Murder Being Once Done by Ruth Rendell

even if she’s given her consent in writing.’
    ‘Do you know the mother?’
    ‘No, sir. And she doesn’t know us. We’re just a serial number to her. It’s done through what’s called a guardian ad litem , she’s a probation officer really. When the time comes the wife and I will go along to the court and the wife’ll sit there with the boy on her lap – nice touch that, isn’t it? – and the order’ll be made and then – then he’ll be ours for ever. Just as if he was our own.’ Clements’ voice grew thick and his lips trembled. ‘But you can’t help having just that one per cent chance in mind that something may go wrong.’
    Wexford was beginning to feel sorry that he had ever opened the subject. The steering wheel which Clements’ hands had gripped was wet with sweat and he could see a pulse drumming in his left temple. When he had spoken those last words he had looked near to actual tears.
    ‘I take it Mr Fortune’s inside the shop?’ he said in an effort to change the subject. ‘Who’s the boy with the van?’
    ‘That’s Brian Gregson, sir. You’ve heard of him, I daresay. The one with the good friends all burning to give him an alibi.’ Clements was calmer now as his attention was diverted from his personal problems back to the case. ‘He’s one of Sytansound’s engineers, the only young unmarried one.’
    Wexford remembered now that Howard had mentioned Gregson, but only in passing and not by name. ‘What’s this about an alibi?’ he asked. ‘And why should he need one?’
    ‘He’s just about the only man who ever associated with Loveday Morgan so-called. Tripper – that’s the cemetery block – saw him giving her a lift home one night in his van. And one of the reps says Gregson used to chat her up in the shop sometimes.’
    ‘A bit thin, isn’t it?’ Wexford objected.
    ‘Well, his alibi for that Friday night is thin, too, sir. He says he was in the Psyche Club in Notting Hill – that’s a sort of drinking place, sir. God knows what else goes on there – and four villains say he was with them there from seven till eleven. But three of them have got form. You couldn’t trust them an inch. Look at him, sir. Wouldn’t you reckon he’d got something to hide?’
    He was a slight fair youth who seemed younger than the twenty-one years Howard had attributed to him and whose thin schoolboy arms looked too frail to support the boxes he was carrying from the van into the shop. Wexford thought he had the air of someone who believes that if he bustles away at his job, giving the impression of a rapt involvement, he may pass unnoticed and escape the interference of authority. Whether or not this was the hope that spurred him to trot in and out so busily with his loads, his work was destined to be interrupted. As he again approached the rear of the van, determinedly keeping his eyes from wandering towards the police car, a ginger-headed, sharp-faced man came out of Sytansound, beckoned to him and called out:
    ‘Gregson! Here a minute!’
    ‘That’s Inspector Baker, sir,’ said Clements. ‘He’ll put him through the mill all right, tell him a thing or two like his father should have done years ago.’
    Wexford sighed to himself, for he sensed what was coming and knew that, short of getting out of the car, he was powerless to stop it.
    ‘Vicious, like all the young today,’ said Clements. ‘Take these girls that have illegits, they’ve got no more idea of their responsibilities than – than rabbits.’ He brought this last word out on a note of triumphant serendipity, perhaps believing that the chief inspector with his rustic background would be familiar with the behaviour of small mammals.
    ‘They can’t look after them,’ he went on. ‘You should have seen our boy when he first came to us, thin, white, his nose always running. I don’t believe he’d been out in the fresh air since he was born. It isn’t fair!’ Clements’ voice rose passionately. ‘They