recently.’
John put his head round the door. ‘I’m going out, Dad.’
Burden began to flap. ‘Where? Why? What d’you want to go out now for?’
‘Only down the Carousel.’
Wexford said smoothly, ‘That’s fine, John, because we’re going out too. Your father won’t be back till ten-thirty, so you’d better have the key. You’re bound to be in before him, aren’t you?’
Burden handed over the key in meek stupefaction and John took it as if it were something precious and wonderful. When the boy had gone—rapidly before there could be any changes of heart—Burden said suspiciously, ‘You talked to him exactly as if he were grown-up.’
‘Don’t have any more beer, Mike. I want you to drive us.’
‘To Cheriton Forest, I suppose?’
‘Mm-hm. Vedast’s dining in tonight. I checked.’ Wexford looked at his watch. ‘He ought to have just about finished his dinner.’
‘Oh God. I don’t know. Pat’s at Grace’s. John …’
‘The boy’s glad you’re going out. It was a relief. Couldn’t you see that? You won’t go out for his sake. D’you want him to get so he can’t go out for yours?’
‘I sometimes think human relationships are impossible. Communication’s impossible.’
‘And you’re a fool,’ said Wexford, but he said it affectionately.
Cheriton Forest, a large fir plantation, lies some two miles to the south of Kingsmarkham. It is intersected by a number of sandy rides and one metalled road on which, in a big heathy clearing, is situated the Cheriton Forest Hotel.
This is a newer and far more fashionable hotel than the Olive and Dove in Kingsmarkham. The original building, put up in the thirties, is supposed to be a copy of a Tudor manor house. But there are too many beams and studs, the plaster is too white and the beams too black, the woodwork a decoration rather than an integral part of the structure. And the whole thing which might have mellowed with time has been vulgarised by a vast glass cocktail bar and by rows of motel bungalows added on in the late sixties.
When Wexford and Burden arrived at the hotel it was still broad daylight, a dull summer evening, windy and cool. The wind stirred the forest trees, ruffling them against a pale sky where grey clouds, rimmed in the west with pink, moved, gathered, lost their shapes, torn by the wind.
On a Saturday night the forecourt would by this time have been crammed with cars and the cocktail bar full of people. But this was mid-week. Through a mullioned window a few sedate diners could be seen at tables, waiters moving unhurriedly with trays. This dining-room window was closed as were all the others in the building except one on the floor above, a pair of french windows giving on to a balcony which was quite out of keeping with the design of the hotel. The wind sent these diamond-paned glass doors banging shut and bursting open again, and from time to time it caught the velvet curtains, beating them, making them toss like washing on a line.
There was plenty of room in the parking bays for the half-dozen vehicles which stood there. Only one was on the forecourt proper, a golden Rolls-Royce parked askew, the silver gable of its grid nosing into a flower-bed and crushing geranium blossoms.
Wexford stared at this car from the windows of his own which Burden was steering, with rule-abiding propriety, into a vacant bay. He had heard of the fashion of covering the bodywork of cars in a furry coating to seem like skin or coarse velvet, but he had never yet seen this done in use, except in glossy advertisements. The Rolls wore a skin of pale golden fur, the vibrant sand colour of a lion’s pelt which gleamed softly and richly, and on its bonnet, just above the grid, was attached a statuette of a plunging lion that seemed to be made of solid gold.
‘This beast-of-prey motif keeps cropping up,’ he said. He approached the car to get a closer look and as he did so the driver’s door opened and a girl got out. It was Nell
John put his head round the door. ‘I’m going out, Dad.’
Burden began to flap. ‘Where? Why? What d’you want to go out now for?’
‘Only down the Carousel.’
Wexford said smoothly, ‘That’s fine, John, because we’re going out too. Your father won’t be back till ten-thirty, so you’d better have the key. You’re bound to be in before him, aren’t you?’
Burden handed over the key in meek stupefaction and John took it as if it were something precious and wonderful. When the boy had gone—rapidly before there could be any changes of heart—Burden said suspiciously, ‘You talked to him exactly as if he were grown-up.’
‘Don’t have any more beer, Mike. I want you to drive us.’
‘To Cheriton Forest, I suppose?’
‘Mm-hm. Vedast’s dining in tonight. I checked.’ Wexford looked at his watch. ‘He ought to have just about finished his dinner.’
‘Oh God. I don’t know. Pat’s at Grace’s. John …’
‘The boy’s glad you’re going out. It was a relief. Couldn’t you see that? You won’t go out for his sake. D’you want him to get so he can’t go out for yours?’
‘I sometimes think human relationships are impossible. Communication’s impossible.’
‘And you’re a fool,’ said Wexford, but he said it affectionately.
Cheriton Forest, a large fir plantation, lies some two miles to the south of Kingsmarkham. It is intersected by a number of sandy rides and one metalled road on which, in a big heathy clearing, is situated the Cheriton Forest Hotel.
This is a newer and far more fashionable hotel than the Olive and Dove in Kingsmarkham. The original building, put up in the thirties, is supposed to be a copy of a Tudor manor house. But there are too many beams and studs, the plaster is too white and the beams too black, the woodwork a decoration rather than an integral part of the structure. And the whole thing which might have mellowed with time has been vulgarised by a vast glass cocktail bar and by rows of motel bungalows added on in the late sixties.
When Wexford and Burden arrived at the hotel it was still broad daylight, a dull summer evening, windy and cool. The wind stirred the forest trees, ruffling them against a pale sky where grey clouds, rimmed in the west with pink, moved, gathered, lost their shapes, torn by the wind.
On a Saturday night the forecourt would by this time have been crammed with cars and the cocktail bar full of people. But this was mid-week. Through a mullioned window a few sedate diners could be seen at tables, waiters moving unhurriedly with trays. This dining-room window was closed as were all the others in the building except one on the floor above, a pair of french windows giving on to a balcony which was quite out of keeping with the design of the hotel. The wind sent these diamond-paned glass doors banging shut and bursting open again, and from time to time it caught the velvet curtains, beating them, making them toss like washing on a line.
There was plenty of room in the parking bays for the half-dozen vehicles which stood there. Only one was on the forecourt proper, a golden Rolls-Royce parked askew, the silver gable of its grid nosing into a flower-bed and crushing geranium blossoms.
Wexford stared at this car from the windows of his own which Burden was steering, with rule-abiding propriety, into a vacant bay. He had heard of the fashion of covering the bodywork of cars in a furry coating to seem like skin or coarse velvet, but he had never yet seen this done in use, except in glossy advertisements. The Rolls wore a skin of pale golden fur, the vibrant sand colour of a lion’s pelt which gleamed softly and richly, and on its bonnet, just above the grid, was attached a statuette of a plunging lion that seemed to be made of solid gold.
‘This beast-of-prey motif keeps cropping up,’ he said. He approached the car to get a closer look and as he did so the driver’s door opened and a girl got out. It was Nell
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