Free End in Tears by Ruth Rendell Page A

talked about her sleeping sons and whether or not they would be going away on holiday. And then, because she could stand it no longer, Sylvia said, “Well, you may as well tell me what you think about me having a baby for Naomi.”
    â€œWhat I think will make no difference,” said Wexford.
    â€œPerhaps not, but I’d like to know what it is. Okay, it’s not your business, but I can’t bear this terribly important thing not even mentioned.”
    Wexford waited a few seconds. “You’re wrong there. If you’re part of a family what you do is bound to some extent to be the business of the others.”
    â€œSo what do you think? That I’m crazy, no doubt.”
    â€œI think you will make yourself very unhappy.”
    â€œSo do I,” said Dora in a voice very unlike her usual low and gentle tones, “and probably the boys too. All this stuff that happens now, IVF and cloning and women of sixty having babies, it’s all wrong. It leads to misery and confusion.”
    â€œI thought you might at least be pleased Neil’s the father. I don’t think Dad cares, but I know you don’t approve of me having…well, relationships with people.”
    â€œNo, I don’t. Not while you have children living with you. And if you want to know, I don’t approve of you. Not at present, I don’t.”
    Wexford asked her when the baby was due.
    â€œDecember the fifth.”
    â€œBefore you started this,” said Dora bitterly, “you might have thought it wasn’t only your child you’d be giving away but our grandchild.”
    â€œLook at it like this.” Sylvia’s voice rose. “If I wasn’t going to hand it over to Neil and Naomi, I wouldn’t be having it at all. I’ve got a new job. I wouldn’t have the time to look after a baby. You have to think of it as already theirs. I do.”
    Wexford looked at her in an assessing way, without sympathy. “I wish I believed you. You’re not tough enough for this, Sylvia. Someone being ‘in denial’ is a favorite phrase of yours. Well, I think you’re in denial. You’re hiding your true feelings under a bunch of social-worker gobbledygook.”
    He saw the tears come into her eyes and overflow. Not he but her mother said in a tone he had never before heard from her, “All right, that’s better, cry. That’s how you really feel, like having a good cry. Have a cry for the lot of us. In case you don’t know it, you’re wrecking this family.”
    He said nothing, but he took his wife’s hand and held it. “If you’re ready we’ll go home.”
    Wexford kissed his daughter. Dora didn’t kiss her. Her mother standing there, just standing, with her car keys in her hand, Sylvia turned her tearful face away. Wexford felt an angry longing to take her in his arms and hug her, but he did nothing, only following Dora out of the house and thinking of a young mother, half Sylvia’s age, who had died horribly and left her small boy motherless.

CHAPTER 8
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    E ven seeing the child this morning brought Wexford such distress that he had to turn his attention immediately to George Marshalson. He wanted the child not to be there, out on the grass on a blanket, watched over by his indifferent stepgrandmother. He wanted not to be exposed to the sight of innocence and obliviousness to what had happened, in case he inadvertently looked out of that window again. For sooner or later Brand must be told, the true explanation must be given to him of why his mother was no longer there and never coming back.
    Burden, smart casual in linen trousers and jacket of fine striped cotton, had asked Marshalson about the events of June 24 . “You didn’t mention the accident in which Amber was involved.”
    â€œIs it important?” His surprise seemed genuine. Wexford waited a few seconds, allowing him to think a little. Or not