Read Online Wexford 10 - A Sleeping Life by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Ads: Link
afraid.’
Vivian shook his head and his beard waggled. He had a variety of intense facial contortions, all stereotyped and suggesting the kind a ham actor acquired to express astonishment, sagacity, knowingness and suspicion. ‘I’ve never seen her here or with Gren, you know,’ he said, switching on the one that indicated disappointed bewilderment. ‘Funny, though, I mean, there’s something familiar about the face. Something, you know, I can’t put a finger on it. Maybe it’ll come back.’ As Wexford’s hopes leapt, Vivian crushed them.
‘This picture wasn’t in the papers, was it? I mean, could that be where I’ve seen her before?’
‘It could.’
Two people came into the bar, bringing with them a momentary blaze of sunshine before the door closed again. Vivian waved in their direction, then, turning back, gave a low whistle. ‘I say! That isn’t old Gren’s wallet, is it?’
Vague memories of Latin lessons came back to Wexford, of forms in which to put questions expecting the answer no. All Vivian’s questions seemed to expect the answer no, perhaps so that he could whistle and put on his astounded face when he got a yes.
‘Well, is it? . . . Now wait a minute. I mean, this one’s new, isn’t it? You caught me out for a minute, you know. Gren’s got one like it, only a bit knocked around, I mean. Just like that, only a bit battered. Not new, I mean.’ And he had taken it with him to France, Wexford thought.
He was making slow progress, but he kept trying, ‘This woman was almost certainly living under an assumed name, Mr Vivian, never mind the name or the face. Did Mr West ever mention to you any woman friend he had who was older than himself?’
‘There was his agent, his - what-d’you-call-it? - literary agent. I can’t remember her name. Mrs Something, you know. Got a husband living, I’m sure of that. I mean, it wouldn’t be her, would it?’
‘I’m afraid not. Can you tell me Mr West’s address in France?’
‘He’s touring about, you know. Somewhere in the south, that’s all I can tell you. Getting back to this woman, I’m racking my brains, but I can’t come up with anyone. I mean, people chat to you about this and that, especially in my job, I mean, and a lot of it goes in one ear and out the other. Old Gren goes about a lot, great walker, likes his beer, likes to have a walk about Soho at night. For the pubs, I mean, nothing nasty, I don’t mean that. He’s got his drinking pals, you know, and he may have talked of some woman, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea about her name or where she lives, would I? I mean, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But you know how it is, I mean, you don’t think anyone’s going to ask, I mean, it doesn’t cross your mind, does it?’
As Wexford rose to go, he was unable to resist the temptation. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said.
Chapter 7
‘You’re not having much luck,’ said Baker over a fresh pot of tea. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have someone go through the Kenbourne street directory for you. If he did know her, she might have been living only a stone’s throw away.’
‘Not as Rhoda Comfrey. But it’s very good of you, Michael.’
Stevens was waiting for him, but they hadn’t got far along Kenbourne High Street when Wexford noticed a large newish public library on the opposite side. It would close, he guessed, at six, and it was a quarter to now. He told Stevens to drop him and park the car as best he could in this jungle of buses and container lorries and double yellow lines, and then he got out and jay-walked in most unpoliceman-like fashion across the road.
On the forecourt stood a bronze of a mid-nineteenth century gentleman in a frock-coat. ‘Edward Edwards’ said a plaque at its feet, that and no more, as if the name ought to be as familiar as Victoria R or William Ewart Gladstone. It wasn’t
Vivian shook his head and his beard waggled. He had a variety of intense facial contortions, all stereotyped and suggesting the kind a ham actor acquired to express astonishment, sagacity, knowingness and suspicion. ‘I’ve never seen her here or with Gren, you know,’ he said, switching on the one that indicated disappointed bewilderment. ‘Funny, though, I mean, there’s something familiar about the face. Something, you know, I can’t put a finger on it. Maybe it’ll come back.’ As Wexford’s hopes leapt, Vivian crushed them.
‘This picture wasn’t in the papers, was it? I mean, could that be where I’ve seen her before?’
‘It could.’
Two people came into the bar, bringing with them a momentary blaze of sunshine before the door closed again. Vivian waved in their direction, then, turning back, gave a low whistle. ‘I say! That isn’t old Gren’s wallet, is it?’
Vague memories of Latin lessons came back to Wexford, of forms in which to put questions expecting the answer no. All Vivian’s questions seemed to expect the answer no, perhaps so that he could whistle and put on his astounded face when he got a yes.
‘Well, is it? . . . Now wait a minute. I mean, this one’s new, isn’t it? You caught me out for a minute, you know. Gren’s got one like it, only a bit knocked around, I mean. Just like that, only a bit battered. Not new, I mean.’ And he had taken it with him to France, Wexford thought.
He was making slow progress, but he kept trying, ‘This woman was almost certainly living under an assumed name, Mr Vivian, never mind the name or the face. Did Mr West ever mention to you any woman friend he had who was older than himself?’
‘There was his agent, his - what-d’you-call-it? - literary agent. I can’t remember her name. Mrs Something, you know. Got a husband living, I’m sure of that. I mean, it wouldn’t be her, would it?’
‘I’m afraid not. Can you tell me Mr West’s address in France?’
‘He’s touring about, you know. Somewhere in the south, that’s all I can tell you. Getting back to this woman, I’m racking my brains, but I can’t come up with anyone. I mean, people chat to you about this and that, especially in my job, I mean, and a lot of it goes in one ear and out the other. Old Gren goes about a lot, great walker, likes his beer, likes to have a walk about Soho at night. For the pubs, I mean, nothing nasty, I don’t mean that. He’s got his drinking pals, you know, and he may have talked of some woman, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea about her name or where she lives, would I? I mean, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But you know how it is, I mean, you don’t think anyone’s going to ask, I mean, it doesn’t cross your mind, does it?’
As Wexford rose to go, he was unable to resist the temptation. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said.
Chapter 7
‘You’re not having much luck,’ said Baker over a fresh pot of tea. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have someone go through the Kenbourne street directory for you. If he did know her, she might have been living only a stone’s throw away.’
‘Not as Rhoda Comfrey. But it’s very good of you, Michael.’
Stevens was waiting for him, but they hadn’t got far along Kenbourne High Street when Wexford noticed a large newish public library on the opposite side. It would close, he guessed, at six, and it was a quarter to now. He told Stevens to drop him and park the car as best he could in this jungle of buses and container lorries and double yellow lines, and then he got out and jay-walked in most unpoliceman-like fashion across the road.
On the forecourt stood a bronze of a mid-nineteenth century gentleman in a frock-coat. ‘Edward Edwards’ said a plaque at its feet, that and no more, as if the name ought to be as familiar as Victoria R or William Ewart Gladstone. It wasn’t
Similar Books
