Free Wexford 10 - A Sleeping Life by Ruth Rendell Page A

Big rooms divided with improvised matchwood walls, old reject furniture, girls’ clutter everywhere - clothes and magazines, pinned-up posters, strings of beads hanging from a door handle, half-burned coloured candles in saucers. The other girl, the one he had come to see, turned slowly from having been hunched over a typewriter. An ashtray beside her was piled with stubs. He found himself thinking:
       Little Polly Flinders
       Sat among the cinders,
       Warming her pretty little toes . . .
       As it happened, her feet were bare under the long cotton skirt, and they were good feet, shapely and long. Perhaps, altogether, she wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t seen Malina Patel first. She wouldn’t have been bad at all but for that awful stoop, assumed no doubt in an attempt to reduce her height, though it was less than his Sylvia’s, and but for the two prominent incisors in her upper jaw. Odd, he thought, in someone of her years, child of the age of orthodontics. She came up to him, unsmiling and wary, and Malina Patel went softly away, having not spoken a word. He plunged straight into the middle of things.
       ‘No doubt you’ve read the papers, Miss Flinders, and seen about the murder of a Miss Rhoda Comfrey. This photograph was in the papers. Imagine it, if you can, aged by about twenty years and its owner using another name.’ She looked at the photograph and he watched her. He could make nothing of her expression, it seemed quite blank. ‘Do you think you have ever seen her? In, let us say, the company of Mr Grenville West?’
       A flush coloured her face unbecomingly. Victor Vivian had described her as a blonde, and that word is very evocative, implying beauty and a glamorous femininity, a kind of Marilyn Monroe-ishness. Pauline Flinders was not at all like that. Her fairness was just an absence of colour, the eyes a watery pale grey, the hair almost white. Her blush was vivid and patchy under that pale skin, and he supposed it was his mention of the man’s name that had caused it. Not guilty knowledge, though, but love.
       ‘I’ve never seen her,’ she said, and then, ‘Why do you think Grenville knew her?’
       He wasn’t going to answer that yet. She kept looking towards the door as if she were afraid the other girl would come back. Because her flat-mate had teased her about her feelings for the novelist?
       ‘You’re Mr West’s secretary, I believe?’
       ‘I had an advertisement in the local paper saying I’d do typing for people. He phoned me. That was about two years ago. I did a manuscript for him and he liked it and I started sort of working for him part-time.’ She had a graceless way of speaking, in a low dull monotone.
       ‘So you answered his phone, no doubt, and met his friends. Was there anyone among his friends who might possibly have been this woman?’
       ‘Oh, no, no one.’ She sounded certain beyond a doubt, and she added fatuously, with a lover’s obsessiveness, ‘Grenville’s in France. I had a card from him.’ Why wasn’t it on the mantelpiece? As she slipped the postcard out from under a pile of papers beside her typewriter, Wexford thought he knew the answer to that one too. She didn’t want to be teased about it. A coloured picture of Annecy, and ‘Annecy’ was clearly discernible on the otherwise smudged postmark. ‘Greeting from France, little Polly Flinders, the sunshine, the food, the air and the belle aujourd’hui. I shan’t want to come back. But I shall - So, see you. G.W.’ Typical of one of those literary blokes, he thought, but not, surely, the communication of a lover. Why had she shown it to him with its mention of her whimsical nickname? Because it was all she had?
       He brought out the wallet and laid it down beside the postcard. What he wanted was for her to shriek, turn pale, cry out, ‘Where did you get that?’ - demolish the structure of ignorance he fancied she might carefully have built