End in Tears

by Ruth Rendell

  The woodland was dense on both sides of the bridge. On the southern side the track through the woods was a shortcut to avoid the wide loop in Yorstone Lane, meeting the lane again just before the bridge, ran from Kingsmarkham Road to the bridge, a distance of rather less than a mile. In the days when you could build a house more or less where you liked, a cottage for woodman or gamekeeper had been put up at about the middle point of the track. Its occupant was a woman called Grace Morgan and she was ninety-three. It was coming up to dusk but not yet dark and she was looking out of her front-room window in the hope of seeing a pair of badgers, which sometimes appeared at this time, but she saw nothing that night.

  The lump of concrete looked like other blocks on a building site in Stowerton and they seemed to be getting somewhere until similar blocks were found on sites in Kingsmarkham, Sewingbury, and Pomfret, not to mention the villages. It seemed, as Burden remarked, as if the whole of mid Sussex was constantly being demolished and rebuilt and, of the ancient thoroughfares, no sooner was one street or half-street refurbished than work began on the next. Breeze blocks, concrete blocks, lumps of broken masonry abounded. Even if they were able to identify the particular site they wouldn’t be able to infer that the block was taken by someone who lived nearby. Almost everyone had a car these days. It would have been a simple matter to drive after dark into Stowerton or York Street, Kingsmarkham, or the old cheese market in Pomfret or the precincts of Sewingbury Minster, pick up the concrete block and drive home.

  As to the weapon used on Amber Marshalson in the second and successful attempt, a call came to Wexford announcing the arrival of a Dr. Clansfield who was asking to see him. “Who is he?” he said to the duty sergeant who made the call.

  “He says he’s a plinthologist, sir, whatever that may be.”

  “Send him up, will you?”

  Wexford already had the plinthologist’s report on his desk, though he hadn’t yet even glanced at it, as he hastened to explain to the man who came into the room.

  “No real point in your doing so,” said Dr. Clansfield. “I’m on my way home and I popped in to do it by word of mouth. Just in case you thought I hadn’t done a thorough job.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Just for a moment. I can’t stop. I’ve promised to take my daughter to the county tennis finals…”

  And I have promised to take mine to task, thought Wexford. Or said to my wife I would.

  “I don’t know how much you know about bricks…”

  “You build houses with them,” said Wexford, “and that’s about all.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t want to go into too much technical stuff, but there are all sorts of bricks and they’ve changed over the years. Once there were Roman bricks. More like tiles, we’d say, and there are Tudor bricks, which are bigger but still quite small and flat. Mostly in the eastern counties you’ll find white bricks. They’re actually yellow but the substance they’re made from is that color because there’s sandstone—that is, no iron—in that part of the world.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, there are thousands of types of bricks these days. Extruded perforated wire-cut bricks come in smooth, sand-faced, drag-faced, rolled, rusticated. Then there’s the smooth sanded type and the repressed.”

  “A repressed brick?” said Wexford.

  “It’s just a term,” said the plinthologist without a smile. “Like the waterstruck and the frogged, just terms.”

  “I fancy the repressed ones. Can’t I have one of those?”

  This time Clansfield’s mouth did stretch a little. “That’s the commonest type and as a matter of fact that’s what you’ve got. There are literally millions in this country. Millions, if not billions.”

  No one could live in Great Thatto without a car. There was no public transport. The lane that approached it from Myland was so narrow that for quite long stretches cars were unable to pass each other. There was no shop. The church was unlocked only on the first Sunday in the month when the vicar of St. Mary, Myland, came over to take morning service. Sometimes not one inhabitant of Great Thatto—there were only sixty-one—attended that service, so the vicar locked up and went home again.

  The remoteness of the place was redeemed by the scenery. Along the road you had the South Downs always on your right, Clusterwell Ring, a cone-shaped tree-crowned hill, on your left, and everywhere huge beeches spreading their green branches almost to meet above the narrow lane. At night it was as dark as the inside of a black velvet bag, but when the stars appeared you could see them better here than anywhere else in Sussex.

  Leaving Kingsmarkham very late with a feeling that he should have stayed behind and gone on studying that brick report, Wexford drove over to Great Thatto, wearily pulling into the lay-bys whenever another car approached him. They were all big cars too, those four-by-four people carriers, high up off the ground and with grinning bonnets like primitive masks.

  “I’m tired,” he said to Dora. “I shan’t want anything to eat.”

