Read Online Make Death Love Me by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Ads: Link
stair-rods. Pam didnât answer him. She was wondering if the colour on those transfers would be permanent or if it would come off when you washed them. She would like to try them in her own bathroom, but not if the colour came off, no thanks, that would look worse than plain white.
The doorbell rang.
âI hope thatâs not Linda Kitson,â said Pam. âI donât want to have to stop and get nattering to her.â
She went to the door, and the policeman and the police-woman told her the bank had been robbed and it seemed that the robbers had taken her husband and Joyce Culver with them.
âOh, God, oh, God, oh, God,â said Pam, and she went on saying it and sometimes screaming it while the policeman fetched Wendy Heysham and the policewoman made tea. Pam knocked over the tea and took the duty-free Bristol Cream out of the sideboard and poured a whole tumblerful and drank it at a gulp.
They fetched Christopher from the estate agentâs and when he came in Pam was half-drunk and banging her fists on her knees and shouting, âOh, God, oh, God.â Neither the police-woman nor Wendy Heysham could do anything with her. Christopher gave her another tumblerful of sherry in the hope it would shut her up, while Wilfred Summitt marched up and down, declaiming that hanging was too good for them, pole-axing was too good for them. After the electric chair, the pole-axe was his favourite lethal instrument. He would pole-axe them without a trial, he would.
Pam drank the second glass of sherry and passed out.
Wiser than those who had made his escape possible, Alan avoided the narrow lanes. He met few cars, overtook a tractor and a bus. The rain was falling too heavily for him to see the faces of people in other vehicles, so he supposed they would not be able to see his. There wasnât much petrol in the tank, only about enough to get him down into north Essex, and of course it wouldnât do to stop at a petrol station.
His body was still doing all the work, and that level of consciousness which deals only with practical matters. He couldnât yet think of what he had done, it was too enormous, and he didnât want to. He concentrated on the road and the heavy rain. At the Hadleigh turn he came out on to the A12 and headed for Colchester. The petrol gauge showed that his fuel was getting dangerously low, but in ten minutes he was on the Colchester bypass. He turned left at the North Hill roundabout and drove up North Hill. There was a car park off to the left here behind St Runwaldâs Street. He put the car in the car park which was unattended, took out his sandwiches, locked the car and dropped the sandwiches in a litter bin. Now what? Once they had found his car, they would ask at the station and the booking office clerk would remember him and remember that he had passed through alone. So he made for the bus station instead where he caught a bus to Marks Tey. There he boarded a stopping train to London. His coat, which was of the kind that is known as showerproof and anyway was very old, had let the rain right through to his suit. The money had got damp. As soon as he had got to wherever he was going, he would spread the notes out and dry them.
There were only a few other people in the long carriage, a woman with two small boys, a young man. The young man looked much the same as any other dark-haired boy of twenty with a beard, but as soon as Alan saw him he remembered where he had heard that ugly Suffolk-cockney accent before. Indeed, so great was the resemblance that he found himself glancing at the boyâs hands which lay slackly on his knees. But of course the hands were whole, there was no mutilation of the right forefinger, no distortion of the nail.
The first time he had heard that voice it had asked him for twenty five-pence pieces for a pound note. He had pushed the coins across the counter, looked at the young bearded face, thought, Am I being offhand, discourteous,
The doorbell rang.
âI hope thatâs not Linda Kitson,â said Pam. âI donât want to have to stop and get nattering to her.â
She went to the door, and the policeman and the police-woman told her the bank had been robbed and it seemed that the robbers had taken her husband and Joyce Culver with them.
âOh, God, oh, God, oh, God,â said Pam, and she went on saying it and sometimes screaming it while the policeman fetched Wendy Heysham and the policewoman made tea. Pam knocked over the tea and took the duty-free Bristol Cream out of the sideboard and poured a whole tumblerful and drank it at a gulp.
They fetched Christopher from the estate agentâs and when he came in Pam was half-drunk and banging her fists on her knees and shouting, âOh, God, oh, God.â Neither the police-woman nor Wendy Heysham could do anything with her. Christopher gave her another tumblerful of sherry in the hope it would shut her up, while Wilfred Summitt marched up and down, declaiming that hanging was too good for them, pole-axing was too good for them. After the electric chair, the pole-axe was his favourite lethal instrument. He would pole-axe them without a trial, he would.
Pam drank the second glass of sherry and passed out.
Wiser than those who had made his escape possible, Alan avoided the narrow lanes. He met few cars, overtook a tractor and a bus. The rain was falling too heavily for him to see the faces of people in other vehicles, so he supposed they would not be able to see his. There wasnât much petrol in the tank, only about enough to get him down into north Essex, and of course it wouldnât do to stop at a petrol station.
His body was still doing all the work, and that level of consciousness which deals only with practical matters. He couldnât yet think of what he had done, it was too enormous, and he didnât want to. He concentrated on the road and the heavy rain. At the Hadleigh turn he came out on to the A12 and headed for Colchester. The petrol gauge showed that his fuel was getting dangerously low, but in ten minutes he was on the Colchester bypass. He turned left at the North Hill roundabout and drove up North Hill. There was a car park off to the left here behind St Runwaldâs Street. He put the car in the car park which was unattended, took out his sandwiches, locked the car and dropped the sandwiches in a litter bin. Now what? Once they had found his car, they would ask at the station and the booking office clerk would remember him and remember that he had passed through alone. So he made for the bus station instead where he caught a bus to Marks Tey. There he boarded a stopping train to London. His coat, which was of the kind that is known as showerproof and anyway was very old, had let the rain right through to his suit. The money had got damp. As soon as he had got to wherever he was going, he would spread the notes out and dry them.
There were only a few other people in the long carriage, a woman with two small boys, a young man. The young man looked much the same as any other dark-haired boy of twenty with a beard, but as soon as Alan saw him he remembered where he had heard that ugly Suffolk-cockney accent before. Indeed, so great was the resemblance that he found himself glancing at the boyâs hands which lay slackly on his knees. But of course the hands were whole, there was no mutilation of the right forefinger, no distortion of the nail.
The first time he had heard that voice it had asked him for twenty five-pence pieces for a pound note. He had pushed the coins across the counter, looked at the young bearded face, thought, Am I being offhand, discourteous,
Similar Books
