End in Tears by Ruth Rendell Page A

for his daughter was far stronger than what he felt for his wife, and if it came to Amber’s murder, he would never consider shielding his wife. That marriage, and what the Marshalsons felt for each other, interested Wexford. He had begun to believe there was some reason for the fading of the love George had once felt, perhaps something Diana had done. But that something was certainly not the murder of his only child.
    The scrapings from the drawer in Amber’s bedroom were analyzed and it was as Burden had thought. The powder was the usual widely used remedy for athlete’s foot. Did he have to abandon his theory of why Amber had been twice out of the country this year? Not yet. The fashion for drinking bottled water had largely passed Wexford by, but now, with the temperature once again moving up, he was gulping down glass after glass of it. Sitting opposite Hannah Goldsmith, a bottle of the sparkling kind and a pile of paperwork on the desk between them, he listened while she told him about John Brooks and Henry Nash’s malice.
    â€œI’m going back,” she said, “when he’s likely to get home.”
    â€œBe careful what you say if the wife’s there.”
    â€œSurely it’s best if she knows, guv. A relationship is no more than a sham if the partners aren’t honest with each other.”
    â€œâ€˜Each other’ are the operative words there,” said Wexford. “It’s not for you to be honest with them and they won’t thank you if you are.”
    His advice had less than the effect he desired on DS Goldsmith, who was planning the direct and brusque words she would use on that womanizer, that two-timing Brooks, in his wife’s presence, when she encountered Bal Bhattacharya downstairs, cool and sweat-free from a thorough though fruitless attempt with Ben Miller’s mother’s neighbors to establish his alibi. Could there be something in that old reactionary belief that people with dark skins were less affected by heat than the fair? She felt a rush of blood to her face, making her even hotter. That had probably been the most racist thought she had ever had!
    â€œBack to Mill Lane, then, DC Bhattacharya,” she said sharply, forgetting how he’d called her Hannah so caringly that morning.
    â€œYes, I’ve been thinking about how to ask the guy without arousing his wife’s suspicions.”
    Hannah’s retort that Mrs. Brooks’s suspicions should be aroused and soon, faded on her lips. “That’s your feeling too, is it? That we should tread a bit softly?”
    â€œWell, it is. What did you mean by ‘too’? Did someone else take the same line?”
    â€œThe guv,” said Hannah.
    Sure enough, John Brooks’s red VW was parked in the roadway, just where Henry Nash said it would be. But repeated ringing at the doorbell and rapping on the knocker fetched no one. It was Lydia Burton, her front door wide open to cool the house, who came out to tell them no one was at home. The Brookses were out celebrating their wedding anniversary. A taxi had come to pick them up ten minutes before and take them to a restaurant in Myringham.
    â€œSo John can have a drink, you know,” said Lydia Burton.
    â€œIt’s really appalling,” said Hannah when she was out of earshot, “how two-faced some people can be. Celebrating your wedding anniversary in the evening and shagging another woman by night, because that’s what he must be doing.”
    â€œNot so bad as murdering,” said Baljinder, and then, as if he were the superior officer, “‘Shagging’ is not an attractive word for a beautiful woman to use.”
    If anyone else in Bal’s position had reprimanded her, DS Goldsmith would have rounded on him with a sharp scathing phrase, but whether it was being called beautiful that mollified her or simply Bal’s own undeniable beauty and style, she couldn’t tell but she said