Read Online Not In The Flesh by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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cactus in a beige pot but no flowers or other plants, no cushions on the bleak wooden-armed chairs and settee, a beige carpet but no rugs. The only clock was the digital kind with large, very bright green, quivering figures.
John Grimble was sitting in front of the screen when Wexford and Hannah were brought in by his wife. The film that was showing had reached a torrid love scene, enacted in silence as the sound was off. Kathleen Grimble took her place in the other orthopedic chair as if these positions and this contemplation of the picture had been ordained by some higher power. This time, though, she picked up the knitting that she had left lying on the seat of the chair, and, gazing in total impassivity at the writhing couple, began her mechanical and speedy work with needles and scarlet wool. Madame Defarge, Wexford thought. He could imagine her sitting on the steps of the guillotine, muttering “Oh, John, don't” each time a head rolled.
“I'd appreciate your attention, Mr. Grimble,” he said. “We've something very serious to ask you.”
Grimble turned an irritable face to him. “Give it five minutes, can't you, and I'll be with you.”
“Turn it off, please,” said Wexford, “or I'll do it myself.”
But at that moment the actor on the screen picked up a knife from the bedside table and thrust it into the outstretched neck of his companion, causing Mrs. Grimble to assert herself. “Right, that's enough,” she said calmly. “I'm not watching that sort of thing.” Grabbing the remote, she turned off the set.
Grimble began a low muttered complaining that Hannah interrupted. “Mr. Grimble, you didn't tell us a relative of yours went missing in May 1995. A bit before the time you applied for planning permission to build on your field. I'm talking about Mr. Peter Darracott of Pestle Lane, Kingsmarkham.”
“Is it all right for her to ask me questions?” Grimble said to Wexford. “I mean, has she got the proper qualifications?”
Wexford saw the blood rush to Hannah's cheeks, a sure sign of rage developing. He gave her a very small shake of the head. “Very proper, Mr. Grimble. Better than mine, in fact,” he said, thinking of Hannah's psychology degree.
“I suppose I have to take your word for it. What do you want to know for?” He was still addressing Wexford, but it was Hannah who replied, the color receding from her face.
“We already do know, Mr. Grimble. When we last spoke to you, you didn't mention Mr. Darracott.”
“Because I didn't know him, that's why.”
“But you knew he was your cousin.”
“My second cousin, if you don't mind. Oh, I can see what you're getting at. There was a body found in my field that's been dead eleven years. My second cousin went missing eleven years ago, so they've got to be one and the same. Now I'll tell you something. Everybody knows Peter Darracott had been carrying on with the woman as worked in the chemist on the corner of Pestle Lane, and that's who he went off with. And I for one don't blame him—married to that Christine what had a tongue on her like a razor. Nagged him from morn till night she did till he went spare.”
“Oh, John, don't,” said Kathleen.
“How well did you know him?” Wexford asked in a deceptively mild tone.
“About as well as most folks know their second cousins. Maybe we'd see each other at family funerals and that was about it. As matter of fact the last time I saw him was at my mum's funeral two years before he went missing.”
“It was good of him to come, John,” said Kathleen.
“Yes, well, my dad was his godfather and he thought he might be in the will, didn't he? He was unlucky there.”
“Some itinerant farmworkers camped on that land eleven years ago. Was that with your permission?”
Grimble flared again. The very word “permission” seemed enough to inflame him. “Are you joking? They counted
John Grimble was sitting in front of the screen when Wexford and Hannah were brought in by his wife. The film that was showing had reached a torrid love scene, enacted in silence as the sound was off. Kathleen Grimble took her place in the other orthopedic chair as if these positions and this contemplation of the picture had been ordained by some higher power. This time, though, she picked up the knitting that she had left lying on the seat of the chair, and, gazing in total impassivity at the writhing couple, began her mechanical and speedy work with needles and scarlet wool. Madame Defarge, Wexford thought. He could imagine her sitting on the steps of the guillotine, muttering “Oh, John, don't” each time a head rolled.
“I'd appreciate your attention, Mr. Grimble,” he said. “We've something very serious to ask you.”
Grimble turned an irritable face to him. “Give it five minutes, can't you, and I'll be with you.”
“Turn it off, please,” said Wexford, “or I'll do it myself.”
But at that moment the actor on the screen picked up a knife from the bedside table and thrust it into the outstretched neck of his companion, causing Mrs. Grimble to assert herself. “Right, that's enough,” she said calmly. “I'm not watching that sort of thing.” Grabbing the remote, she turned off the set.
Grimble began a low muttered complaining that Hannah interrupted. “Mr. Grimble, you didn't tell us a relative of yours went missing in May 1995. A bit before the time you applied for planning permission to build on your field. I'm talking about Mr. Peter Darracott of Pestle Lane, Kingsmarkham.”
“Is it all right for her to ask me questions?” Grimble said to Wexford. “I mean, has she got the proper qualifications?”
Wexford saw the blood rush to Hannah's cheeks, a sure sign of rage developing. He gave her a very small shake of the head. “Very proper, Mr. Grimble. Better than mine, in fact,” he said, thinking of Hannah's psychology degree.
“I suppose I have to take your word for it. What do you want to know for?” He was still addressing Wexford, but it was Hannah who replied, the color receding from her face.
“We already do know, Mr. Grimble. When we last spoke to you, you didn't mention Mr. Darracott.”
“Because I didn't know him, that's why.”
“But you knew he was your cousin.”
“My second cousin, if you don't mind. Oh, I can see what you're getting at. There was a body found in my field that's been dead eleven years. My second cousin went missing eleven years ago, so they've got to be one and the same. Now I'll tell you something. Everybody knows Peter Darracott had been carrying on with the woman as worked in the chemist on the corner of Pestle Lane, and that's who he went off with. And I for one don't blame him—married to that Christine what had a tongue on her like a razor. Nagged him from morn till night she did till he went spare.”
“Oh, John, don't,” said Kathleen.
“How well did you know him?” Wexford asked in a deceptively mild tone.
“About as well as most folks know their second cousins. Maybe we'd see each other at family funerals and that was about it. As matter of fact the last time I saw him was at my mum's funeral two years before he went missing.”
“It was good of him to come, John,” said Kathleen.
“Yes, well, my dad was his godfather and he thought he might be in the will, didn't he? He was unlucky there.”
“Some itinerant farmworkers camped on that land eleven years ago. Was that with your permission?”
Grimble flared again. The very word “permission” seemed enough to inflame him. “Are you joking? They counted
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