of the boat-house and a far better method than trudging for ten miles
across fields occurred to him. He’d take the rowing boat and go downstream.
Behind him Ruth was putting her skills in tying people up to good use on Wilt. Having
made sure he wasn’t dead or dying she had bound his wrists together with several turns of
Elastoplast which wouldn’t leave any obvious marks like rope, and removed his jeans. Then
she dragged him over to the Volvo estate, in the process getting some of Wilt’s own blood
on to the Y-fronts, and by using two planks rolled him with great difficulty into the
back. Next she tied a handkerchief across his mouth so he could still breathe, and covered
him with newspapers and several cardboard boxes. Finally she took his knapsack and
jeans, locked the garage doors and returned to the house to wait for Harold to return.
After half an hour she called his name but there was no reply. She went out into the
garden and looked over the wall. There was a patch of crushed long grass where he must have
sat but no sign of him. He had evidently taken fright and scurried away. It was just as
well. She had to deal with the reporters at the gate. They could wait for a bit. She wanted
to see what was in the knapsack. She went back to the garage and by the time she’d been
through the bag she was completely bewildered. Wilt’s driving licence gave his address
as 45 Oakhurst Avenue, Ipford. Ipford? But Ipford was away to the south. How come the
wretched man had ended up in her garage? Like everything else it made no sense. On the
other hand, if she dumped him somewhere near Ipford he’d have a job explaining what he had
been doing without his trousers in a sleepy place like Meldrum Slocum. For ten long minutes
Mrs Rottecombe sat and considered the problem before making her decision.
An hour later she went down the drive with Wilfred and Pickles and showed the group of
media people there the supposed wounds the brutes from the _News on Sunday_ had inflicted
on Wilfred.
‘They trespassed on private property and tried to break into the house and then when
Pickles caught them they were foolish enough to kick her. You can’t do that to an English
bull terrier and not expect the little darling to defend herself, can you, sweetie?’
Pickles wagged her tail and looked pleased with herself. She liked being petted. Wilfred
was far too heavy to pick up but his hindquarters were impressively swathed in bandages.
‘One of the men attacked him with a knife,’ she explained. ‘That was a really horrid thing
to do.’
‘No, I’m not prepared to answer any questions,’ she said when one reporter began to ask
if it was true that–’I am far too upset. I can’t bear cruelty to animals and what those two
men did was quite dreadful. No, my husband is in London. If you want to talk to him, you’ll
find him there. I’m going to get some rest. It’s been a very distressing day. I’m sure you
can see that.’
What the reporters could see was that Butcher Cassidy and the Flashgun Kid must have
been completely insane to go anywhere near such fearsome dogs, and as for kicking the
bitch…well, they must have been bent on suicide with that enormous Wilfred around. As Mrs
Rottecombe went back to the house, opinion was divided among the men at the gate. Some
were delighted that Butcher and Flashgun had finally met their match while others seemed
to think they had shown immense courage, courage far beyond the call of duty, in pursuit of
a story. No one was prepared to follow their example and presently the convoy moved
off.
Mrs Rottecombe watched them go and then went back to the house to attend to Wilt.
She put his boots, socks and trousers into a garbage bag. She would dump them
have to walk.
On the other hand there was the river. It flowed through Slawford, and along the wall he
could see the roof of the boat-house and a far better method than trudging for ten miles
across fields occurred to him. He’d take the rowing boat and go downstream.
Behind him Ruth was putting her skills in tying people up to good use on Wilt. Having
made sure he wasn’t dead or dying she had bound his wrists together with several turns of
Elastoplast which wouldn’t leave any obvious marks like rope, and removed his jeans. Then
she dragged him over to the Volvo estate, in the process getting some of Wilt’s own blood
on to the Y-fronts, and by using two planks rolled him with great difficulty into the
back. Next she tied a handkerchief across his mouth so he could still breathe, and covered
him with newspapers and several cardboard boxes. Finally she took his knapsack and
jeans, locked the garage doors and returned to the house to wait for Harold to return.
After half an hour she called his name but there was no reply. She went out into the
garden and looked over the wall. There was a patch of crushed long grass where he must have
sat but no sign of him. He had evidently taken fright and scurried away. It was just as
well. She had to deal with the reporters at the gate. They could wait for a bit. She wanted
to see what was in the knapsack. She went back to the garage and by the time she’d been
through the bag she was completely bewildered. Wilt’s driving licence gave his address
as 45 Oakhurst Avenue, Ipford. Ipford? But Ipford was away to the south. How come the
wretched man had ended up in her garage? Like everything else it made no sense. On the
other hand, if she dumped him somewhere near Ipford he’d have a job explaining what he had
been doing without his trousers in a sleepy place like Meldrum Slocum. For ten long minutes
Mrs Rottecombe sat and considered the problem before making her decision.
An hour later she went down the drive with Wilfred and Pickles and showed the group of
media people there the supposed wounds the brutes from the _News on Sunday_ had inflicted
on Wilfred.
‘They trespassed on private property and tried to break into the house and then when
Pickles caught them they were foolish enough to kick her. You can’t do that to an English
bull terrier and not expect the little darling to defend herself, can you, sweetie?’
Pickles wagged her tail and looked pleased with herself. She liked being petted. Wilfred
was far too heavy to pick up but his hindquarters were impressively swathed in bandages.
‘One of the men attacked him with a knife,’ she explained. ‘That was a really horrid thing
to do.’
‘No, I’m not prepared to answer any questions,’ she said when one reporter began to ask
if it was true that–’I am far too upset. I can’t bear cruelty to animals and what those two
men did was quite dreadful. No, my husband is in London. If you want to talk to him, you’ll
find him there. I’m going to get some rest. It’s been a very distressing day. I’m sure you
can see that.’
What the reporters could see was that Butcher Cassidy and the Flashgun Kid must have
been completely insane to go anywhere near such fearsome dogs, and as for kicking the
bitch…well, they must have been bent on suicide with that enormous Wilfred around. As Mrs
Rottecombe went back to the house, opinion was divided among the men at the gate. Some
were delighted that Butcher and Flashgun had finally met their match while others seemed
to think they had shown immense courage, courage far beyond the call of duty, in pursuit of
a story. No one was prepared to follow their example and presently the convoy moved
off.
Mrs Rottecombe watched them go and then went back to the house to attend to Wilt.
She put his boots, socks and trousers into a garbage bag. She would dump them