Free The Secret House of Death by Ruth Rendell

could stand. She made her way to the front door, clinging to the furniture and groping like a blind person.
    The Airedale hadn’t barked, but in her present state this didn’t warn her. Then, in a kind of horror, she watched the latch turn from the inserted key.
    Bob had come home to lunch.
    He had dived through the rain from the newly serviced car to the door and he had stepped inside, shaking the drops from his hair, before he realised who waited for him in the cold shadowy hall.
    â€˜Susan?’ She couldn’t speak. Her lips parted, she drew a long breath. He looked at her, then past her at the dead ashes in the grate, the briefcase on the kitchen table. ‘Where’s Louise?’
    Her voice came in a cracked whisper. ‘Bob, I . . . She’s upstairs. I . . . I phoned the police.’
    â€˜Tell me what’s happened?’
    â€˜She’s dead. They’re both dead.’
    â€˜You came to coffee,’ he said stupidly and then he plunged for the stairs.
    â€˜You mustn’t go up there!’ Susan cried. She caught his shoulders and they were stiff, without a tremor, under her hands. He gripped her wrists as if to free himself and then the dog Pollux began to bark, dully at first, then furiously as the police car splashed through the puddles in the street. Bob dropped limply on to the stairs and sat with his head in his hands.
    There were three policemen, a little brown-faced inspector called Ulph, a sergeant and a constable. They spent a long time upstairs and questioning Bob in the kitchen before they came to her. The sergeant passed the open living-room door with a sheaf of papers that looked like letters in his hand. Susan heard Bob say:
    â€˜I don’t know who he is. I don’t even know his name. Ask the neighbours. They’ll tell you he was my wife’s lover.’ Susan shivered. She couldn’t remember ever having felt so cold before. They were searching through the briefcase now. She could see them through the serving hatch and see Bob, sitting pale and stiff, by the table. ‘No, I didn’t know he was married,’ Bob said. ‘Why would I? Bernard Heller, did you say his name was? Of course I never ordered central heating.’ His voice rose and cracked. ‘Don’t you understand? That was just a blind.’
    â€˜What about your own movements this morning, Mr North?’
    â€˜My car was in for a service. I left for work on foot. About half past eight. My wife was all right then. She was in her dressing-gown, making the bed, when I left. I’m a quantity surveyor and I went to Barnet to look at a building site. Then I collected my car from Harrow where it was being serviced and drove back here. I thought . . . I thought my wife was expecting me home for lunch.’
    Susan turned her head away. The sergeant closed the door and the hatch. The coat Louise had worn the day before lay slung over the back of one of the chairs. There was something very casual about that coat as if it had been put down only for a moment and any minute now Louise would come in and envelop her childish body in its comforting warmth. The tears came into Susan’s eyes and she gave a little sob.
    Upstairs the police were tramping heavily about. Then she heard someone descending the stairs and the small brown-faced inspector came in. He closed the door behind him and said gently to Susan, ‘Try not to upset yourself, Mrs Townsend. I know this has been a great shock to you.’
    â€˜I’m quite all right, really. Only it’s so cold in here.’ He might think her eyes were watering from the cold, but she didn’t think he would. He had compassionate eyes. Not the sort of policeman, she thought, who would be briskly hearty in the face of death or make jokes about it with his companions.
    â€˜Did you know Mrs North was on intimate terms with this man, Heller?’ Inspector Ulph asked