Wexford 9 - Shake Hands Forever by Ruth Rendell

Author:Ruth Rendell [Rendell, Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-09-07T04:00:00+00:00

13

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Howard. ‘Not yet. But I’ll tell you about it, shall I? Funny, isn’t it, the way I said I didn’t suppose I’d ever have to identify him? But I did identify him last night. Listen, and I’ll tell you how it was.’

On the previous evening, Howard had attempted to call his uncle at seven but the line had been engaged. Since he had nothing but negative news for him, he decided to try again in the morning as he was pressed for time. He and Denise were to dine in the West End before going on to the nine o’clock showing of a film at the Curzon Cinema, and Howard had parked his car near the junction of Curzon Street and Half Moon Street.

Having a few minutes to spare, he had been drawn by curiosity to have a look at the exterior of the offices he had phoned during the day, and he and Denise were approaching the Marcus Flower building when he saw a man and a woman coming towards it from the opposite direction. The man was Robert Hathall.

At the plate-glass window they paused and looked inside, surveying velvet drapery and wall-to-wall Wilton and marble staircase. Hathall seemed to be pointing out to his companion the glossy splendours of the place where he worked.

The woman was of medium height, good-looking but not startlingly so, with very short blonde hair. Howard thought she was in her late twenties or early thirties.

‘Could the hair have been a wig?’ Wexford asked.

‘No, but it could have been dyed. Naturally, I didn’t see her hand. They were talking to each other in what I thought was an affectionate way and after a bit they walked off down towards Piccadilly. And, incidentally, I didn’t enjoy the picture. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t concentrate.’

‘They haven’t shaken hands forever, Howard. They haven’t cancelled all their vows. It’s as I thought, and now it can only be a matter of time before we find her.’

The following day was his day of rest, his day off. The ten-thirty train from Kingsmarkham got him to Victoria just before half past eleven and by noon he was in Kilburn. What quirk of romantic imagination had prompted the naming of this squalid Victorian public house after Charles the Second’s principal mistress, Wexford couldn’t fathom. It stood in a turning off the Edgware Road and it had the air of a gone-to-seed nineteenth-century gin palace.

Ginge Matthews was sitting on a stool at the bar in earnest and apparently aggrieved conversation with the Irish barman. When he saw Wexford his eyes widened—or, rather, one eye widened. The other was half-closed and sunk in purple swelling.

‘Take your drink over to the corner,’ said Wexford. ‘I’ll join you in a minute. May I have a glass of dry wine, please?’

Ginge didn’t look like his brother or talk like him and he certainly didn’t smoke like him, but nevertheless they had something in common apart from their partiality for petty crime.

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