the golf course and he just about tore in here. You’ll have to wait till he’s got a moment to spare. We’re all at sixes and sevens. I don’t remember a Sunday like it all my time in the force.”
The phone rang. Camb lifted the receiver and said, “You’ve seen John Lawrence in Brighton, madam? One moment while I put you through to the officers who are dealing with this information.” He sighed. “That,” he said to Wild, “makes thirty calls today from people who claim to have seen that kid.”
“He’s dead. My informant who’s very reliable says he’s dead. Burden found his body this morning and that’s why I’m working on a Sunday.” Wild watched to see how this affected Camb, and then added, “I just want confirmation from Wexford and then I’m off to interview the mother.”
“Rather you than me,” said Camb. “By gum, I wouldn’t have your job for all the tea in China.”
Not at all abashed, Wild re-lit his pipe. “Talking of tea, I don’t suppose there’s any going?”
Camb didn’t answer him. His phone was ringing again. When he had dealt with a man who claimed to have found a blue sweater answering to the description of the one John Lawrence had been wearing he looked up and saw the lift doors open. “Here’s Mr. Wexford now,” he said, “and Mr. Burden. On their way to the mortuary to see what Dr. Crocker’s come up with, I daresay.”
“Ah, Mr. Burden,” Wild said, “the very man I want to see. What’s all this about finding the body of the lost kid?”
Burden gave him an icy stare, then turned on his heel, but Wexford snapped, “What d’you want to know for, anyway? That rag of yours doesn’t go to press till Thursday.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Camb, “but Mr. Wild wants to send the stories to the London papers.”
“Oh, linage. I see. Well, far be it from me to keep a journalist from earning an honest penny on the Sabbath. Mr. Burden did find a body this morning, in one of the fountain cisterns at Saltram House. You can say foul play is suspected. The body is that . . .” He paused and then went on more quickly, “of a female child, aged about twelve, so far unidentified.”
“It’s Stella Rivers, isn’t it?” said Wild greedily. “Come on, give a working man a break. This could be the biggest story of my career. Missing child found dead in ruins. No clue yet to lost boy. Is Kingsmarkham an other Cannock Chase? I can see it all, I can . . .”
Wexford had great self-control. He also had two daughters and a grandson. He loved children with a passionate tenderness and his self-control broke down.
“Get out of here!” he roared. “You back-street death reporter! You revolting ghoulish hack! Get out!”
Wild got out.
A gloom settles on policemen and on their police station when the body of a child has been found. Later they hunt for a child’s killer with zeal, but at first, when the crime is discovered, they are aghast and sick at heart. For this is the crime most against nature, most life-denying and least forgivable.
Not at all ashamed of his castigation of Harry Wild, Wexford made his way to the mortuary where Dr. Crocker and Burden stood on either side of the sheeted body.
“I’ve sent Loring to fetch Ivor Swan, sir,” said Burden. “Better have him do it than the mother.”
Wexford nodded. “How did she die?”
“The body’s been there for God knows how many months,” said Crocker. “The path experts will have to get working on it. I’d say, at a guess, asphyxiation. Violent pressure on the windpipe. There are no wounds or anything like that and she wasn’t strangled. No sexual interference.”
“We knew,” said Wexford quietly, “that she must have been dead. It oughtn’t to seem so horrible. It oughtn’t to be such a shock. I hope she wasn’t too frightened, that’s all.” He turned away. “I hope it was quick,” he
The phone rang. Camb lifted the receiver and said, “You’ve seen John Lawrence in Brighton, madam? One moment while I put you through to the officers who are dealing with this information.” He sighed. “That,” he said to Wild, “makes thirty calls today from people who claim to have seen that kid.”
“He’s dead. My informant who’s very reliable says he’s dead. Burden found his body this morning and that’s why I’m working on a Sunday.” Wild watched to see how this affected Camb, and then added, “I just want confirmation from Wexford and then I’m off to interview the mother.”
“Rather you than me,” said Camb. “By gum, I wouldn’t have your job for all the tea in China.”
Not at all abashed, Wild re-lit his pipe. “Talking of tea, I don’t suppose there’s any going?”
Camb didn’t answer him. His phone was ringing again. When he had dealt with a man who claimed to have found a blue sweater answering to the description of the one John Lawrence had been wearing he looked up and saw the lift doors open. “Here’s Mr. Wexford now,” he said, “and Mr. Burden. On their way to the mortuary to see what Dr. Crocker’s come up with, I daresay.”
“Ah, Mr. Burden,” Wild said, “the very man I want to see. What’s all this about finding the body of the lost kid?”
Burden gave him an icy stare, then turned on his heel, but Wexford snapped, “What d’you want to know for, anyway? That rag of yours doesn’t go to press till Thursday.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Camb, “but Mr. Wild wants to send the stories to the London papers.”
“Oh, linage. I see. Well, far be it from me to keep a journalist from earning an honest penny on the Sabbath. Mr. Burden did find a body this morning, in one of the fountain cisterns at Saltram House. You can say foul play is suspected. The body is that . . .” He paused and then went on more quickly, “of a female child, aged about twelve, so far unidentified.”
“It’s Stella Rivers, isn’t it?” said Wild greedily. “Come on, give a working man a break. This could be the biggest story of my career. Missing child found dead in ruins. No clue yet to lost boy. Is Kingsmarkham an other Cannock Chase? I can see it all, I can . . .”
Wexford had great self-control. He also had two daughters and a grandson. He loved children with a passionate tenderness and his self-control broke down.
“Get out of here!” he roared. “You back-street death reporter! You revolting ghoulish hack! Get out!”
Wild got out.
A gloom settles on policemen and on their police station when the body of a child has been found. Later they hunt for a child’s killer with zeal, but at first, when the crime is discovered, they are aghast and sick at heart. For this is the crime most against nature, most life-denying and least forgivable.
Not at all ashamed of his castigation of Harry Wild, Wexford made his way to the mortuary where Dr. Crocker and Burden stood on either side of the sheeted body.
“I’ve sent Loring to fetch Ivor Swan, sir,” said Burden. “Better have him do it than the mother.”
Wexford nodded. “How did she die?”
“The body’s been there for God knows how many months,” said Crocker. “The path experts will have to get working on it. I’d say, at a guess, asphyxiation. Violent pressure on the windpipe. There are no wounds or anything like that and she wasn’t strangled. No sexual interference.”
“We knew,” said Wexford quietly, “that she must have been dead. It oughtn’t to seem so horrible. It oughtn’t to be such a shock. I hope she wasn’t too frightened, that’s all.” He turned away. “I hope it was quick,” he
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