Free An Unkindness of Ravens by Ruth Rendell Page B

speak. I said to her that I thought I’d drive through the town instead of the bypass and she didn’t answer. Later on I said I’d stop and look at the map and she didn’t answer that either, but when I reached across her—I didn’t touch her, I could swear to that—she gave a sort of gasp. Those were the only sounds she made, “thanks” and a gasp.’
    The same girl as attacked Budd, one would suppose. But if Wheatley were to be believed, while there was some very slight justification for the attack on Budd, there was none for this second stabbing. Could the girl possibly have thought that the hand which reached across to open the glove compartment intended instead to take hold of her by the left shoulder? Or lower itself onto her knee? There was something ridiculous about these assaults, and yet two meant that they were not ridiculous at all but serious. Next time there could be a fatality. Or had there been one already?
     The manager of the Pomfret branch of the AnglianVictoria Bank bore an extraordinary resemblance to Adolf Hitler. This was not only in the small square moustache and the lock of dark hair half covering Mr Skinner’s forehead. The face was the same face, rather handsome, with large chin and heavy nose and small thick-lidded eyes. But all that would have passed unnoticed without the moustache and the lock of hair, so that it was impossible to avoid the uncomfortable conclusion that Mr Skinner was doing it on purpose. He knew whom he looked like and he enhanced the resemblance. Wexford could only attribute one motive to a bank manager who wants to look like Hitler—a desire to intimidate his clients.
    His manner, however, was warm, friendly and charming. All those, and implacable too. He could not consider either letting Wexford look into Rodney Williams’s bank accounts or disclose any information about their contents.
    ‘Did you say accounts plural?’ said Wexford.
    ‘Yes. Mr Williams has two current accounts here—and now I’ve probably said more than I should.’
    ‘Two current accounts in the name of Rodney Williams?’
    Skinner was standing up with his head slightly on one side, looking like Hitler waiting for Franco’s train at Hendaye. ‘I said two current accounts, Chief Inspector. We’ll let it go at that, shall we?’
    One for his salary to be paid into, Wexford thought as he was driven away, and the other for what? His Kings markham household expenses were drawn from the Kings markham account which he fed with 500 pounds a month from Pomfret account A. Then what of account B? His wife didn’t know of the existence of account A anyway. It alone was sufficient to keep his resources secret from her. Why did he need a third current bank account?
    They were searching for him now on the open land, partly wooded, that lay between Kingsmarkham and Forby. But so far, since the discovery of the bag in Green Pond, nothing further had come to light. He’s dead, Wexford thought, he must be.
    Burden had been at Pomfret, talking to the Harmer family, Joy Williams’s sister, brother-in-law and “niece. John Harmer was a pharmacist with a chemist’s shop in the High Street.
    ‘They say Joy was with them that evening,’ Burden said, ‘but I wouldn’t put that much credence on what they say. Not that they’re intentionally lying—they can’t remember. It was seven weeks ago. Besides, Joy often goes over there in the evenings. More or less to sit in front of their television instead of her own, I gather. But I suppose she’s lonely, she wants company. Mrs Harmer says she was definitely there that evening, Harmer says it must be if his wife says so and the girl doesn’t know. You can’t expect a teenage girl to take much notice of when her aunt comes.’
    Wexford told him what he had learned from the telephonist at Sevensmith Harding. ‘Of course, the girl may be mistaken about the voices or she may have persuaded herself they were the same voice in order to get more drama out of