Kissing the Gunner's Daughter by Ruth Rendell Page B

start a car she had not seen after the man she had seen had shot her and her family.
    Probably he had left the house by the back door and brought the car round to the front. He had escaped when he heard noises overhead. The
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    man who shot Daisy also heard noises overhead, which was why he had not fired another shot, the shot that would have killed her. The noises were, of course, made by the cat Queenie, but the two men were not to know that. Very likely, neither of them had been to the top floor, but they knew there was a top floor. They knew someone else might be up there.
    This was an entirely satisfying explanation in all respects but one. Wexford was standing by the side of the road, looking behind him, pondering on this single exception, when car lights came up out of the wood on the main road. They turned off to the left just before the wall was reached and in the light from the house Wexford saw that it was Gabbitas's Land Rover.
    Gabbitas stopped when he saw who it was. He wound down the window. "Were you looking for me?"
    "I'd like a word, Mr Gabbitas. Can you spare me half an hour?"
    For answer, Gabbitas leaned across and opened the passenger door. Wexford hauled himself in. "Would you come over to the stables, please?"
    "It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"
    "Late for what, Mr Gabbitas? Pursuing a murder enquiry? There are three people dead here and one seriously injured. But on second thoughts I think your house might be the better venue."
    "Oh, very well. If you insist."
    This little exchange had served to inform
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    Wexford of things he had not noticed at their first meeting. From his accent and his manner, the woodsman showed himself a considerable cut above the Harrisons. He was also extremely good-looking. He was the type of a Cold Comfort Farm hero. He had the looks of an actor some casting director might pick to play the male lead in a Hardy or Lawrence adaptation. Byronic but rustic too. His hair was black, his eyes very dark. The hands on the wheel were brown with black hairs on the backs of them and on the long fingers. The half-grin he had given Wexford when asked to drive down the by-road had shown a set of very white, even teeth. He was a swashbuckler and of the type that is supposed more than any other to be attractive to women.
    Wexford climbed into the passenger seat, "What time was it you told me you came home last night?"
    "Eight twenty, eight twenty-five, that's the nearest I can make it. I didn't think I'd have any reason to be precise about the time." There was an edge of impatience to his tone. "I know I was back in my house when my clock struck the half-hour."
    "Do you know Mrs Bib Mew who works at the house?"
    Gabbitas seemed amused. "I know who you mean. I didn't know she was called that."
    "Mrs Mew left here on her bicycle at ten to eight last night and reached home in Pomfret Monachorum at about ten past. If you reached home at twenty past it's likely you might
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    have met her on your way. She too used the byroad."
    "I didn't meet her," Gabbitas said shortly. "I've told you, I met no one, I passed no
    one."
    They had driven through the pinetum and reached the cottage where he lived. Gabbitas's manner, when ushering Wexford in, had become slightly more gracious. Wexford asked him where he had been on the previous day.
    "Coppicing a wood near Midhurst. Why?"
    It was a bachelor's house, tidy, functional, a little shabby. The living room into which he took Wexford was dominated by objects which turned it into an office, a desk with laptop computer, grey metal filing cabinet, stacks of box files. Bookcases full of encyclopaedias half filled a wall. Gabbitas cleared a chair for him by lifting off its seat an armful of folders and exercise books.
    Wexford persisted. "And you came home along the byroad?"
    "I told you."
    f "Mr Gabbitas," said Wexford rather crossly, pounds ou must have seen enough television, if you know it from no other source, to understand that a policeman's purpose