  She shook her head. “I’m too cross to eat.”

  Not for the first time Wexford wondered as he turned the car into the Old Rectory’s drive what had possessed Sylvia and Neil to buy this place. It was big, true, it was in the depths of the country and paradise for children, but he had never seen an uglier house. Its mix of neo-Gothic and Arts and Crafts affronted his eyes. As for its surroundings, no one had done any gardening at Thatto Old Rectory for several years and the grounds had long returned to wilderness.

  Warning of trouble ahead came when Dora stood aside and refused with a shake of her head to kiss her daughter. He kissed her. Why not? It wasn’t his baby. He wasn’t going to have to fight for it, argue over it, threaten a Judgment of Solomon division of it. Sylvia was very nervous, he could tell. If Dora was going to be difficult she could be the one to drive them home and he would have a glass of wine.

  They went to sit by the wide-open French windows, Dora adamantly refusing to go outside on account of the mosquitoes. Swarms of them had gathered in the shady spots and begun their strange dance. They talked about Sylvia’s mother’s violent reaction to mosquito bites and her and her father’s imperviousness. They talked about her sleeping sons and whether or not they would be going away on holiday. And then, because she could stand it no longer, Sylvia said, “Well, you may as well tell me what you think about me having a baby for Naomi.”

  “What I think will make no difference,” said Wexford.

  “Perhaps not, but I’d like to know what it is. Okay, it’s not your business, but I can’t bear this terribly important thing not even mentioned.”

  Wexford waited a few seconds. “You’re wrong there. If you’re part of a family what you do is bound to some extent to be the business of the others.”

  “So what do you think? That I’m crazy, no doubt.”

  “I think you will make yourself very unhappy.”

  “So do I,” said Dora in a voice very unlike her usual low and gentle tones, “and probably the boys too. All this stuff that happens now, IVF and cloning and women of sixty having babies, it’s all wrong. It leads to misery and confusion.”

  “I thought you might at least be pleased Neil’s the father. I don’t think Dad cares, but I know you don’t approve of me having…well, relationships with people.”

  “No, I don’t. Not while you have children living with you. And if you want to know, I don’t approve of you. Not at present, I don’t.”

  Wexford asked her when the baby was due.

  “December the fifth.”

  “Before you started this,” said Dora bitterly, “you might have thought it wasn’t only your child you’d be giving away but our grandchild.”

  “Look at it like this.” Sylvia’s voice rose. “If I wasn’t going to hand it over to Neil and Naomi, I wouldn’t be having it at all. I’ve got a new job. I wouldn’t have the time to look after a baby. You have to think of it as already theirs. I do.”

  Wexford looked at her in an assessing way, wit
hout sympathy. “I wish I believed you. You’re not tough enough for this, Sylvia. Someone being ‘in denial’ is a favorite phrase of yours. Well, I think you’re in denial. You’re hiding your true feelings under a bunch of social-worker gobbledygook.”

  He saw the tears come into her eyes and overflow. Not he but her mother said in a tone he had never before heard from her, “All right, that’s better, cry. That’s how you really feel, like having a good cry. Have a cry for the lot of us. In case you don’t know it, you’re wrecking this family.”

  He said nothing, but he took his wife’s hand and held it. “If you’re ready we’ll go home.”

  Wexford kissed his daughter. Dora didn’t kiss her. Her mother standing there, just standing, with her car keys in her hand, Sylvia turned her tearful face away. Wexford felt an angry longing to take her in his arms and hug her, but he did nothing, only following Dora out of the house and thinking of a young mother, half Sylvia’s age, who had died horribly and left her small boy motherless.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  Even seeing the child this morning brought Wexford such distress that he had to turn his attention immediately to George Marshalson. He wanted the child not to be there, out on the grass on a blanket, watched over by his indifferent stepgrandmother. He wanted not to be exposed to the sight of innocence and obliviousness to what had happened, in case he inadvertently looked out of that window again. For sooner or later Brand must be told, the true explanation must be given to him of why his mother was no longer there and never coming back.

  Burden, smart casual in linen trousers and jacket of fine striped cotton, had asked Marshalson about the events of June 24. “You didn’t mention the accident in which Amber was involved.”

  “Is it important?” His surprise seemed genuine. Wexford waited a few seconds, allowing him to think a little. Or not think, it appeared. “Is there something I should be seeing here and don’t?”

