Road Rage by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online

gone out again or Trotter was lying, an alternative Burden preferred to believe. A woman at number nine told them her neighbor was called Wingate, but she had no idea whether he had been fetched from Kingsmarkham Station that morning or where he was now.
    The Pomfret fare, if he existed, might still be in London or Eastbourne or wherever the train had taken him, but more than three hours had elapsed, so it was equally likely he was back again. Lynn rang the bell at fifteen Masters Road, a between-the-wars bungalow with a view over the bypass site.
    The woman who answered the door had been doing some interior decorating. She had magnolia gloss paint on her hands, her jeans and shirt, and streaks of it in her hair. She looked cross and hot. No, she hadn’t got a husband. If Burden meant her partner, he was called John Clifton, and yes, he had gone to London that morning on the 10:51. A taxi had taken him to Kingsmarkham Station, but she hadn’t heard him phone for it, she hadn’t seen it come, and she had no idea which firm it was or who was driving the car. John had called out good-bye and said he was off and—
    “What’s happened to him?” she said, suddenly alarmed.
    “Nothing, Miss …”
    “Kennedy. Martha Kennedy. You’re sure nothing’s happened to him?”
    “It’s the taxi driver we’re interested in,” said Lynn.
    “In that case, perhaps you’ll excuse me. I want to finish these bloody doors before John gets back.”
    Burden said they would call again later. The door was shut rather sharply in his face. On the way back to Kingsmarkham they passed Wexford, who was driving himself to Pomfret Tye for his meeting and tour with the Deputy Chief Constable and the conservationists.
    The day, which had started dull and misty, was such a day as all lovers of the countryside should be given for their viewing of natural wonders. Or perhaps should not be given, should be denied, lest the soft air, the sunshine, the blue sky, and the rich green of vegetation give too painful and nostalgic an edge to a pastoral loveliness that must soon pass away. Better for all, Wexford was thinking, if the day were dull and cold and the sky the color of the concrete soon to spread itself across these hills, these deeps and marshes, and bridge on stark gray pillars the rippling waters of the Brede.
    Today the butterflies would be out, the tortoiseshells and fritillaries as well as
Araschnia
, and wild bees on the eyebright and the heather. There were goldcrests in the fir trees of Framhurst Great Wood. He had seen a pair of them once when on a picnic with Dora and the girls, and he and Sheila had looked, though looked in vain, for the nest that is like a little hanging basket. Dora—he had meant to phone her at lunchtime, in spite of what he’d said about her phoning him in the evening. But he hadn’t, he’d decided to wait. By now she would have seenthe new child, his granddaughter Amulet. Alone in the car, he laughed out loud over that name.
    Freeborn hadn’t yet got there, much to his relief. If the Deputy Chief Constable had arrived first he would have had something snide to say about it, even if Wexford himself had been on time, even if he had been early. Somewhat to his dismay, Anouk Khoori, chairperson of the Council’s Highways Committee, a woman with whom he had crossed swords in the recent past, was representing the local authority. She was fetchingly dressed in a yellow T-shirt with green jodhpurs and green boots, her bright blond hair tied up in a black and yellow bandanna, and she was exercising her wiles on Mark Arcturus of English Nature, smiling into his eyes, one scarlet-tipped hand resting on his sleeve. All smiles ceased when she became aware of Wexford’s presence and she gave him a very brief frosty glance.
    Wexford said in his best stolid policeman voice, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Khoori. A fine day.”
    The Entomologists introduced themselves and Wexford told them about
Araschnia
. Anecdotes on the theme