They’d met and had coffee in Kingsmarkham, the purpose of the meeting was to break things off and when she’d done that she was going to pick Mary up from her nursery school. But Wardle wasn’t having any. He said he’d kill her first, but of course she didn’t believe him. They never do. Oh, God, I’m sorry, Dora. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘That’s all right, Mike. That’s nothing to what you’re telling us.’
‘Twenty-one, you said?’ Wexford found it hard to bring the words out, but he had to know. Young enough to be Sylvia’s son. Just.
‘So she said. He got into her car and they set off. Mary had apparently met him before and wasn’t fazed by his being with them, but Sylvia was anxious that the row shouldn’t continue in her presence and refused to answer his accusations but tried to talk only to Mary. He constantly interrupted them and began shouting and when Sylvia was passing Mary Beaumont’s house she stopped the car and told Mary to go in there and she would come for her very soon. She watched Mary being let in by Mary and then …’
‘So all that about Mary running away when her mother was hurt, that wasn’t true?’
‘Apparently not, Dora. That was the discreet version Mary Beaumont gave me – maybe she believed it herself. Sylvia said to Wardle that she would drive him to Stringfield – where he lives with his parents – but Wardle wasn’t having any. She drove up into the Old Rectory drive and stopped the car and they started to argue. Well, Wardle said he loved her and wanted to marry her. Apparently, he said he knew what all this was about. It was because Sylvia wanted him to marry her and she was breaking it off because he hadn’t proposed. He was proposing to her now. She started laughing. She said she didn’t want to be married and if she did he’d be the last man on earth. She got out of the car and stood there, laughing. He screamed at her and pulled the knife – ironically, it was one of her own kitchen knives.’
‘So he had been planning it?’ Wexford shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose he carries a carving knife about with him on the chance he may need to use it?’
‘I think they had had a row the evening before and he took the knife then. Sylvia had the day all this happened off work and he spent the morning with her.’ Burden paused, shaking his head. ‘There’s a lot to come out yet, Reg. A lot we don’t know and will have to know. Where is he, for instance? He’s not with his parents. They haven’t seen him for days. Incidentally, they knew nothing about his relationship with Sylvia.’
‘Come to that,’ said Wexford, ‘nor did we.’
‘We’ve put out a nationwide call for him. And, of course, for Sylvia’s car. We’ve checked on various friends and relatives, but so far there’s been nothing. We’ll find him, of course, but it’ll take time.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
M ary, as Dora put it, seemed untouched by her ordeal. ‘What ordeal?’ Wexford said, his picture of the terrified child negated by the facts. ‘She wasn’t there when Sylvia was stabbed. She was having a happy time with her godmother. You’re imagining things.’
They had been back in London for twenty-four hours. Mary had chattered all the way and was now in Sheila’s nursery – Wexford remarked to Dora that he couldn’t remember ever previously having encountered the possessor of a nursery – with Sheila’s nanny, Amy, Anoushka and Bettina the cat. He had chickened out of Dora’s plans to take all the children to a matinee of
The Lion King
and was waiting to be picked up and driven to police headquarters in Cricklewood.
True to her undertaking, Dora had asked Sylvia’s permission to take Mary with them to London, and had asked it in her habitual kind and loving tone. It was only Wexford who could hear the underlying note which said, ‘Oh, Sylvia, how could you? Are you lost to all morality and decency?’ But it was only thought, not said. Would it ever be
‘That’s all right, Mike. That’s nothing to what you’re telling us.’
‘Twenty-one, you said?’ Wexford found it hard to bring the words out, but he had to know. Young enough to be Sylvia’s son. Just.
‘So she said. He got into her car and they set off. Mary had apparently met him before and wasn’t fazed by his being with them, but Sylvia was anxious that the row shouldn’t continue in her presence and refused to answer his accusations but tried to talk only to Mary. He constantly interrupted them and began shouting and when Sylvia was passing Mary Beaumont’s house she stopped the car and told Mary to go in there and she would come for her very soon. She watched Mary being let in by Mary and then …’
‘So all that about Mary running away when her mother was hurt, that wasn’t true?’
‘Apparently not, Dora. That was the discreet version Mary Beaumont gave me – maybe she believed it herself. Sylvia said to Wardle that she would drive him to Stringfield – where he lives with his parents – but Wardle wasn’t having any. She drove up into the Old Rectory drive and stopped the car and they started to argue. Well, Wardle said he loved her and wanted to marry her. Apparently, he said he knew what all this was about. It was because Sylvia wanted him to marry her and she was breaking it off because he hadn’t proposed. He was proposing to her now. She started laughing. She said she didn’t want to be married and if she did he’d be the last man on earth. She got out of the car and stood there, laughing. He screamed at her and pulled the knife – ironically, it was one of her own kitchen knives.’
‘So he had been planning it?’ Wexford shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose he carries a carving knife about with him on the chance he may need to use it?’
‘I think they had had a row the evening before and he took the knife then. Sylvia had the day all this happened off work and he spent the morning with her.’ Burden paused, shaking his head. ‘There’s a lot to come out yet, Reg. A lot we don’t know and will have to know. Where is he, for instance? He’s not with his parents. They haven’t seen him for days. Incidentally, they knew nothing about his relationship with Sylvia.’
‘Come to that,’ said Wexford, ‘nor did we.’
‘We’ve put out a nationwide call for him. And, of course, for Sylvia’s car. We’ve checked on various friends and relatives, but so far there’s been nothing. We’ll find him, of course, but it’ll take time.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
M ary, as Dora put it, seemed untouched by her ordeal. ‘What ordeal?’ Wexford said, his picture of the terrified child negated by the facts. ‘She wasn’t there when Sylvia was stabbed. She was having a happy time with her godmother. You’re imagining things.’
They had been back in London for twenty-four hours. Mary had chattered all the way and was now in Sheila’s nursery – Wexford remarked to Dora that he couldn’t remember ever previously having encountered the possessor of a nursery – with Sheila’s nanny, Amy, Anoushka and Bettina the cat. He had chickened out of Dora’s plans to take all the children to a matinee of
The Lion King
and was waiting to be picked up and driven to police headquarters in Cricklewood.
True to her undertaking, Dora had asked Sylvia’s permission to take Mary with them to London, and had asked it in her habitual kind and loving tone. It was only Wexford who could hear the underlying note which said, ‘Oh, Sylvia, how could you? Are you lost to all morality and decency?’ But it was only thought, not said. Would it ever be
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