prickly Baker, who was a man of whom it might be said that one should not touch his ears, Wexford said that he and Burden would be most gratified, adding to Baker’s evident satisfaction, that he didn’t know how they would get on without his help. The sergeant came back, puffed up with news.
‘The occupant is a Mrs Farriner,’ he said. ‘She’s away on holiday. It wasn’t her place that was broken into, it was next door but one, but apparently she’s got a lot of valuable stuff and she came in here before she went away last Saturday week to ask us to keep an eye on the house for her.’
‘Should put it on safe deposit,’ Baker began to grumble. ‘What’s the use of getting us to . . .’
Wexford interrupted him. He couldn’t help himself. ‘How old is she, Sergeant? What does she look like?’
‘I’ve not seen her myself, sir. Middle-aged, I believe, and a widow or maybe divorced. Dinehart knows her.’
‘Then get Dinehart to look at that photo, will you?’
‘You don’t mean you think Mrs Farriner could be that Comfrey woman, sir?’
‘Why not?’ said Wexford.
But Dinehart was unable to say one way or another. Certainly Mrs Farriner was a big tall woman with dark hair who lived alone. As to her looking like that girl in the picture - well, people change a lot in twenty years. He wouldn’t like to commit himself. Wexford was tense with excitement. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? All the time he was frustrated or crossed by people being away on holiday, and yet he had never considered that Rhoda Comfrey might not have been missed by friends and neighbours because they expected her to be absent from her home. They supposed a Mrs Farriner to be at some resort, going under the name by which they knew her, so why connect her with a Miss Comfrey who had been found murdered in a Sussex town?
In the Grand Duke, an old-fashioned pub that had surely once been a country inn, they served themselves from the cold table. Wexford felt too keyed-up to eat much. Dealing diplomatically with people like Baker might be a social obligation, but it involved wasting a great deal of time. The others seemed to be taking what he saw as a major breakthrough far more placidly than he could. Even Burden showed a marked lack of enthusiasm.
‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd,’ he said, ‘that a woman like this Mrs Farriner, well-off enough to live where she lives and have all that valuable stuff, should keep a wallet she presumably found on a bus?’
‘There’s nowt so strange as folk,’ said Wexford.
‘Maybe, but it was you told me that any departure from the norm is important. I can imagine the Rhoda Comfrey we know doing it, but not this Mrs Farriner from what we know of her. Therefore it seems unlikely to me that they’re one and the same.’
‘Well, we’re not going to find out by sitting here feeding our faces,’ said Wexford crossly.
To his astonishment, Baker agreed with him. ‘You’re quite right. Drink up, then, and we’ll get going.’
Ascending Montfort Hill on the bus, Wexford hadn’t noticed the little row of five or six shops on the left-hand side. This time, in the car, his attention was only drawn to them by the fact of Burden giving them such an intense scrutiny. But he said nothing. At the moment he felt rather riled with Burden. The name of the street which turned off immediately beyond these shops was lettered in black on a white board, Princevale Road, W19, and Burden eyed this with similar interest, craning his neck to look back when they had passed it. At the very end of the street - or perhaps, from the numbering, the very beginning - stood a row of six terraced houses. They looked less than ten years old and differed completely in style from the detached mock-Tudor, each with a generous front garden, that characterized Princevale Road.
Wexford supposed that they had been built on
‘The occupant is a Mrs Farriner,’ he said. ‘She’s away on holiday. It wasn’t her place that was broken into, it was next door but one, but apparently she’s got a lot of valuable stuff and she came in here before she went away last Saturday week to ask us to keep an eye on the house for her.’
‘Should put it on safe deposit,’ Baker began to grumble. ‘What’s the use of getting us to . . .’
Wexford interrupted him. He couldn’t help himself. ‘How old is she, Sergeant? What does she look like?’
‘I’ve not seen her myself, sir. Middle-aged, I believe, and a widow or maybe divorced. Dinehart knows her.’
‘Then get Dinehart to look at that photo, will you?’
‘You don’t mean you think Mrs Farriner could be that Comfrey woman, sir?’
‘Why not?’ said Wexford.
But Dinehart was unable to say one way or another. Certainly Mrs Farriner was a big tall woman with dark hair who lived alone. As to her looking like that girl in the picture - well, people change a lot in twenty years. He wouldn’t like to commit himself. Wexford was tense with excitement. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? All the time he was frustrated or crossed by people being away on holiday, and yet he had never considered that Rhoda Comfrey might not have been missed by friends and neighbours because they expected her to be absent from her home. They supposed a Mrs Farriner to be at some resort, going under the name by which they knew her, so why connect her with a Miss Comfrey who had been found murdered in a Sussex town?
In the Grand Duke, an old-fashioned pub that had surely once been a country inn, they served themselves from the cold table. Wexford felt too keyed-up to eat much. Dealing diplomatically with people like Baker might be a social obligation, but it involved wasting a great deal of time. The others seemed to be taking what he saw as a major breakthrough far more placidly than he could. Even Burden showed a marked lack of enthusiasm.
‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd,’ he said, ‘that a woman like this Mrs Farriner, well-off enough to live where she lives and have all that valuable stuff, should keep a wallet she presumably found on a bus?’
‘There’s nowt so strange as folk,’ said Wexford.
‘Maybe, but it was you told me that any departure from the norm is important. I can imagine the Rhoda Comfrey we know doing it, but not this Mrs Farriner from what we know of her. Therefore it seems unlikely to me that they’re one and the same.’
‘Well, we’re not going to find out by sitting here feeding our faces,’ said Wexford crossly.
To his astonishment, Baker agreed with him. ‘You’re quite right. Drink up, then, and we’ll get going.’
Ascending Montfort Hill on the bus, Wexford hadn’t noticed the little row of five or six shops on the left-hand side. This time, in the car, his attention was only drawn to them by the fact of Burden giving them such an intense scrutiny. But he said nothing. At the moment he felt rather riled with Burden. The name of the street which turned off immediately beyond these shops was lettered in black on a white board, Princevale Road, W19, and Burden eyed this with similar interest, craning his neck to look back when they had passed it. At the very end of the street - or perhaps, from the numbering, the very beginning - stood a row of six terraced houses. They looked less than ten years old and differed completely in style from the detached mock-Tudor, each with a generous front garden, that characterized Princevale Road.
Wexford supposed that they had been built on
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