Road Rage by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
wouldn’t go back so that he also could pretend. Avoid that place, don’t pass that way, avert the eye, until there were no more ways to pass or places to be in …
And now he might as well go home. He remembered then that he would be alone at home. Well, he had plenty to read. He could start on those George Steiner essayseveryone said were wonderful. And at some point there was always television, accompanied by a small single malt. Dora would probably phone about seven. She wouldn’t expect him to be home much before seven, but she would phone then because whoever cooked for Sheila, and there was certain to be someone, would put dinner on the table at half-past.
The house was hot and stuffy. Today it had felt more like July than early September. He opened the French windows, drew a chair up to the garden table, went back into the house for beer from the fridge and the book of essays:
No Passion Spent
. Was it necessary to begin at the beginning or could he dip? He thought it would be fine to dip.
The French windows blew shut. He wouldn’t hear the phone but Dora wouldn’t phone before—well, ten to seven. At a quarter to seven he considered eating. What should he eat? When Jenny Burden went away she left her husband homemade frozen dinners in the freezer, one for every day of her absence. Wexford wouldn’t submit his wife to such slavery, but he didn’t like cooking; the fact was he couldn’t cook. Bread and cheese and pickles for him, and maybe a banana and ice cream. Soup first, Heinz tomato. Burden said that this was every man’s favorite soup …
When it got to ten past seven and Dora hadn’t phoned he began to wonder. Not to worry; to wonder. She was a punctual meticulous woman. Perhaps they had people round for drinks and she couldn’t just slip away. He would postpone eating until he’d spoken to her, and he turned off the gas under the soup.
The phone rang at seven-fifteen.
“Dora?” he said.
“It’s not Dora, it’s Sheila. Where have you been? I’vebeen phoning and phoning. I phoned your office and you weren’t there, I phoned home over and over.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect a call till seven. How are you? How’s the baby?”
“I am fantastic, Pop, and the baby is perfectly fine, but where is Mother?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mother. We expected her by one at the latest. Where is she?”
5
H e had done all the things one does in these circumstances: phoned hospitals, checked at the police station what road accidents there had been that day—only a car going into the back of another on the old bypass—phoned next door and talked to his neighbor.
Mary Pearson hadn’t seen Dora since the afternoon of the day before but she had seen a car parked outside that morning. At about ten forty-five, she thought it was. Maybe a few minutes earlier.
“That would be for the eleven-oh-three,” said Wexford.
“She was allowing herself a lot of time.”
“She always does. Was it a black taxi?”
“It was a red car, I don’t know the make, I’m afraid I don’t know about cars, Reg. I didn’t see her get in it.”
“Did you see the driver?”
Mary Pearson hadn’t. She sensed at last that something was wrong.
“You mean you don’t know where she’s got to, Reg?”
If he admitted it the whole street would be talking within the hour.
“She must have told me but it’s slipped my mind,” he said, and added, “Don’t worry,” as if she would worry and he wouldn’t.
Kingsmarkham Cabs used black taxis, so Dora hadn’t gone with them. And she couldn’t have used Contempo-rary Cars because they were out of action from about ten-fifteen until just after midday. So much for the caution he’d forgotten to give her, yet for which there had been no need …
He phoned All the Sixes, Station Taxis, and every local company he could find in the phone book. None of them had picked up Dora that morning. He was beginning to have that feeling of unreality that comes over
And now he might as well go home. He remembered then that he would be alone at home. Well, he had plenty to read. He could start on those George Steiner essayseveryone said were wonderful. And at some point there was always television, accompanied by a small single malt. Dora would probably phone about seven. She wouldn’t expect him to be home much before seven, but she would phone then because whoever cooked for Sheila, and there was certain to be someone, would put dinner on the table at half-past.
The house was hot and stuffy. Today it had felt more like July than early September. He opened the French windows, drew a chair up to the garden table, went back into the house for beer from the fridge and the book of essays:
No Passion Spent
. Was it necessary to begin at the beginning or could he dip? He thought it would be fine to dip.
The French windows blew shut. He wouldn’t hear the phone but Dora wouldn’t phone before—well, ten to seven. At a quarter to seven he considered eating. What should he eat? When Jenny Burden went away she left her husband homemade frozen dinners in the freezer, one for every day of her absence. Wexford wouldn’t submit his wife to such slavery, but he didn’t like cooking; the fact was he couldn’t cook. Bread and cheese and pickles for him, and maybe a banana and ice cream. Soup first, Heinz tomato. Burden said that this was every man’s favorite soup …
When it got to ten past seven and Dora hadn’t phoned he began to wonder. Not to worry; to wonder. She was a punctual meticulous woman. Perhaps they had people round for drinks and she couldn’t just slip away. He would postpone eating until he’d spoken to her, and he turned off the gas under the soup.
The phone rang at seven-fifteen.
“Dora?” he said.
“It’s not Dora, it’s Sheila. Where have you been? I’vebeen phoning and phoning. I phoned your office and you weren’t there, I phoned home over and over.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect a call till seven. How are you? How’s the baby?”
“I am fantastic, Pop, and the baby is perfectly fine, but where is Mother?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mother. We expected her by one at the latest. Where is she?”
5
H e had done all the things one does in these circumstances: phoned hospitals, checked at the police station what road accidents there had been that day—only a car going into the back of another on the old bypass—phoned next door and talked to his neighbor.
Mary Pearson hadn’t seen Dora since the afternoon of the day before but she had seen a car parked outside that morning. At about ten forty-five, she thought it was. Maybe a few minutes earlier.
“That would be for the eleven-oh-three,” said Wexford.
“She was allowing herself a lot of time.”
“She always does. Was it a black taxi?”
“It was a red car, I don’t know the make, I’m afraid I don’t know about cars, Reg. I didn’t see her get in it.”
“Did you see the driver?”
Mary Pearson hadn’t. She sensed at last that something was wrong.
“You mean you don’t know where she’s got to, Reg?”
If he admitted it the whole street would be talking within the hour.
“She must have told me but it’s slipped my mind,” he said, and added, “Don’t worry,” as if she would worry and he wouldn’t.
Kingsmarkham Cabs used black taxis, so Dora hadn’t gone with them. And she couldn’t have used Contempo-rary Cars because they were out of action from about ten-fifteen until just after midday. So much for the caution he’d forgotten to give her, yet for which there had been no need …
He phoned All the Sixes, Station Taxis, and every local company he could find in the phone book. None of them had picked up Dora that morning. He was beginning to have that feeling of unreality that comes over