Free End in Tears by Ruth Rendell Page B

think, it appeared. “Is there something I should be seeing here and don’t?”
    â€œMr. Marshalson, the concrete block which was dropped from the bridge hit the car in front of Amber’s, a
gray
Honda as against a
silver
one, the two of them almost identical at dusk. I don’t wish to cause you more pain than you’re already suffering, but doesn’t this suggest to you that this was an earlier attempt on her life?”
    â€œMy God. Oh, my God.” Marshalson seemed genuinely shocked and astonished.
    â€œYes, it’s not pleasant to think of, but I’m quite sure that what I’ve told you is the case. Was it Amber’s own car?”
    In a dazed tone, Marshalson said slowly, “I gave it to her for her seventeenth birthday. That was before the child was born. Then, after that”—his voice faltered—“she took lessons, passed her test…Are you
sure
?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Marshalson, I’m almost positive. Whoever aimed that concrete block meant to hit Amber’s car but hit Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose’s in error. Mrs. Ambrose died as a result. One thing all this shows us is that your daughter’s murderer knew her and purposely set out with her death in view. I’m sorry to put it in these crude terms, but at the same time I don’t want to leave you in ignorance.”
    â€œNo, no. Thank you. It’s a great shock, though, a great shock. Why should anyone make an enemy of Amber? She was only a young girl. She’d never harmed anyone, she was innocent.” His voice wavered and cracked. “What’s she supposed to have done? Nothing, I’m sure, it must be nothing.”
    â€œWe don’t know, Mr. Marshalson,” said Burden. “You can be sure, though, that your daughter was in no way to blame.” He glanced at Wexford. “There is one other thing.”
    â€œAmber was carrying a thousand pounds in notes in the pocket of her jacket,” said Wexford.
    Not even a great actor with years of stage experience could have produced such incredulity. First Marshalson said, “Are you certain of that?” And when they assured him they were, “I am absolutely dumbfounded. Amber hadn’t any money except for the allowance—the very small allowance, I must say—I was able to give her. She couldn’t even have saved up that sum, and she wasn’t a saver. Where did it come from?”
    â€œAgain I have to say we don’t know.”
    â€œWhy didn’t…I mean, why didn’t the person who did this take it?” It was plain that he shied away from such words as “killer” or “murderer.” “Surely they must have done what they did for the money?”
    â€œBut they didn’t take it, Mr. Marshalson,” Wexford said gently. “Did Amber have a bank account?”
    â€œYes, she did, but there was never anything much in it.”
    â€œOne more thing, Mr Marshalson,” said Burden, “and then we’ll leave you in peace. Did Amber inherit anything when she became eighteen?”
    Again his incredulity seemed genuine. “Amber, poor child? No, nothing.” In spite of his gift of a car, he seemed to need to justify the small allowance he gave his daughter. “I’m not a rich man, Chief Inspector. I’ll admit the company hasn’t been doing well lately. My wife has money, but that is hers.”
    In the garden the little boy was awake. As children his age often do, he awoke with a cry that sounded more frustrated or petulant than distressed. The woman he called Di got up from her chair and lifted him in her arms—as someone might lift a shopping bag too heavy for its handles, Wexford thought. When they came close to the window on their way to some rear door he heard Brand say in wistful tones, “Mama, Mama.”
    As time passed he would come to accept Diana as his mother. No doubt the Social Services would intervene, but