Read Online An Unkindness of Ravens by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Ads: Link
pausing once to perch briefly on the edge of the desk. Now he had reached the window again where he stopped, turned and stared at Wexford in irritable incredulity.
‘Search for him> Surely it’s plain he’s simply done a bunk to escape the consequences of whatever it is he’s done.’
‘All right, Mike. Maybe. But in that case what has he done? Nothing at Sevensmith Harding. He’s as clean as a whistle there. What else could he have done? It’s just possible he could be involved in some fraud that hasn’t yet come to light but there’s a strong case against that one. He got out. The only reason for that would be that discovery of the fraud was imminent. In that case why hasn’t that discovery been made?’
Burden shrugged. ‘Who knows? But it may just be a piece of luck for Williams that it hasn’t been.’
‘Why hasn’t he come back then? If the outcome of this fraud has blown over why doesn’t he come home? He hasn’t left the country unless he’s gone on a false passport. And why bother with a false passport when he’d got one of his own and no one started missing him till three days after he’d gone?’
‘Doesn’t it occur to you that leaving one’s clothes on the river bank is the oldest disappearing trick in the world?’
‘On the beach, I think you mean, not on the shores of a pond where the water’s so shallow that to commit suicide you’d have to lie on your face and hold your breath. Besides, that bag has been in the pond only a couple of days at most. If it had been there since Williams went it’d be rotting by now, it’d stink. We’ll send it over to the lab and see what they say but we can see what they’ll say with our own eyes and smell it with our own noses.
‘Williams is dead. This bag of his tells me he is. If he” had put it into the pond for the purpose of making us think he was dead he’d have done so immediately after he left. And the contents would have been different. More identification, for instance, no scent and powder blue knickers. And I don’t think the money would have been in it. He would have needed that money, he would have needed all the money he could lay hands on. There’s no reason to think he could easily spare fifty pounds—whatever he’s done he hasn’t robbed a bank.
‘He’s dead and, letter and phone call notwithstanding, he was dead within an hour or two of when his family last saw him.’
Next day the searching of Green Pond Hall grounds began.
The grounds comprised eight acres, part woodland, part decayed overgrown formal gardens, part stables and paddock. Sergeant Martin led the search with three men and Wexford himself went down there to have a look at the dragged pond and view the terrain. It was still raining. It had been raining yesterday and the day before and for part of every day for three weeks. The weather people were saying it would be the wettest May since records began. The track was a morass, the colour and texture of melted chocolate in which a giant fork had furrowed. There were other ways of getting down to the pond but only if you went on foot.
At three he had a date at Stowerton Royal Infirmary. Colin Budd had been placed in intensive care but only for the night. By morning he was sufficiently recovered to be transferred to a side room off the men’s surgical ward. The stab wounds he had received were more than superficial, one having penetrated to a depth of three inches, but by a miracle almost none of the five had endangered heart or lungs.
A thick white dressing covered his upper chest, over which a striped pyjama jacket had been loosely wrapped. The pyjama jacket was an extra large and Wexford estimated Budd’s chest measurement at thirty-four inches. He was a very thin, bony, almost cadaverous young man, white-faced and with black, longish hair. He seemed to know exactly what Wexford would want to know about him and quickly and nervously repeated his name and age, gave his occupation as motor mechanic and
‘Search for him> Surely it’s plain he’s simply done a bunk to escape the consequences of whatever it is he’s done.’
‘All right, Mike. Maybe. But in that case what has he done? Nothing at Sevensmith Harding. He’s as clean as a whistle there. What else could he have done? It’s just possible he could be involved in some fraud that hasn’t yet come to light but there’s a strong case against that one. He got out. The only reason for that would be that discovery of the fraud was imminent. In that case why hasn’t that discovery been made?’
Burden shrugged. ‘Who knows? But it may just be a piece of luck for Williams that it hasn’t been.’
‘Why hasn’t he come back then? If the outcome of this fraud has blown over why doesn’t he come home? He hasn’t left the country unless he’s gone on a false passport. And why bother with a false passport when he’d got one of his own and no one started missing him till three days after he’d gone?’
‘Doesn’t it occur to you that leaving one’s clothes on the river bank is the oldest disappearing trick in the world?’
‘On the beach, I think you mean, not on the shores of a pond where the water’s so shallow that to commit suicide you’d have to lie on your face and hold your breath. Besides, that bag has been in the pond only a couple of days at most. If it had been there since Williams went it’d be rotting by now, it’d stink. We’ll send it over to the lab and see what they say but we can see what they’ll say with our own eyes and smell it with our own noses.
‘Williams is dead. This bag of his tells me he is. If he” had put it into the pond for the purpose of making us think he was dead he’d have done so immediately after he left. And the contents would have been different. More identification, for instance, no scent and powder blue knickers. And I don’t think the money would have been in it. He would have needed that money, he would have needed all the money he could lay hands on. There’s no reason to think he could easily spare fifty pounds—whatever he’s done he hasn’t robbed a bank.
‘He’s dead and, letter and phone call notwithstanding, he was dead within an hour or two of when his family last saw him.’
Next day the searching of Green Pond Hall grounds began.
The grounds comprised eight acres, part woodland, part decayed overgrown formal gardens, part stables and paddock. Sergeant Martin led the search with three men and Wexford himself went down there to have a look at the dragged pond and view the terrain. It was still raining. It had been raining yesterday and the day before and for part of every day for three weeks. The weather people were saying it would be the wettest May since records began. The track was a morass, the colour and texture of melted chocolate in which a giant fork had furrowed. There were other ways of getting down to the pond but only if you went on foot.
At three he had a date at Stowerton Royal Infirmary. Colin Budd had been placed in intensive care but only for the night. By morning he was sufficiently recovered to be transferred to a side room off the men’s surgical ward. The stab wounds he had received were more than superficial, one having penetrated to a depth of three inches, but by a miracle almost none of the five had endangered heart or lungs.
A thick white dressing covered his upper chest, over which a striped pyjama jacket had been loosely wrapped. The pyjama jacket was an extra large and Wexford estimated Budd’s chest measurement at thirty-four inches. He was a very thin, bony, almost cadaverous young man, white-faced and with black, longish hair. He seemed to know exactly what Wexford would want to know about him and quickly and nervously repeated his name and age, gave his occupation as motor mechanic and
Similar Books
