not be catching anything nasty in that very dirty place.’
She tripped, straight-backed, yellow hair bobbing, across the road and up to the Manor gate. There she stopped and waved to them, her round breasts rising under the pink fluffy sweater.
Wexford waved back, turned away, laughing. ‘Oddsmy little life, I think she means to tangle your eyes too!”
‘A ghastly young female,’ said Burden coldly.
‘I think she’s charming.’
‘Good heavens, if I thought my daughter …!”
‘For God’s sake, Mike. I’m a married man, too, and a faithful husband.’ His grin dying now, Wexford patted his large belly. ‘Don’t have much chance to be otherwise, do I? But sometimes …’ He sighed. ‘God, what wouldn’t I give to be thirty again! Don’t look at me like that, you cold fish. Here we are at this very nasty dirty place and let’s hope we catch nothing more from our afternoon’s work than a
nostalgie de boue.
’
‘A what?’ said Burden, trying to open the front gate without getting his hand stung by the nettles that thrust their leaves through it.
‘It is just,’ said Wexford with a rueful smile, ‘a long name for a kind of chronic plague.’ He laughed at Burden’s incredulous suspicious face. ‘Don’t worry, Mike, it’s not infectious and it only attacks the old.’
5
N ot only the front gate, but the front door too, was overgrown with nettles and their antidote, the dock. Before they had a chance to lift the knocker a grey lace curtain, re-perforated with larger holes, was lifted at a lattice window and a face appeared.
‘I don’t know what you want but you’ll have to go round the back.’
The side gate fell over as they pushed it. With a shrug, Wexford laid it down flat on a luxuriant bed of weeds. The back garden was a squalid blot on a fair landscape, the magnificence of the forest showing up, like a stain of black velvet, these twenty square yards of waist-high grass, dandelions, tumbled corrugated iron and broken chicken coops. A reasonably shipshape shed filled one of the farthest corners, its footings hidden under heaps of rags, green glass bottles and a mattress which looked as if it had been used for a bayonet practice. Among the weeds an enamel chamber pot and several battered saucepanscould be discerned. Wexford noticed that a gate in the back fence led directly into the forest.
The back door opened suddenly and the woman who had spoken to them from the window put her head out.
‘What d’you want?’
‘Mrs Lovell?’
‘That’s right. What d’you
want
?’
‘A word with you, if you please,’ Wexford said smoothly. ‘We’re police officers.’
She gave them a narrow suspicious glance. ‘About her over at the house, is it? You’d better come in. His lordship said there was police about.’
‘His lordship?’ queried Burden. Had the exalted circles in which they found themselves even more exalted people, in fact titled personages, on their perimeters?
‘My son, my Sean,’ said Mrs Lovell, disillusioning him. ‘Come on. You can go in the lounge, if you like. In here.’
This room, euphemistically named, was slightly less dirty than the kitchen, but it too smelt of greens, a chronic gas leak, faintly of gin. It was furnished with a new bright pink suite, already soiled, and a heterogeneous assortment of ancient cottage pieces and modern gimcrack. The Queen smiled aloofly from a calendar, pinned to the wall between newspaper cutouts of the Rolling Stones and a large framed oil of a Roman lady stabbing herself.
In feature she wasn’t unlike Mrs Lovell, while unable to compare with her in amplitude. There was a strong flavour of the gypsy in Mrs Lovell’s still-handsome face, the aquiline nose, full curved lips and black eyes. Medusa hair, black and tangled, fell to her shoulders. Her embonpoint didn’t extend to her face.The impression was that fat crept upwards to cease at the neck, deterred perhaps by the threat implicit in that strong unwrinkled
She tripped, straight-backed, yellow hair bobbing, across the road and up to the Manor gate. There she stopped and waved to them, her round breasts rising under the pink fluffy sweater.
Wexford waved back, turned away, laughing. ‘Oddsmy little life, I think she means to tangle your eyes too!”
‘A ghastly young female,’ said Burden coldly.
‘I think she’s charming.’
‘Good heavens, if I thought my daughter …!”
‘For God’s sake, Mike. I’m a married man, too, and a faithful husband.’ His grin dying now, Wexford patted his large belly. ‘Don’t have much chance to be otherwise, do I? But sometimes …’ He sighed. ‘God, what wouldn’t I give to be thirty again! Don’t look at me like that, you cold fish. Here we are at this very nasty dirty place and let’s hope we catch nothing more from our afternoon’s work than a
nostalgie de boue.
’
‘A what?’ said Burden, trying to open the front gate without getting his hand stung by the nettles that thrust their leaves through it.
‘It is just,’ said Wexford with a rueful smile, ‘a long name for a kind of chronic plague.’ He laughed at Burden’s incredulous suspicious face. ‘Don’t worry, Mike, it’s not infectious and it only attacks the old.’
5
N ot only the front gate, but the front door too, was overgrown with nettles and their antidote, the dock. Before they had a chance to lift the knocker a grey lace curtain, re-perforated with larger holes, was lifted at a lattice window and a face appeared.
‘I don’t know what you want but you’ll have to go round the back.’
The side gate fell over as they pushed it. With a shrug, Wexford laid it down flat on a luxuriant bed of weeds. The back garden was a squalid blot on a fair landscape, the magnificence of the forest showing up, like a stain of black velvet, these twenty square yards of waist-high grass, dandelions, tumbled corrugated iron and broken chicken coops. A reasonably shipshape shed filled one of the farthest corners, its footings hidden under heaps of rags, green glass bottles and a mattress which looked as if it had been used for a bayonet practice. Among the weeds an enamel chamber pot and several battered saucepanscould be discerned. Wexford noticed that a gate in the back fence led directly into the forest.
The back door opened suddenly and the woman who had spoken to them from the window put her head out.
‘What d’you want?’
‘Mrs Lovell?’
‘That’s right. What d’you
want
?’
‘A word with you, if you please,’ Wexford said smoothly. ‘We’re police officers.’
She gave them a narrow suspicious glance. ‘About her over at the house, is it? You’d better come in. His lordship said there was police about.’
‘His lordship?’ queried Burden. Had the exalted circles in which they found themselves even more exalted people, in fact titled personages, on their perimeters?
‘My son, my Sean,’ said Mrs Lovell, disillusioning him. ‘Come on. You can go in the lounge, if you like. In here.’
This room, euphemistically named, was slightly less dirty than the kitchen, but it too smelt of greens, a chronic gas leak, faintly of gin. It was furnished with a new bright pink suite, already soiled, and a heterogeneous assortment of ancient cottage pieces and modern gimcrack. The Queen smiled aloofly from a calendar, pinned to the wall between newspaper cutouts of the Rolling Stones and a large framed oil of a Roman lady stabbing herself.
In feature she wasn’t unlike Mrs Lovell, while unable to compare with her in amplitude. There was a strong flavour of the gypsy in Mrs Lovell’s still-handsome face, the aquiline nose, full curved lips and black eyes. Medusa hair, black and tangled, fell to her shoulders. Her embonpoint didn’t extend to her face.The impression was that fat crept upwards to cease at the neck, deterred perhaps by the threat implicit in that strong unwrinkled
Similar Books
