Free Wexford 4 - The Best Man To Die by Ruth Rendell Page B

anomalous position in the water to show that it might have been used as a lethal weapon. Wexford grasped it in both his hands, raised it high and brought it down hard to meet the empty air. Hatton had been walking along in the dark and someone had waited for him among the willows and the brambles, the stone ready for use. Full of whisky, his thoughts fuddled and far away, Hatton had given warning of his approach. He had been whistling and probably not bothering to tread softly. The stone had been raised high just as Wexford was raising it now but brought down that time on the back of Hatton’s skull. Once, twice, more than that? As many times as it took to kill. Then Hatton had rolled into the water. His killer had rifled his wallet before casting the stone into the stream.
       Wexford thought all these things and he knew Burden was following his thoughts, matching them, so he didn’t bother to say anything. He dropped the stone and it rolled a little before falling into the water with a soft plop.
       Across the meadows he could see the flats of the council estate, the sun striking their plate-glass windows and making them blaze as if the whole place was on fire.
       ‘Since we’ve come so far,’ he said, ‘we may as well have another chat with Mrs Hatton.’

    Her mother was with her and three other people. Jack Pertwee sat on the smart-checked tweed sofa holding the hand of a girl with a monumental pile of black hair and eyelashes like shoe brushes. Mrs Hatton and her mother were both in black, smart unseasonable black relieved with a great deal of showy costume jewellery. The window’s suit looked brand-new and Wexford couldn’t help wondering if she had actually been out the previous afternoon to buy it. She wore a white blouse with an ostentatious frilly jabot and a big paste spray on one lapel. Her stockings were dark and her shoes, though also apparently new, the outdated, stiletto- heeled, pointed kind of gleaming black patent. She looked as if she were about to set off for a provincial cocktail party, an office party of female executives.
       At first Wexford felt a curious distaste and then he thought about the dead man and what he knew of him. This was the way Charlie Hatton would have liked his widow to look, brave, defiant, bedizened. The last thing a cocky little man like Hatton would want was a kind of spiritual suttee.
       He surveyed the rest of the company. Plainly they had interrupted a mourning tea party. The girl on the sofa must be the bride whose nuptials Hatton’s death had deferred. And the other man?
       ‘My brother, Mr Bardsley,’ said Mrs Hatton. ‘Him and Mum came to keep me company. This gentleman is Mr Pertwee.’
       ‘We’ve met,’ said Wexford graciously.
       ‘And Miss Thompson,’ said Mrs Hatton. She spoke in a low dutiful voice. Her eyes were swollen under the thick green and black make-up. ‘They were all very fond of Charlie. Would you like a cup of tea? You can if you want. You’re welcome.’
       ‘We won’t, thanks, Mrs Hatton.’
       ‘Well, sit down then, there’s plenty of room.’ She said it proudly, indicating the several empty chairs. They were good chairs, upholstered and cared for, not the uncomfortable dining seats with hard backs a less affluent hostess would be obliged to offer latecomers. Looking at the branched hanging lamp of teak and smoky glass, the velvet curtains and the big colour television set, Wexford decided that Hatton had done his wife proud. Cullam and he were both lorry drivers, both lived in council accommodation, but that was all they had in common. He glanced at Bardsley, the brother, a fair rabbity man, like his sister but less well-favoured, and he observed his suit. It was very likely his best suit - today of all days he would surely wear his best suit - but it was a cheap off-the-peg affair.
       ‘Please forgive me, Mrs Hatton, if I ask a few routine questions,’ he said. She gave him a pleased earnest