Free Wexford 18 - Harm Done by Ruth Rendell

not have placed Brian St. George, editor of the Kingsmarkham Courier, in that intimate category. The very sight of it filled him with apprehension. No communication he had ever received from St. George had been supportive or even cooperative with police strategy He had looked at this one without putting on his reading glasses, and he stared at a glazed muzziness of dancing print for a moment. But he knew that was no good, and after only a brief hesitation, he put on his glasses and read St. George’s letter.

       Dear Reg,
       It has come to my attention that the infamous pedophile, Henry Thomas Orbe, is due to be released from detention at the end of this week. His home was and still is on the Muriel Campden Estate in Kingsmarkham and I have been reliably informed that he intends to return to the house, currently occupied by his daughter and her partner, when he leaves prison, where he has been for the past nine years, on 17 April. Now, a large number of parents with young children, to whom Orbe must pose a threat, live on the Muriel Campden Estate and my intention is to run a lead story in this week’s edition of the Courier, informing interested parties of Orbe’s return. I am sure you will agree that Orbe is a dangerous man and that no child can be safe while he remains at large.
       I will be interested to receive your comments. If the Mid-Sussex Constabulary would care to supply me with a statement of Orbe’s current situation and perhaps their general opinion on the arrangements made for released pedophiles, I will be delighted to print it.
       With my very good wishes,
       Yours always, Brian

       Wexford sighed. It wasn’t only a wonder what induced St. George to call him by his first name and end in that affectionate way, but a mystery why the man should want to. At their last meeting, which had been in connection with the hostage-taking over the proposed bypass, he, Wexford, had been atrociously (but justifiably) rude to the editor and had received a good deal of abuse in return. The answer, no doubt, was that St. George wanted some thing. Wexford’s approval?
       He decided - quite quickly - not to reply. After all, much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t stop St. George and the Courier in their mission. Barring an injunction to restrain them, they would go ahead whatever happened. Wexford tried to remember Orbe but could recall only a newspaper photograph from long ago of a fat-faced man with bleated chin and forehead. That didn’t mean much.
       Anyone would look dreadful in one of those blown-up snaps. Orbe, the man, had entirely faded from his memory. Of course the crime, whatever it was, hadn’t happened in the Kingsmarkham area and he hadn’t arrested him.
       He was wondering whether he was capable of summoning up Orbe’s CV or dossier on his computer, of filling with information the pretty blue screen over which clouds swam and birds flew, when Barry Vine came in. “How’s the Rachel Holmes search going?” Wexford asked.
       “Nothing new, sir. But I came to tell you something else. You know we had a second clothes robbery?”
       “Oh, yes. The First Gear boutique.”
       “Well we’ve got someone for both, the First Gear and the craftswoman, the designer. You were right when you said they used a child to get in. ‘A sort of Oliver Twist’ were your words if I remember rightly. I don’t know how old Oliver Twist was - I can’t say I’ve ever read the book or seen the film - but this kid’s four.”
       For a moment Wexford said nothing. Orbe’s face, die remembered face, reappeared in some picture frame of his mind, and he asked himself which was worse, to use a small child sexually or to teach that child to break and enter and steal. The former, no question about it, but still . . .
       “You mean this villain - what’s his name, by the way?”
       “Flay. Patrick Flay. He lives in Glebe Road.”
       “This Patrick Flay put a child of four