Free Wexford 19 - The Babes In The Woods by Ruth Rendell

Mike.’
       It was a short drive to the house called Antrim’ but Wexford asked Donaldson the driver to make a detour and take in some of the flooded areas. Heavy rain was falling, the water was still rising and of the Kingsbrook Bridge only the parapet rails still showed above the water.
       ‘It’s a good deal more than four feet deep there,’ said Burden.
       ‘It is now. Wherever they are and whatever they’ve been doing, they haven’t been hanging about waiting for the water to get deep enough to drown themselves in.’
       Burden made an inarticulate noise indicative of finding a remark in bad taste, and DC Lynn Fancourt, who was sitting in front next to Donaldson, cleared her throat. There were mysteries about the Chief Inspector she hadn’t yet solved in her two years attached to Kingsmarkham Crime Management. How was it possible, for instance, to find such irreconcilables bunched together in one man’s character? How could one man be liberal, compassionate, sensitive, well-read and at the same time ribald, derisive, sardonic and flippant about serious things? Wexford had never been nasty to her, not the way he could be to some people, but she was afraid of him just the same. In awe of him, might be a better way to put it.
       Not that she’d have admitted it to a soul. Sitting there in the front of the car, trying to see out of the passenger window down which rain was streaming, she knew it was wisest for her to keep silent unless spoken to, and no one spoke to her. Donaldson made the detour required of all vehicles when they approached the bridge, splashing up York Street and then following the one-way system.
       Wexford was a stickler for duty. And exacting obedience from his subordinates. Lynn had once been disobedient, it was during the investigation of the Devenish murder that somehow got mixed up with the paedophile demos, and Wexford had spoken to her in a way that made her shiver. It was only justice, not nastiness, she admitted that, and it had taught her something. About a police officer’s duty, for one thing, and it was because of this that she was all the more astonished when Wexford told Donaldson to drive first up the road where his own house was and drop him off for two minutes.
       Wexford let himself in with his key, called out but got no reply. He went through to the dining room. Outside the french window, in driving rain, Dora, Sylvia and Callum Chapman were raising the height of the two little walls with sandbags, evidently working as fast as they could, for the water was creeping up the walls. The sandbags had arrived just in time. Wexford tapped on the glass, then opened one of the side windows.
       ‘Thanks for what you’re doing,’ he called to Callum.
       ‘My pleasure.’
       That it could hardly be. Sylvia, who had been much nicer and easier to get on with since her divorce, held on to her boyfriend’s shoulder and, standing on one leg, took off her boot, pouring water out of it. ‘Speak for yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m hating every minute of it and so is Mother.’
       ‘It could be worse. Just think, if the ground floor floods we shall have to come and stay with you.’
       He shut the window, went back to the car. He wondered if his daughter was still doing voluntary work for that women’s refuge in addition to her job with the local authority. She must be or Dora would have told him, but he must ask. It would be a relief to know she wasn’t, that she was removed from a situation where being assaulted by other women’s rejected husbands or partners was always a risk. He got in next to Burden and within two minutes they were at ‘Antrim’.
       A creature of moods, Katrina Dade seemed quite different today, girlish but quiet, withdrawn, her eyes wide and staring. She was sensibly dressed too, wearing trousers and a jumper. Her husband, by contrast, was more expansive and more polite. What was he doing home from work at this hour? They