End in Tears by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online Page A

was built, living there wasn’t considered secure without gates at its entrance, a key-operated barrier, and an English version of a concierge in the gatehouse. The one on duty at Riverbank Close, Sewingbury, was a six-foot-five African in black jeans and T-shirt with RIVERBANK in yellow letters on the front. The driver of the car that preceded Wexford’s through the gateway received a hearty “Good morning, sir” and a smile of radiant amiability, while Donaldson was greeted with cool contempt and a demand for identification from all of them.
    â€œI suppose,” said Burden when they were in, “that if I lived here, if I were the kind of person who’d want to live here, I’d love that guy and feel really safe when he was on duty. As it is, however…”
    Wexford nodded. “I first saw this kind of setup in California and hoped it wouldn’t have to happen here.”
    â€œDoes it have to happen here?”
    â€œI don’t know, Mike. Where’s the riverbank, anyway?”
    â€œAbout half a mile away and the river’s what you might call a tributary of the Kingsbrook if it hasn’t dried up altogether by now.”
    Some sort of building work was evidently going on at number four. A board in the front garden proclaimed the construction workers to be Surrage-Samphire, Specialist Decorators and Restorers, but as is the well-known way of builders, no decorator or restorer was in the house at present, though the hall, which seemed to be in the process of being paneled, was a chaos of wood strips, glue pots, brushes, sheets of paper, and dust sheets. “But no bricks,” as Wexford remarked to Burden later.
    Though expected, they had to ring twice before someone came. She was a teenage girl in a denim miniskirt of extravagant shortness and a bustier so revealing that, much to Wexford’s amusement, Burden turned away his eyes, though whether in prudery or suppressed lust was unclear.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWe have an appointment with Mrs. Hilland,” said Wexford, stepping in among the building materials without waiting to be invited. “And you are?”
    For a moment he thought she would tell him it was no business of his but she relented a little and said, “Cosima Hilland.”
    â€œDaniel is your brother?”
    Everyone knew that, her look seemed to say. The question was unworthy of reply. Picking her way over pots and a stack of wood strips, she led them to a pair of double doors and said, “In there,” as if she had only just thought better of giving the two of them a push.
    The mother was about the same age as Diana Marshalson, a thin tired-looking woman of faded blond prettiness. She got up from the chair in which she had been sitting, writing something at a desk. Wexford had noticed, from the moment they entered the house, that this was one of the few in the neighborhood with efficient air-conditioning but perhaps only one among many in Riverbank Close. With not a window open, the room was as cool as on an autumn day. Outside the sun glared over parched lawns and distressed trees with drooping leaves.
    The woman said nothing, neither smiled nor held out her hand, but raised her eyebrows to an alarming extent so that the penciled ellipses vanished into her fringe. Wexford took this as an inquiry as to their business in her house rather like her daughter’s “Yes?” Not invited to sit down, Burden sat in spite of this omission and Wexford, once she had returned to her chair, did so too. A phone call had been made before their visit, but she gave no sign that she knew of it. She sat in silence, first gazing out of the window, then turning her eyes on Wexford.
    He responded by asking her if he was right in thinking she was Mrs. Hilland.
    â€œVivien Hilland, yes,” she said, her voice several degrees higher up the class scale than the home she lived in. A small manor house would have been more