sense of humour began creeping back.
‘One thing, we shan’t have to have the fence done,’ he said and then he went on, ‘A bomb. Yes, a bomb. Have we got any house left?’
‘Well, you mustn’t distress yourself. A bit more than half a house.’
Burden was temporarily in charge of the Robson case. It was his belief that Wexford would be off for at least a fortnight, though Wexford himself said that a day or two would do it. That was what he said to Colonel Griswold, the Chief Constable, whose sympathy was conveyed in incredulity that Wexford could remember nothing about the bomb and unreasonable anger against Burden for going away for the night without telling anyone.
‘I’ll make them let me go home tomorrow,’ he told Burden.
‘I shouldn’t - not if I’d got your home to go to.’
‘Yes. Dora says there’s only about half of it left. I never liked that garage extension; I said it was jerry-built. No doubt that’s why it fell down. I understand that people in our sort of situation usually go and live in a caravan.’
He had a large bandage round his head. Cuts on his left cheek were dressed with a white plaster. The other side of his face was turning black - before Burden’s very eyes, it seemed. Sheila came in while he was still there and threw her arms round her father until he groaned in pain. And then the bomb expert from the Myringham Division of the Serious Crimes Squad came to question him and he and Sheila were obliged to leave. Now Burden, with Sumner-Quist’s medical report in front of him, had to make up his mind whether it would be good for Wexford to be shown it later in the day. He would probably ask for it anyway, thus taking the power of showing it or withholding it out of Burden’s hands.
In fact, there wasn’t much in it Wexford didn’t already know. The time of Mrs Robson’s death was as firmly fixed as it ever could be at between five-thirty-five and five-fifty- five. And death had taken place on the spot where the body was found. She had died of asphyxiation as the result of a ligature being applied to her neck. Sumner-Quist went on to suggest that the ligature - he never once here used the term ‘garrote’ - was of wire probably in some kind of plastic coating, minute particles of such a substance having been found in the neck wound. This substance, presently being subjected to lab analysis, was most likely flexible polyvinyl chloride or polyvinyl chloride in combination with one of the polymers such as styrene acrylonitrile.
Burden winced a bit at these names, though he had a pretty good idea of the kind of stuff meant; no doubt it was much like the substance that insulated the lead on his desk lamp. It was suggested that the ligature had a handle at each end which the perpetrator must have grasped in order to secure a purchase on it and avoid cutting his or her own hands.
Gwen Robson had been a strong and healthy woman, five feet one inch tall, weight one hundred and ten pounds. Sumner-Quist estimated her age at three years less than what it had been in fact. She had never borne a child, suffered surgery of any sort. Her heart and other major organs of the body were in sound condition. She had lost her wisdom teeth and three other molars, but otherwise her teeth were present and healthy. If someone hadn’t come up behind her in a car park with a garrote, thought Burden, she would very likely have lived another thirty years; she would long have outlived that arthritic, prematurely aged husband.
The Home Help Service was administered by the County Council, not the local authority, Burden soon discovered. It functioned from one of those bungalow buildings that house administrative offices in the grounds of once great private houses all over England. The great house in question was called Sundays on the Forby Road near the junction with Ash Lane. It had until recently been in private hands and, approaching it,
‘One thing, we shan’t have to have the fence done,’ he said and then he went on, ‘A bomb. Yes, a bomb. Have we got any house left?’
‘Well, you mustn’t distress yourself. A bit more than half a house.’
Burden was temporarily in charge of the Robson case. It was his belief that Wexford would be off for at least a fortnight, though Wexford himself said that a day or two would do it. That was what he said to Colonel Griswold, the Chief Constable, whose sympathy was conveyed in incredulity that Wexford could remember nothing about the bomb and unreasonable anger against Burden for going away for the night without telling anyone.
‘I’ll make them let me go home tomorrow,’ he told Burden.
‘I shouldn’t - not if I’d got your home to go to.’
‘Yes. Dora says there’s only about half of it left. I never liked that garage extension; I said it was jerry-built. No doubt that’s why it fell down. I understand that people in our sort of situation usually go and live in a caravan.’
He had a large bandage round his head. Cuts on his left cheek were dressed with a white plaster. The other side of his face was turning black - before Burden’s very eyes, it seemed. Sheila came in while he was still there and threw her arms round her father until he groaned in pain. And then the bomb expert from the Myringham Division of the Serious Crimes Squad came to question him and he and Sheila were obliged to leave. Now Burden, with Sumner-Quist’s medical report in front of him, had to make up his mind whether it would be good for Wexford to be shown it later in the day. He would probably ask for it anyway, thus taking the power of showing it or withholding it out of Burden’s hands.
In fact, there wasn’t much in it Wexford didn’t already know. The time of Mrs Robson’s death was as firmly fixed as it ever could be at between five-thirty-five and five-fifty- five. And death had taken place on the spot where the body was found. She had died of asphyxiation as the result of a ligature being applied to her neck. Sumner-Quist went on to suggest that the ligature - he never once here used the term ‘garrote’ - was of wire probably in some kind of plastic coating, minute particles of such a substance having been found in the neck wound. This substance, presently being subjected to lab analysis, was most likely flexible polyvinyl chloride or polyvinyl chloride in combination with one of the polymers such as styrene acrylonitrile.
Burden winced a bit at these names, though he had a pretty good idea of the kind of stuff meant; no doubt it was much like the substance that insulated the lead on his desk lamp. It was suggested that the ligature had a handle at each end which the perpetrator must have grasped in order to secure a purchase on it and avoid cutting his or her own hands.
Gwen Robson had been a strong and healthy woman, five feet one inch tall, weight one hundred and ten pounds. Sumner-Quist estimated her age at three years less than what it had been in fact. She had never borne a child, suffered surgery of any sort. Her heart and other major organs of the body were in sound condition. She had lost her wisdom teeth and three other molars, but otherwise her teeth were present and healthy. If someone hadn’t come up behind her in a car park with a garrote, thought Burden, she would very likely have lived another thirty years; she would long have outlived that arthritic, prematurely aged husband.
The Home Help Service was administered by the County Council, not the local authority, Burden soon discovered. It functioned from one of those bungalow buildings that house administrative offices in the grounds of once great private houses all over England. The great house in question was called Sundays on the Forby Road near the junction with Ash Lane. It had until recently been in private hands and, approaching it,
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