Read Online Kissing the Gunner's Daughter by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Police, England, Police Procedural, Large Type Books, Inspector (Fictitious character), Sussex (England), Sussex, Wexford
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bicycle was overgrown with weeds.
Because Brenda Harrison had told him Bib rode a bicycle, Wexford decided to try the house on the right. A young man came to the door. He was rather tall but very slight, dressed in blue jeans and an American college sweatshirt
66
so worn and washed and faded that only the U of University and a capital S and T were discernible on the greyish background. His was a girlish face, the face of a pretty tomboy. The youths who played heroines in sixteenth-century drama must have looked like him.
He said, 'Hi', but in a dazed way and rather slowly. Seeming considerably taken aback, he looked past Wexford at the car outside, then back warily at his face.
"Kingsmarkham CID. We're looking for someone called Bib. Does she live here?"
He was studying Wexford's warrant card with great interest. Or even anxiety. A lazy grin transformed his face, suddenly making him appear more masculine. He shook back the long lock of black hair that fell over his forehead.
"Bib? No. No, she doesn't. Next door. The one in the middle." He hesitated, said, "Is this about the Davina Flory killings?"
"How do you know about that?"
"Breakfast TV," he said, and added, as if Wexford was likely to be interested, "We studied one of her books at college. I minored in English Literature."
"I see. Well, thank you very much, sir." Kingsmarkham Police called everyone 'sir' or cmadam' or by their name and style until they were actually charged. It was for politeness's sake and one of Wexford's rules. "We won't trouble you any further," he said.
If the young American had the look of a girl cross-dressing, Bib might have been a man, so few concessions had she or nature made to her
67
gender. Her age was equally an enigma. She might have been thirty-five or fifty-five. Her dark hair was cropped short, her face was reddish and shiny as if scrubbed with soap, her fingernails square cut. In one ear lobe she wore a small gold ring.
When Vine had explained what they had come for, she nodded and said, "I saw it on telly. Couldn't believe it." Her voice was gruff, flat, curiously expressionless.
"May we come in?"
In her estimation the question was no mere formality. She seemed to be considering it from several possible angles before giving a slow nod.
Her bicycle she kept in the hall, resting against a wall papered in sweet peas faded to beige. The living room was furnished like the abode of a very old lady and it had that sort of smell, a combination of camphor and carefully preserved not very clean clothes, closed windows and boiled sweets. Wexford expected to encounter an ancient mother in an armchair but the room was empty.
"For a start, could we have your full name, please," Vine said.
If she had been in court on a murder charge, brought there peremptorily and without counsel to defend her, Bib could not have behaved with greater caution. Every word must be weighed. She brought out her name with slow reluctance and a hesitation before each word.
"Er, Beryl -- er Agnes -- er, Mew."
'Beryl Agnes Mew. I believe you work on
68
"i
a part-time basis at Tancred House and were there yesterday afternoon. Miss Mew?"
"Mrs. Missus." She looked from Vine to Wexford and said it again, very deliberately. "Mrs Mew."
"I'm sorry. You were there yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
It might be shock that affected her like this. Or a general distrust and suspicion of humanity. She seemed stunned by Vine's question and looked at him stonily before lifting her heavy shoulders in a shrug.
"What do you do there, Mrs Mew?"
Again she considered. She was still but her eyes moved rather more than most people's. Now they moved quite wildly.
She said, incomprehensibly to Vine, "They call it the rough."
"You do the rough work, Mrs Mew," Wexford said. "Yes, I see. Scrubbing floors, washing paint and so on?" He got a ponderous nod. "You were cleaning the freezer, I think."
"The freezers. They've got three." Her head swayed slowly from side
Because Brenda Harrison had told him Bib rode a bicycle, Wexford decided to try the house on the right. A young man came to the door. He was rather tall but very slight, dressed in blue jeans and an American college sweatshirt
66
so worn and washed and faded that only the U of University and a capital S and T were discernible on the greyish background. His was a girlish face, the face of a pretty tomboy. The youths who played heroines in sixteenth-century drama must have looked like him.
He said, 'Hi', but in a dazed way and rather slowly. Seeming considerably taken aback, he looked past Wexford at the car outside, then back warily at his face.
"Kingsmarkham CID. We're looking for someone called Bib. Does she live here?"
He was studying Wexford's warrant card with great interest. Or even anxiety. A lazy grin transformed his face, suddenly making him appear more masculine. He shook back the long lock of black hair that fell over his forehead.
"Bib? No. No, she doesn't. Next door. The one in the middle." He hesitated, said, "Is this about the Davina Flory killings?"
"How do you know about that?"
"Breakfast TV," he said, and added, as if Wexford was likely to be interested, "We studied one of her books at college. I minored in English Literature."
"I see. Well, thank you very much, sir." Kingsmarkham Police called everyone 'sir' or cmadam' or by their name and style until they were actually charged. It was for politeness's sake and one of Wexford's rules. "We won't trouble you any further," he said.
If the young American had the look of a girl cross-dressing, Bib might have been a man, so few concessions had she or nature made to her
67
gender. Her age was equally an enigma. She might have been thirty-five or fifty-five. Her dark hair was cropped short, her face was reddish and shiny as if scrubbed with soap, her fingernails square cut. In one ear lobe she wore a small gold ring.
When Vine had explained what they had come for, she nodded and said, "I saw it on telly. Couldn't believe it." Her voice was gruff, flat, curiously expressionless.
"May we come in?"
In her estimation the question was no mere formality. She seemed to be considering it from several possible angles before giving a slow nod.
Her bicycle she kept in the hall, resting against a wall papered in sweet peas faded to beige. The living room was furnished like the abode of a very old lady and it had that sort of smell, a combination of camphor and carefully preserved not very clean clothes, closed windows and boiled sweets. Wexford expected to encounter an ancient mother in an armchair but the room was empty.
"For a start, could we have your full name, please," Vine said.
If she had been in court on a murder charge, brought there peremptorily and without counsel to defend her, Bib could not have behaved with greater caution. Every word must be weighed. She brought out her name with slow reluctance and a hesitation before each word.
"Er, Beryl -- er Agnes -- er, Mew."
'Beryl Agnes Mew. I believe you work on
68
"i
a part-time basis at Tancred House and were there yesterday afternoon. Miss Mew?"
"Mrs. Missus." She looked from Vine to Wexford and said it again, very deliberately. "Mrs Mew."
"I'm sorry. You were there yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
It might be shock that affected her like this. Or a general distrust and suspicion of humanity. She seemed stunned by Vine's question and looked at him stonily before lifting her heavy shoulders in a shrug.
"What do you do there, Mrs Mew?"
Again she considered. She was still but her eyes moved rather more than most people's. Now they moved quite wildly.
She said, incomprehensibly to Vine, "They call it the rough."
"You do the rough work, Mrs Mew," Wexford said. "Yes, I see. Scrubbing floors, washing paint and so on?" He got a ponderous nod. "You were cleaning the freezer, I think."
"The freezers. They've got three." Her head swayed slowly from side
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