Wexford 10 - A Sleeping Life by Ruth Rendell

overhearing their conversation. He could imagine the Indian girl’s comments. But if she hadn’t been listening at the door how the hell had she known what he had come for? Easy. The woman upstairs had told her. One of Baker’s men - that none too reliable Dinehart probably - had been round earlier in the day and let slip not only that the Kingsmarkham police wanted to talk to Polly but why they had wanted to talk to her. Malina would have read the papers, noted the date of Rhoda Comfrey’s death. He remembered how closely and somehow complacently she had looked at his warrant card.
       Rather a naughty girl she was, playing detective stories and trying to throw cats among pigeons to perplex him and tease her flatmate. Ah, well, it was over now. Rhoda Comfrey had found that wallet on a bus or in the street, and he was back where he started.
       Just before nine he walked into his own house. Dora was out, as he had known she would be, baby-sitting for Burden’s sister-in-law, Sylvia nowhere to be seen or heard. In the middle of the staircase sat Robin in pyjamas.
       ‘It’s too hot to go to sleep. You aren’t tired, are you, Grandad?’
       ‘Not really,’ said Wexford who was.
       ‘Granny said you would be but I know you, don’t I? I said to Granny that you’d want some fresh air.’
       ‘River air? Put some clothes on, then, and tell Mummy where you’re going.’
       Twilight had come to the water meadows. ‘Dusk is a very good time for water rats,’ said Robin. ‘Dusk.’ He seemed to like the word and repeated it over and over as they walked along the river bank. Above the sluggish flow of the Kingsbrook gnats danced in lazy clouds. But the heat was not oppressive, the air was sweet and a refreshment to a London jaded spirit. However, ‘I’m afraid we’ve had it for tonight,’ Wexford said as the darkness began to deepen.
       Robin took his hand. ‘Yes, we’d better go back because my daddy’s coming. I thought he was in Sweden but he’s not. I expect we’ll go home tomorrow. Not tonight because Ben’s asleep.’
       Wexford didn’t know what answer to make. And when they came into the hall he heard from behind the closed door of the living room the angry but lowered voices of his daughter and son-in-law. Robin made no move towards that door. He looked at it, looked away, and rubbed his fists across his tired eyes.
       ‘I’ll see you into bed,’ said his grandfather and lifted him more than usually tenderly in his arms.

    In the morning they phoned him from Stowerton Royal Infirmary. They thought the police would wish to know that Mr James Comfrey had ‘passed away’ during the night, and since his daughter was dead, whom should they get in touch with?
       ‘Mrs Lilian Crown,’ he said, and then he thought he might as well go and see her himself. There was little else to do. She was out. In Kingsmarkham the pubs open at ten on market day. To Bella Vista then. Today its name, its veridian roof and its sun-trap windows were justified. Light and heat beat down with equal force from a sky of the same hard dark blue as the late Mr Comfrey’s front door. 
       ‘He’s gone then,’ the old woman said. News travels fast in these quiet backwoods places. During the hour that had passed since Wexford had been told the news, Mrs Crown also had been told and had informed at least some of her neighbours. ‘It’s a terrible thing to die, young man, and have no one shed a tear for you.’
       She was stringing beans today, slicing them into long thin strips as few young housewives can be bothered to do. ‘I daresay it’d have been a relief to poor Rhoda. Whatever’d she have done, I used to ask myself, if they’d turned him out of there and she’d had to look after him? Nursed her mother devotedly, she did, used to have to take time off work and all, but there was love there of course, and not a word of appreciation from old Jim.’ The vital, youthful