Wexford 10 - A Sleeping Life by Ruth Rendell

Author:Ruth Rendell
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi

Once again he got home early with a free evening ahead.

Such a thing rarely happened to him in the middle of a murder case. There was nothing to do but wait and wonder. Though not to select or discard from a list of suspects, for he had none, nor attempt to read hidden meanings and calculated falsehoods between the lines of witnesses’ statements. He had no witnesses. All he had were four keys and a missing car; a wallet that beyond all doubt now had been lost on a bus; and a tale of a phone call overheard by a man who, against all reasonable probability, loved withered middle-aged gawky Rhoda Comfrey so intensely that he had killed her from jealousy, not a very promising collection of objects and negativities and conjectures.

The river was golden in the evening light, having on its shallow rippling surface a patina like that on beaten bronze. There were dragonflies in pale blue or speckled armour, and the willow trailed his hoar leaves in the grassy stream.

‘Wouldn’t it be nice,’ said Robin 'if the river went through your garden?’

‘My garden would have to be half a mile longer,’ said Wexford.

Water rats having failed to appear, the little boys had taken off sandals and socks and were paddling. It was fortunate that Wexford, rather against his will, had consented to remove his own shoes, roll up his trousers and join them. For Ben, playing boats with a log of willow wood, leant over too far and toppled in up to his neck. His grandfather had him out before he had time to utter a wail.

‘Good thing it’s so warm. You’ll dry off on the way back.’

‘Grandad carry.’

Robin looked anything but displeased. ‘There’ll be an awful row.’

‘Not when you tell them how brave grandad jumped in and saved your brother’s life.’

‘Come on. It’s only about six inches deep. He’ll get in a row and so will you. You know what women are.’

But there was no row, or rather, no fresh row to succeed that already taking place. How it had begun Wexford didn’t know, but as he and the boys came up to the french windows he heard his wife say with, for her, uncommon tartness, ‘Personally, I think you’ve got far more than you deserved, Sylvia. A good husband, a lovely home and two fine healthy sons. D’you think you’ve ever done anything to merit more than that?’

Sylvia jumped up. Wexford thought she was going to shout some retort at her mother, but at that moment, seeing her mudstained child, she seized him in her arms and rushed away upstairs with him. Robin, staring in silence, at last followed her, his thumb in his mouth, a habit Wexford thought he had got out of years before.

‘And you tell me not to be harsh with her!’

‘It’s not very pleasant,’ said Dora, not looking at him 'To have your own daughter tell you a woman without a career is a useless encumbrance when she gets past fifty. When her looks have gone.

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