Wexford 4 - The Best Man To Die by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online

delectable dentures, d’you reckon?’
       ‘Maybe Vigo can tell us where the money came from if Cullam can’t,’ said Burden. ‘My wife goes to Vigo. He’s a good dentist.’
       ‘A fly one too, if you ask me, getting a sharp little customer like Charlie Hatton to part with two hundred for thirty-two teeth. No wonder he can afford to live in Ploughman’s Lane. We’re in the wrong job here, Mike, and no mistake. I’m going for my lunch now. Join me? And then we’ll go and root Cullam out of his domestic bliss.’
       ‘May as well use the lift,’ said Burden with a trace of self- consciousness.
       It was more than Wexford’s life was worth to admit his craven fear of the lift. Although a notice inside clearly stated its capacity to carry three persons, he was secretly afraid that it would be inadequate to bear his vast bulk. But he hesitated for no more than a moment before stepping inside and when the door was closed he took refuge in clowning.
       ‘Soft furnishings, table linen, cutlery,’ he said facetiously, pressing the button. The lift sighed and began to sink. ‘First floor for ladies’ underwear, stockings. . . Why’s it stopping, Mike?’
       ‘Maybe you pressed the wrong button.’
       Or it won’t stand my weight, Wexford thought, alarmed. The lift came to rest at the first floor and the door slid open. Sergeant Camb hesitated apologetically on the threshold.
       ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t know it was you. I can walk down.’
       ‘Three persons are permitted, Sergeant,’ Wexford said, hoping his now very real trepidation didn’t show. ‘Come along.’
       ‘Thank you, sir.’
       ‘Not bad, is it? The tribute of a grateful government.’ Come on, come on, he thought, and pictured the three of them plummeting down the last thirty feet into the basement.
       ‘You off to see Mrs Fanshawe, I suppose?’ he said superfluously. The lift floated lightly, steadied and the door opened. Must be stoutly built, thought Wexford, like me. ‘I heard she’d regained consciousness.’
       ‘I’m hoping the doctors’ll have broken the news about her husband and her daughter, sir,’ said Camb as they crossed the black and white checkerboard foyer of the station. ‘It’s not a job I fancy. They were all the family she’d got. She hasn’t a soul in the world barring her sister who came down and identified the bodies.’
       ‘How old is she?’
       ‘Mrs Fanshawe, sir? Fifty odd. The sister’s a good bit older. Horrible business for her having to identify Miss Fanshawe. She was, a nasty mess, I can tell you. Face all . . .’
       ‘I’m just off for my lunch,’ said Wexford firmly.
       He marched through the swing doors in front of the others and Camb got into his car. The stone flowerpots on the forecourt sported bright pink bouquets of pelargoniums, their magenta-splashed faces turned gratefully to the noon-day sun.
       ‘What was all that about?’ asked Burden.
       ‘Mrs Fanshawe? It’s not our cup of tea. She and her husband were driving home from Eastbourne in Fanshawe's Jaguar. It overturned in the fast lane on the twin-track road on the other side of Stowerton. Their home was in London and Fanshawe must have been in a hurry. God knows how it happened, there wasn’t another thing on the road, but the Jag overturned and caught fire. Mrs Fanshawe was flung clear, the other two killed outright. Badly burned too.’
       ‘And this Mrs Fanshawe doesn’t know?’
       ‘She’s been in a coma since it happened six weeks ago.’
       ‘I remember now,’ said Burden, lifting the plastic strip curtain the Carousel Café hung up in hot weather to keep out wasps. ‘The inquest was adjourned.’
       ‘Till Mrs F. regained consciousness. Presumably Camb’s going to try and get her to tell him just why a seasoned driver like Fanshawe overturned his car on an empty road. Some hopes! What d’you fancy for lunch, Mike? I’m going for the