see it there, almost as if a sympathetic old friend were sitting in on their meeting.
'You're a cop, Josie says.' She smiled invitingly.
'Yes. A detective sergeant.'
Her perfume was musky and suitable for a woman twice her age. He sat down in one of the armchairs but when she patted the sofa cushion beside hers he moved to sit next to her.
'Fancy you seeing me and wanting to take me out. That's very romantic.' Now her face was quite close to his he could see how heavy was the make-up she wore. Had it been like that in the church but he not near enough to notice? Where were the parents? Not home yet? In another part of the house? 'I never lost that book. That was just a way of getting to meet me, wasn't it?'
He nodded. Her rather aggressive tone disconcerted him.
'Poems written by a woman hundreds of years ago. Not exactly my cup of tea.'
'Whose is the Byron then?' he had asked.
'Oh, that. My dad's. He's a bit of an egghead or used to be. Shall we have a drink? We've got sherry, Bristol Cream or Dry Fly?'
'Should we wait for your mother and father?' He was still anxious to do everything right. She must be nervous and that would account for the way she spoke and the words she used. 'They'll be home soon, won't they?'
'I don't know why you're bothered about them. I thought you'd like to be alone with me.'
Her face was very near to his now, the mouth half open. He edged backwards along the sofa, conscious of how this must look. It was no use any longer telling himself her behavior was due to nerves. Then he heard a footstep overhead. So there was someone in the house, those parents or someone else? You're a cop, she had said, and it was being a cop that stood him in good stead now. But instead of standing up, leaving without ceremony, he turned back to face her and as he did so, she took him by the shoulders and pulled him down on top of her. At some point she must have ripped the green blouse because he saw her naked breasts and, in spite of himself, was excited by them.
It hardly mattered because she screamed, a shattering sound from strong young lungs. There was a pounding on the stairs, the door burst open and a man came in. Not her father, but a young man about his own age. He was big, burly and red-faced.
'What's going on here? Get off her.'
'With pleasure,' Wexford said, extricating himself.
'He assaulted me,' the girl said. 'Jumped on me and tore my blouse.'
She was holding the two sides of it together. 'Look at that, Jim. That's what he did.'
'You're going to pay for this,' Jim said.
Wexford stood up. 'And who are you?'
'He's my fiancé.'
'I see. I'd strongly advise you not to marry her,' he said to the man, 'not unless you fancy visiting your wife in prison.'
He expected this to have an inflammatory effect but instead a shifty look crossed Jim's face. 'Let's talk about this,' he said. 'There's no need to take it further. I mean, I was going to call the police . . .' He stopped when Wexford began to laugh. 'All right, all right. Only we'll need paying. Or Middy will. Her blouse is ruined for one thing and you've frightened her. We'll say fifty quid and we'll forget about it.'
It was an old trick. Wexford had been told about it but never personally come across it before. Usually, he understood, the players in the game were a prostitute, her pimp and a client. Perhaps the situation wasn't that different. 'Forget about it, is right. For one thing I don't carry fifty pounds about on me.' It was a very large sum then. Laughable as the price for a blouse which might have cost two pounds. 'And even if I did,' he said. 'I'd not hand it over to a thug like you when I've done nothing.'
The two of them, Medora still clutching her blouse, had moved over to bar the door. The man called Jim pressed himself against it with arms outspread. The girl stood next to him, glowering at Wexford.
'Open
'You're a cop, Josie says.' She smiled invitingly.
'Yes. A detective sergeant.'
Her perfume was musky and suitable for a woman twice her age. He sat down in one of the armchairs but when she patted the sofa cushion beside hers he moved to sit next to her.
'Fancy you seeing me and wanting to take me out. That's very romantic.' Now her face was quite close to his he could see how heavy was the make-up she wore. Had it been like that in the church but he not near enough to notice? Where were the parents? Not home yet? In another part of the house? 'I never lost that book. That was just a way of getting to meet me, wasn't it?'
He nodded. Her rather aggressive tone disconcerted him.
'Poems written by a woman hundreds of years ago. Not exactly my cup of tea.'
'Whose is the Byron then?' he had asked.
'Oh, that. My dad's. He's a bit of an egghead or used to be. Shall we have a drink? We've got sherry, Bristol Cream or Dry Fly?'
'Should we wait for your mother and father?' He was still anxious to do everything right. She must be nervous and that would account for the way she spoke and the words she used. 'They'll be home soon, won't they?'
'I don't know why you're bothered about them. I thought you'd like to be alone with me.'
Her face was very near to his now, the mouth half open. He edged backwards along the sofa, conscious of how this must look. It was no use any longer telling himself her behavior was due to nerves. Then he heard a footstep overhead. So there was someone in the house, those parents or someone else? You're a cop, she had said, and it was being a cop that stood him in good stead now. But instead of standing up, leaving without ceremony, he turned back to face her and as he did so, she took him by the shoulders and pulled him down on top of her. At some point she must have ripped the green blouse because he saw her naked breasts and, in spite of himself, was excited by them.
It hardly mattered because she screamed, a shattering sound from strong young lungs. There was a pounding on the stairs, the door burst open and a man came in. Not her father, but a young man about his own age. He was big, burly and red-faced.
'What's going on here? Get off her.'
'With pleasure,' Wexford said, extricating himself.
'He assaulted me,' the girl said. 'Jumped on me and tore my blouse.'
She was holding the two sides of it together. 'Look at that, Jim. That's what he did.'
'You're going to pay for this,' Jim said.
Wexford stood up. 'And who are you?'
'He's my fiancé.'
'I see. I'd strongly advise you not to marry her,' he said to the man, 'not unless you fancy visiting your wife in prison.'
He expected this to have an inflammatory effect but instead a shifty look crossed Jim's face. 'Let's talk about this,' he said. 'There's no need to take it further. I mean, I was going to call the police . . .' He stopped when Wexford began to laugh. 'All right, all right. Only we'll need paying. Or Middy will. Her blouse is ruined for one thing and you've frightened her. We'll say fifty quid and we'll forget about it.'
It was an old trick. Wexford had been told about it but never personally come across it before. Usually, he understood, the players in the game were a prostitute, her pimp and a client. Perhaps the situation wasn't that different. 'Forget about it, is right. For one thing I don't carry fifty pounds about on me.' It was a very large sum then. Laughable as the price for a blouse which might have cost two pounds. 'And even if I did,' he said. 'I'd not hand it over to a thug like you when I've done nothing.'
The two of them, Medora still clutching her blouse, had moved over to bar the door. The man called Jim pressed himself against it with arms outspread. The girl stood next to him, glowering at Wexford.
'Open
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