Read Online No Man's Nightingale by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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When you’d been two, three times she kissed you. She said, Welcome to God’s house. She made you feel you were a guest in the home of the Lord and that was nice. My boy Jean-Jacques and my boy Aristide, they loved her. She let them run around the church during the service and there was a woman who complained. Sarah – she asked us to call her that – she said, We must all love the little children because Our Lord told us to.’ Nardelie looked at Wexford and smiled, a divine smile, he thought it was, warm, wide and showing those glorious teeth it had become an unwelcome cliché to remark on.
For a few minutes he and Lynn sat in the car outside Nardelie’s house, waiting for what he didn’t know, if they were waiting. A couple who looked as if they were Congolese came along and went into the house next door and then a tall white man, quite young but who reminded Wexford of someone much older. He went up to the front door of Nardelie’s and stood there, apparently searching for his key. He was wearing gloves but took the right one off in order to feel in his pocket, exposing a dark blue and red tattoo covering the back of his hand. Wexford could just make out a female figure in a robe but he saw the man hastily put the glove back on once he had got the door open.
‘Yes, I saw him here before,’ Lynn said. ‘He lives in Nardelie’s place.’
‘Her husband? Partner? Boyfriend?’
‘I don’t know, but somehow I think he’s just a tenant of the top floor. What do you think of tattoos, sir?’
Wexford laughed. ‘I don’t like them. But you could have guessed that, Lynn, without asking.’
He had to refuse her invitation to come back with her that afternoon, reminding her that one of them was due to meet Thora Kilmartin.
‘Would you do that, Reg?’ she asked, making a real effort.
It was the first time she had obeyed him and called him by what Sarah Hussain would no doubt have called his Christian name.
‘Of course. And I’ll record our conversation – if she’ll let me.’
Two women of comparable age and education, both middle class and belonging to the same ethnic group, could scarcely have looked more disparate. Haggard and strained, with the kind of thinness that is due to stress, Georgina Bray looked no older than her mid-forties but an unhealthy mid-forties, strained and tired. But she had made a sartorial effort for these guests with what Wexford would once have known as an afternoon dress, burgundy-coloured and too short, and high-heeled court shoes her fidgeting feet told Wexford she would like to shed. Thora Kilmarton, on the other hand, was fat. No two ways about it. She wasn’t overweight or plump or any of the other euphemisms. She was uncompromisingly fat and apparently happy to be so. He had seldom seen a woman who looked so pleasantly contented. She was appropriately dressed in a tweed skirt, beige jumper and dark brown cardigan, no jewellery but her wedding ring, brown lace-up brogues, her sole frivolity lacy but thick brown tights.
It was Clarissa’s half-term break and she was out with a friend. She would soon be back but they wouldn’t wait for her. Now Wexford was here she would make coffee.
‘Or would you prefer tea?’
He had noticed lately that, with the advance of age, people often assumed that tea would be his drink, the pensioner’s beverage of choice. ‘Coffee will be fine,’ he said.
Much as he had hoped to get Thora Kilmartin alone, he realised that the time Mrs Bray took to bring in the coffee, even if she had to grind the beans before brewing the drink, would be inadequate for his purposes. In his position, as the rather absurdly named Crime Solutions Adviser (unpaid), he could hardly banish Georgina from her own living room. The question he most of all wanted to ask, but not in front of Clarissa or, come to that, Mrs Bray, might have to be put on hold until another time. Thora was waiting, smiling as she looked round the room, evidently admiring her
For a few minutes he and Lynn sat in the car outside Nardelie’s house, waiting for what he didn’t know, if they were waiting. A couple who looked as if they were Congolese came along and went into the house next door and then a tall white man, quite young but who reminded Wexford of someone much older. He went up to the front door of Nardelie’s and stood there, apparently searching for his key. He was wearing gloves but took the right one off in order to feel in his pocket, exposing a dark blue and red tattoo covering the back of his hand. Wexford could just make out a female figure in a robe but he saw the man hastily put the glove back on once he had got the door open.
‘Yes, I saw him here before,’ Lynn said. ‘He lives in Nardelie’s place.’
‘Her husband? Partner? Boyfriend?’
‘I don’t know, but somehow I think he’s just a tenant of the top floor. What do you think of tattoos, sir?’
Wexford laughed. ‘I don’t like them. But you could have guessed that, Lynn, without asking.’
He had to refuse her invitation to come back with her that afternoon, reminding her that one of them was due to meet Thora Kilmartin.
‘Would you do that, Reg?’ she asked, making a real effort.
It was the first time she had obeyed him and called him by what Sarah Hussain would no doubt have called his Christian name.
‘Of course. And I’ll record our conversation – if she’ll let me.’
Two women of comparable age and education, both middle class and belonging to the same ethnic group, could scarcely have looked more disparate. Haggard and strained, with the kind of thinness that is due to stress, Georgina Bray looked no older than her mid-forties but an unhealthy mid-forties, strained and tired. But she had made a sartorial effort for these guests with what Wexford would once have known as an afternoon dress, burgundy-coloured and too short, and high-heeled court shoes her fidgeting feet told Wexford she would like to shed. Thora Kilmarton, on the other hand, was fat. No two ways about it. She wasn’t overweight or plump or any of the other euphemisms. She was uncompromisingly fat and apparently happy to be so. He had seldom seen a woman who looked so pleasantly contented. She was appropriately dressed in a tweed skirt, beige jumper and dark brown cardigan, no jewellery but her wedding ring, brown lace-up brogues, her sole frivolity lacy but thick brown tights.
It was Clarissa’s half-term break and she was out with a friend. She would soon be back but they wouldn’t wait for her. Now Wexford was here she would make coffee.
‘Or would you prefer tea?’
He had noticed lately that, with the advance of age, people often assumed that tea would be his drink, the pensioner’s beverage of choice. ‘Coffee will be fine,’ he said.
Much as he had hoped to get Thora Kilmartin alone, he realised that the time Mrs Bray took to bring in the coffee, even if she had to grind the beans before brewing the drink, would be inadequate for his purposes. In his position, as the rather absurdly named Crime Solutions Adviser (unpaid), he could hardly banish Georgina from her own living room. The question he most of all wanted to ask, but not in front of Clarissa or, come to that, Mrs Bray, might have to be put on hold until another time. Thora was waiting, smiling as she looked round the room, evidently admiring her
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