contained a cheque book for one of the accounts with the Anglian-Victoria at Pomfret (R. W. Williams, private account), and a wallet containing one fiver, three 1 pound notes and two credit cards, Visa and American Express. No car keys, no house keys.
‘He probably kept his house key on the same ring as his car keys,’ Burden said. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘At any rate, we’ll get at that bank account now. The doctor here says there was a teatowel wrapped round his neck. To staunch the blood presumably.’
There came a knock at the door. Bennett came into the room with a young woman, not anyone’s idea of a Wife of Bath.
‘Mrs Wendy Williams, sir.’
She looked about twenty-five. She was a pretty girl with s a delicate nervous face and fair curly hair. Wexford asked her to sit down, the doctor having sprung to his feet. She slid into the chair, gripping the arms of it, and jumped as Crocker passed behind her on his way to the door. Burden closed the door behind him and stood there.
‘What did you want to see me about, Mrs Williams?’
She didn’t answer. She had fixed him with a penetrating stare and her tongue came in and out, moistening her lips.
‘I take it you’re Rodney Williams’s sister-in-law? Is that right?’
She moved her body back a little, hands still tight on the chair arms. ‘What do you mean, his sister-in-law?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Look, I ... I don’t know how to say this. I’ve been so ... I’ve been nearly out of my mind.’ Mounting hysteria made her voice ragged. ‘I saw in the paper ... a little bit in the paper and ... Is that, that person they found .. . ? Is that my husband?’
9
It was seldom he could give people reassuring news. He was tempted to say no, of course not. The body has been identified. She was holding on to the arms of the chair, rubbing her fingers up and down the wood.
‘What is your husband’s name, Mrs Williams?’
‘Rodney John Williams. He’s forty-eight.’ She spoke in short jerky phrases, not waiting for the questions. ‘Six feet tall. He’s fair going grey. He’s a salesman. It said in the paper a salesman.’
Burden stared, then looked down. She swallowed, made an effort against panic, an effort that concentrated on tensing her muscles.
‘Could you .. . please, I have a photo here.’
Her hands, unlocked from the chair, refused to obey her when first she tried to open her bag. The photograph she handed to Wexford fluttered, she was shaking so. He looked at it, unbelieving.
It was Rodney Williams all right, high domed forehead, crack of a mouth parted in a broad smile. It was a more recent picture than the one Joy had and showed Williams in swimming trunks (flabby hairless chest, spindleshanks, a bit knock-kneed) with this girl in a black bikini and another girl, also bikini’d but no more than twelve years old. Wexford’s eyes returned to the unmistakable face of Williams, to the head you somehow wanted to slap a fringed wig on and so transform it.
She was waiting, watching him. He nodded. She brought a fluttery hand up to her chest, to her heart perhaps, froze for a moment in this tragic pose. Then her eyelids fell and she sagged sideways in the chair.
Afterwards he was to think of it as having been beautifully done but at the time he saw it only as a genuine faint. Burden held her shoulders, bringing her face down onto her knees. Picking up the phone, Wexford asked for a policewoman to come up, Polly Davies or Marion Bayliss, anyone who was around. And someone send a pot of strong tea and don’t forget the sugar basin.
Wendy Williams came out of her faint, sat up and pressed her face into her hands.
‘You are the wife of Rodney John Williams and you live in Liskeard Avenue, Pomfret?’
She drank the tea sugarless and very hot, at first with her eyes closed. When she opened her eyes and they met his he noticed they were the very clear pale blue of flax flowers. She nodded slowly.
‘How long have you been
‘He probably kept his house key on the same ring as his car keys,’ Burden said. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘At any rate, we’ll get at that bank account now. The doctor here says there was a teatowel wrapped round his neck. To staunch the blood presumably.’
There came a knock at the door. Bennett came into the room with a young woman, not anyone’s idea of a Wife of Bath.
‘Mrs Wendy Williams, sir.’
She looked about twenty-five. She was a pretty girl with s a delicate nervous face and fair curly hair. Wexford asked her to sit down, the doctor having sprung to his feet. She slid into the chair, gripping the arms of it, and jumped as Crocker passed behind her on his way to the door. Burden closed the door behind him and stood there.
‘What did you want to see me about, Mrs Williams?’
She didn’t answer. She had fixed him with a penetrating stare and her tongue came in and out, moistening her lips.
‘I take it you’re Rodney Williams’s sister-in-law? Is that right?’
She moved her body back a little, hands still tight on the chair arms. ‘What do you mean, his sister-in-law?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Look, I ... I don’t know how to say this. I’ve been so ... I’ve been nearly out of my mind.’ Mounting hysteria made her voice ragged. ‘I saw in the paper ... a little bit in the paper and ... Is that, that person they found .. . ? Is that my husband?’
9
It was seldom he could give people reassuring news. He was tempted to say no, of course not. The body has been identified. She was holding on to the arms of the chair, rubbing her fingers up and down the wood.
‘What is your husband’s name, Mrs Williams?’
‘Rodney John Williams. He’s forty-eight.’ She spoke in short jerky phrases, not waiting for the questions. ‘Six feet tall. He’s fair going grey. He’s a salesman. It said in the paper a salesman.’
Burden stared, then looked down. She swallowed, made an effort against panic, an effort that concentrated on tensing her muscles.
‘Could you .. . please, I have a photo here.’
Her hands, unlocked from the chair, refused to obey her when first she tried to open her bag. The photograph she handed to Wexford fluttered, she was shaking so. He looked at it, unbelieving.
It was Rodney Williams all right, high domed forehead, crack of a mouth parted in a broad smile. It was a more recent picture than the one Joy had and showed Williams in swimming trunks (flabby hairless chest, spindleshanks, a bit knock-kneed) with this girl in a black bikini and another girl, also bikini’d but no more than twelve years old. Wexford’s eyes returned to the unmistakable face of Williams, to the head you somehow wanted to slap a fringed wig on and so transform it.
She was waiting, watching him. He nodded. She brought a fluttery hand up to her chest, to her heart perhaps, froze for a moment in this tragic pose. Then her eyelids fell and she sagged sideways in the chair.
Afterwards he was to think of it as having been beautifully done but at the time he saw it only as a genuine faint. Burden held her shoulders, bringing her face down onto her knees. Picking up the phone, Wexford asked for a policewoman to come up, Polly Davies or Marion Bayliss, anyone who was around. And someone send a pot of strong tea and don’t forget the sugar basin.
Wendy Williams came out of her faint, sat up and pressed her face into her hands.
‘You are the wife of Rodney John Williams and you live in Liskeard Avenue, Pomfret?’
She drank the tea sugarless and very hot, at first with her eyes closed. When she opened her eyes and they met his he noticed they were the very clear pale blue of flax flowers. She nodded slowly.
‘How long have you been
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