Punaise.’
‘But why would he do that, Tom? That piece of paper was surely for himself, simply to remind him of the number. He must have had her credit card and have used it or planned to use it to milk her account or even empty it. But why write La Punaise? The only reason I can think of was because he didn’t know what it meant and intended to ask for a translation from someone who would know. Francine, whoever she is or was?’
Tom said he would get his team searching online electoral registers for someone with the first name Francine. He sounded far from hopeful. There might be thousands. But he’d leave no stone unturned. ‘How old do you reckon she was?’
‘If she was his girlfriend, late teens or early twenties. But she might be his French teacher or his French-speaking aunt or the lady next door …’
Tom groaned. ‘Forensics have been looking over the Edsel, but we’ve got no answers yet. Let me know when you’re coming back to London,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to chase you up. Hope your daughter gets better soon.’
Wexford thought Tom might say he would carry on praying for Sylvia, but he didn’t.
T here was an uneasiness in Burden’s manner that Wexford spotted at once. Never effusive, seldom demonstrative, Burden surprised his friend by shaking his hand, somethingwhich hadn’t happened for more years than he cared to remember. And he kissed Dora, a further departure from the norm.
Another day had gone by, and then another, and the detective superintendent had twice talked to Sylvia, allowed by the ward sister to remain with her only for half an hour at a time. Sylvia was now out of intensive care and her parents had sat with her for most of the afternoon, leaving for home just before Burden arrived at Sylvia’s bedside. Now he sat in their living room, nursing with fidgeting hands a small orange juice, having refused all alcohol offers.
Wexford, drinking red wine, said, ‘There’s something wrong, Mike, what is it? The hospital haven’t told you something they’re keeping from us?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
‘But you’ve talked to Sylvia about what happened?’ This was Dora, braver than Wexford. ‘Are you able to tell us what she told you? If it wouldn’t be right …’
‘No, of course it’s right.’ Burden set down his glass, picked it up again, apologised for the wet ring it made on the table surface. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll get a cloth …’
‘Mike,’ said Wexford, ‘what is it?’
‘All right. It’s just that you’re her parents and I just think it would be better if you didn’t know, yet I know you have to know.’ Burden rubbed at the wet ring with his finger, avoided the parents’ eyes. ‘But I’m making it worse. I’ll tell you straight. It’s better that way. The man who stabbed her was known to her. More than that, he’d been – well, her lover. He wasn’t hiding in the bushes, he was in the car with her and Mary and they had a row and …’
‘Mike, begin at the beginning, will you?’ Wexford made a dismissive gesture with his hands, the kind of movement that means, it doesn’t matter, just tell us. So long as she’s all right,nothing like that matters. ‘Just tell us. We can take anything now we know she’ll be all right.’
‘Well, OK,’ Burden’s tense shoulders relaxed and he very nearly smiled. ‘The story I told you at first I got from Mary Beaumont and she was very discreet but she probably knew little of the true facts. I sat by Sylvia’s bed and asked her to tell me exactly what happened when she got home to Great Thatto. She said, “I’d better start before that, Mike. The guy who stabbed me is called Jason Wardle. He’s twenty-one and I’ve been having a relationship with him.” Then she corrected herself. “I think a ‘fling’ might be a better word.” ‘ Burden paused briefly because Dora had made a sound, a wordless whimper of distress. ‘I’ll go on. She told me he lived in Stringfield.
‘But why would he do that, Tom? That piece of paper was surely for himself, simply to remind him of the number. He must have had her credit card and have used it or planned to use it to milk her account or even empty it. But why write La Punaise? The only reason I can think of was because he didn’t know what it meant and intended to ask for a translation from someone who would know. Francine, whoever she is or was?’
Tom said he would get his team searching online electoral registers for someone with the first name Francine. He sounded far from hopeful. There might be thousands. But he’d leave no stone unturned. ‘How old do you reckon she was?’
‘If she was his girlfriend, late teens or early twenties. But she might be his French teacher or his French-speaking aunt or the lady next door …’
Tom groaned. ‘Forensics have been looking over the Edsel, but we’ve got no answers yet. Let me know when you’re coming back to London,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to chase you up. Hope your daughter gets better soon.’
Wexford thought Tom might say he would carry on praying for Sylvia, but he didn’t.
T here was an uneasiness in Burden’s manner that Wexford spotted at once. Never effusive, seldom demonstrative, Burden surprised his friend by shaking his hand, somethingwhich hadn’t happened for more years than he cared to remember. And he kissed Dora, a further departure from the norm.
Another day had gone by, and then another, and the detective superintendent had twice talked to Sylvia, allowed by the ward sister to remain with her only for half an hour at a time. Sylvia was now out of intensive care and her parents had sat with her for most of the afternoon, leaving for home just before Burden arrived at Sylvia’s bedside. Now he sat in their living room, nursing with fidgeting hands a small orange juice, having refused all alcohol offers.
Wexford, drinking red wine, said, ‘There’s something wrong, Mike, what is it? The hospital haven’t told you something they’re keeping from us?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
‘But you’ve talked to Sylvia about what happened?’ This was Dora, braver than Wexford. ‘Are you able to tell us what she told you? If it wouldn’t be right …’
‘No, of course it’s right.’ Burden set down his glass, picked it up again, apologised for the wet ring it made on the table surface. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll get a cloth …’
‘Mike,’ said Wexford, ‘what is it?’
‘All right. It’s just that you’re her parents and I just think it would be better if you didn’t know, yet I know you have to know.’ Burden rubbed at the wet ring with his finger, avoided the parents’ eyes. ‘But I’m making it worse. I’ll tell you straight. It’s better that way. The man who stabbed her was known to her. More than that, he’d been – well, her lover. He wasn’t hiding in the bushes, he was in the car with her and Mary and they had a row and …’
‘Mike, begin at the beginning, will you?’ Wexford made a dismissive gesture with his hands, the kind of movement that means, it doesn’t matter, just tell us. So long as she’s all right,nothing like that matters. ‘Just tell us. We can take anything now we know she’ll be all right.’
‘Well, OK,’ Burden’s tense shoulders relaxed and he very nearly smiled. ‘The story I told you at first I got from Mary Beaumont and she was very discreet but she probably knew little of the true facts. I sat by Sylvia’s bed and asked her to tell me exactly what happened when she got home to Great Thatto. She said, “I’d better start before that, Mike. The guy who stabbed me is called Jason Wardle. He’s twenty-one and I’ve been having a relationship with him.” Then she corrected herself. “I think a ‘fling’ might be a better word.” ‘ Burden paused briefly because Dora had made a sound, a wordless whimper of distress. ‘I’ll go on. She told me he lived in Stringfield.
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