Free Murder Being Once Done by Ruth Rendell Page B

Chelsea. And I can, I can!’ Again Dearborn swept out an arm, striking an ilex branch and sending dust-filled raindrops flying. ‘I want to show people what’s really here, hidden under the muck of a century, the beautiful façades, the grand squares. I’d show you over the cemetery now, only I don’t suppose you’ve got the time and – well, it rather . . . I don’t feel . . .’
    ‘The murder,’ said Wexford intuitively, ‘has temporarily spoiled it for you?’
    ‘In a way, yes. Yes, it has.’ He gave Wexford a look of approval. ‘Clever of you to guess that. You see, the odd thing is that that very girl came to me for a job. I interviewed her myself. Putting her body in that tomb seemed a sort of desecration to me.’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s not talk about it. What d’you think of this building, now?’ he went on, pointing towards the sandstone dome. ‘Eighteen-fifty-five and not a trace of the Gothic, but by then they had lost the art of emulating the Classical and were experimenting with Byzantine. Look at the length of those columns . . .’ Laying a large hand on Wexford’s arm, he plunged into a lecture on architectural styles, laced with obscure terms and words which to Wexford were almost meaningless. His listener’s faint bewilderment communicated itself to him and he stopped suddenly, saying, ‘I’m boring you.’
    ‘No, you’re not. It’s just that I’m afraid I’m rather ignorant. I find the district fascinating.’
    ‘Do you?’ The chairman of Notbourne Properties was evidently unused to an appreciative audience. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said eagerly. ‘Why don’t you drop round and see us one night? Laysbrook House. I could show you maps of this place as it was a hundred and fifty years ago. I’ve got deeds of some of these old houses that would really interest you. What do you think?’
    ‘I’d like that very much.’
    ‘Let’s see. It’s Thursday now. Why not Saturday night? Come about half-past eight and we’ll have a drink and go over the maps together. Now, can I give you a lift anywhere?’
    But Wexford refused this invitation. The man had been kind and expansive to him. To confess now that he was a policeman, bound for Kenbourne Vale police station, might make Dearborn see him in the guise of a spy.
    Instead of returning to the station, however, he turned eastwards along Lammas Grove in search of Sytansound. The police car parked outside told him where it was before he could read the shop sign. Sergeant Clements was at the wheel. He welcomed the chief inspector with a cheery, ‘Had your lunch yet, sir?’
    ‘I thought I might try your canteen,’ Wexford said, getting in beside him. ‘Would you recommend it?’
    ‘I usually pop home if I can. I only live round the corner. I like to see the boy when I get the chance. He’s in bed by the time I get home at night.’
    ‘Your son?’
    Clements didn’t reply at once. He was watching a boy unload something from a Sytansound van, but it seemed to Wexford that this was a simulated preoccupation, and he repeated his question. The sergeant turned back to face him. The strong colour in his cheeks had deepened to crimson and he cleared his throat.
    ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘we’re adopting him. We’ve got him on three months probation, but the mother’s signed the consent and we’re due to get the order next week, a week tomorrow.’ He slid his hands slowly around the wheel. ‘If the mother changed her mind now I reckon it’d about kill my wife.’
    Embarrassment and uncertainty had been transferred from one to the other, but there was nothing that Wexford could do about it now. ‘Surely, if she’s consented . . . ?’
    ‘Well, sir, yes. That’s what I keep telling my wife. We’re ninety-nine per cent there. It’s all been done through the proper channels, but natural mothers have been known to change their minds at the last minute and the court will always go with the mother