he, for their sakes, to marry again? Innocent of any, he was loaded down with guilt.
He went to absurd lengths to ensure that neither of them had to do any work they would not have done had his wife lived. For this reason he was always taking them out to mealsor rushing home with packages of expensive frozen food. Pat must never walk the half-mile from Grace’s house to Tabard Road. He would have let her walk it without a thought if Jean had lived. But motherless children had to be fetched in father’s car. He suffered agonies of frustration and recrimination if he was busy on a case and Pat had to wait an hour or even be abandoned to her aunt for an evening.
Wexford knew this. Whereas he would never excuse Burden from essential work on these grounds, he regretfully gave up the practice of detaining the inspector after hours to sit with him in the Olive and Dove and thrash out some current problem. Burden was worse than useless as a participant in these discussions. His eyes were always on the clock. Every drink he had was ‘one for the road’, and from time to time he would start from his seat and express the worry uppermost in his mind. Had John come in yet?
But old habits die hard. Wexford preferred the atmosphere in the Olive to the adolescent-ruled, untidy living room of the bungalow. He felt guilty when Pat was prevented from doing her ballet exercises and John had to turn off the record player, but he had to talk to Burden sometimes, discuss things with him outside hours. As he came to the door that evening, he heard the pom-pom, the roar and the whine of pop music before he rang the bell.
Burden was in his shirt sleeves, a plastic apron round his waist. He took this off hurriedly when he saw who his caller was. ‘Just finishing the dishes,’ he said. ‘I’ll nip out for some beer, shall I?’
‘No need. I’ve brought it. What did you think I’d got in the bag? More treasures from the river? Who’s the vocalist, John?’
‘Zeno Vedast,’ said John reverently. He looked at his father. ‘I suppose I’ll have to turn it off now.’
‘Not on my account,’ said Wexford. ‘I rather like his voice.’
Vedast wasn’t singing any of the festival songs but an older hit which had for so long been number one in the charts thateven Wexford had heard it. Once or twice he had heard himself humming the melody. It was a gentle folk song about a country wedding.
‘Dad’s going to buy me the Sundays album for my birthday.’
‘That’ll set you back a bit, Mike.’
‘Six quid,’ said Burden gloomily.
‘I wonder if any of these songs will live? We tend to forget that some of the greatest songs were pop in their day. After
The Marriage of Figaro
was first performed in the seventeen-eighties, they say Mozart heard the errand boys whistling
Non piu andrai
in the streets of Vienna. And it’s still popular.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Burden politely and uncomprehendingly. ‘You can turn it off now, John. Mr Wexford didn’t come round here to talk about Zeno Vedast or Goodbody or whatever his name is.’
‘That’s just what I did come for.’ Wexford went into the kitchen and picked up a tea towel. He began polishing glasses, resisting Burden’s efforts to stop him. ‘I’ve a feeling that before we go any further we ought to see Dawn’s lion, the lion who roars like any sucking dove.’
‘Wherever he may be at this moment.’
‘That’s no problem, Mike. He’s here. Or, at any rate, he’s at the Cheriton Forest Hotel.’ Wexford drank the half-pint Burden had poured out for him and told the inspector about his talk with Mrs Peckham. ‘I don’t know that it means much. He may make a point of visiting old ladies rather on the lines of a parliamentary candidate nursing babies. Never neglect any opportunity of currying favour and influencing people. Or he may be an ordinary nice bloke who wanted to condole with the dead girl’s grandma. It certainly doesn’t mean he’d seen Dawn
He went to absurd lengths to ensure that neither of them had to do any work they would not have done had his wife lived. For this reason he was always taking them out to mealsor rushing home with packages of expensive frozen food. Pat must never walk the half-mile from Grace’s house to Tabard Road. He would have let her walk it without a thought if Jean had lived. But motherless children had to be fetched in father’s car. He suffered agonies of frustration and recrimination if he was busy on a case and Pat had to wait an hour or even be abandoned to her aunt for an evening.
Wexford knew this. Whereas he would never excuse Burden from essential work on these grounds, he regretfully gave up the practice of detaining the inspector after hours to sit with him in the Olive and Dove and thrash out some current problem. Burden was worse than useless as a participant in these discussions. His eyes were always on the clock. Every drink he had was ‘one for the road’, and from time to time he would start from his seat and express the worry uppermost in his mind. Had John come in yet?
But old habits die hard. Wexford preferred the atmosphere in the Olive to the adolescent-ruled, untidy living room of the bungalow. He felt guilty when Pat was prevented from doing her ballet exercises and John had to turn off the record player, but he had to talk to Burden sometimes, discuss things with him outside hours. As he came to the door that evening, he heard the pom-pom, the roar and the whine of pop music before he rang the bell.
Burden was in his shirt sleeves, a plastic apron round his waist. He took this off hurriedly when he saw who his caller was. ‘Just finishing the dishes,’ he said. ‘I’ll nip out for some beer, shall I?’
‘No need. I’ve brought it. What did you think I’d got in the bag? More treasures from the river? Who’s the vocalist, John?’
‘Zeno Vedast,’ said John reverently. He looked at his father. ‘I suppose I’ll have to turn it off now.’
‘Not on my account,’ said Wexford. ‘I rather like his voice.’
Vedast wasn’t singing any of the festival songs but an older hit which had for so long been number one in the charts thateven Wexford had heard it. Once or twice he had heard himself humming the melody. It was a gentle folk song about a country wedding.
‘Dad’s going to buy me the Sundays album for my birthday.’
‘That’ll set you back a bit, Mike.’
‘Six quid,’ said Burden gloomily.
‘I wonder if any of these songs will live? We tend to forget that some of the greatest songs were pop in their day. After
The Marriage of Figaro
was first performed in the seventeen-eighties, they say Mozart heard the errand boys whistling
Non piu andrai
in the streets of Vienna. And it’s still popular.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Burden politely and uncomprehendingly. ‘You can turn it off now, John. Mr Wexford didn’t come round here to talk about Zeno Vedast or Goodbody or whatever his name is.’
‘That’s just what I did come for.’ Wexford went into the kitchen and picked up a tea towel. He began polishing glasses, resisting Burden’s efforts to stop him. ‘I’ve a feeling that before we go any further we ought to see Dawn’s lion, the lion who roars like any sucking dove.’
‘Wherever he may be at this moment.’
‘That’s no problem, Mike. He’s here. Or, at any rate, he’s at the Cheriton Forest Hotel.’ Wexford drank the half-pint Burden had poured out for him and told the inspector about his talk with Mrs Peckham. ‘I don’t know that it means much. He may make a point of visiting old ladies rather on the lines of a parliamentary candidate nursing babies. Never neglect any opportunity of currying favour and influencing people. Or he may be an ordinary nice bloke who wanted to condole with the dead girl’s grandma. It certainly doesn’t mean he’d seen Dawn
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