  “Mr. Marshalson, the concrete block which was dropped from the bridge hit the car in front of Amber’s, a gray Honda as against a silver one, the two of them almost identical at dusk. I don’t wish to cause you more pain than you’re already suffering, but doesn’t this suggest to you that this was an earlier attempt on her life?”

  “My God. Oh, my God.” Marshalson seemed genuinely shocked and astonished.

  “Yes, it’s not pleasant to think of, but I’m quite sure that what I’ve told you is the case. Was it Amber’s own car?”

  In a dazed tone, Marshalson said slowly, “I gave it to her for her seventeenth birthday. That was before the child was born. Then, after that”—his voice faltered—“she took lessons, passed her test…Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mr. Marshalson, I’m almost positive. Whoever aimed that concrete block meant to hit Amber’s car but hit Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose’s in error. Mrs. Ambrose died as a result. One thing all this shows us is that your daughter’s murderer knew her and purposely set out with her death in view. I’m sorry to put it in these crude terms, but at the same time I don’t want to leave you in ignorance.”

  “No, no. Thank you. It’s a great shock, though, a great shock. Why should anyone make an enemy of Amber? She was only a young girl. She’d never harmed anyone, she was innocent.” His voice wavered and cracked. “What’s she supposed to have done? Nothing, I’m sure, it must be nothing.”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Marshalson,” said Burden. “You can be sure, though, that your daughter was in no way to blame.” He glanced at Wexford. “There is one other thing.”

  “Amber was carrying a thousand pounds in notes in the pocket of her jacket,” said Wexford.

  Not even a great actor with years of stage experience could have produced such incredulity. First Marshalson said, “Are you certain of that?” And when they assured him they were, “I am absolutely dumbfounded. Amber hadn’t any money except for the allowance—the very small allowance, I must say—I was able to give her. She couldn’t even have saved up that sum, and she wasn’t a saver. Where did it come from?”

  “Again I have to say we don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t…I mean, why didn’t the person who did this take it?” It was plain that he shied away from such words as “killer” or “murderer.” “Surely they must have done what they did for the money?”

  “But they didn’t take it, Mr. Marshalson,” Wexford said gently. “Did Amber have a bank account?”

  “Yes, she did, but there was never anything much in it.”

  “One more thing, Mr Marshalson,” said Burden, “and then we’ll leave you in peace. Did Amber inherit anything when she became eighteen?”

  Again his incredulity seemed genuine. “Amber, poor child? No, nothing.” In spite of his gift of a car, he seemed to need to justify the small allowance he gave his daughter. “I’m not a rich man, Chief Inspector. I’ll admit the company hasn’t been doing well lately. My wife has money, but that is hers.”

  In the garden the little boy was awake. As children his age often do, he awoke with a cry that sounded more frustrated or petulant than distressed. The woman he called Di got up from her chair and lifted him in her arms—as someone might lift a shopping bag too heavy for its handles, Wexford thought. When they came close to the window on their way to some rear door he heard Brand say in wistful tones, “Mama, Mama.”

  As time passed he would come to accept Diana as his mother. No doubt the Social Services would intervene, but it was almost beyond doubt that Brand would remain with his grandfather and a stepgrandmother young and vigorous enough to have charge of his upbringing, one who would do her duty, be an efficient carer, see that he ate healthily and watched only a modicum of television. Many a natural mother does less, he thought.

  She, he found, seemed to have no more idea of where the thousand pounds came from than her husband had. Brand now in a high chair, sucking orange juice out of a bottle and eating a sliced banana, Diana Marshalson showed nearly the same degree of surprise.

  “What became of the car Amber was driving when the concrete block was dropped from the bridge in June?”

  “It was a write-off.”

  “I see. Mrs. Marshalson, I should like to have a look at Amber’s bedroom. There’s no need for a thorough search as there would be if this were a case of a missing person, but I should like to cast my eye over it. Inspector Burden will come with me.”

  Apart from the bed that was neatly made, everything in the room was in chaos, exactly the way you would expect to find the bedroom of a teenage girl whose motherhood seemed extraneous and no natural part of her character. Clothes lay about. The two chairs were covered, enveloped, lost, in the piles of clothes and more hung from cupboard door handles on cleaners’ wire hangers. When Wexford opened one of these doors it was hard to see how they could have been put away, so crammed was the interior with miniskirts, long skirts, jeans, trousers, tops, jackets, dresses, and coats. The number of garments was matched by the quantity of cosmetics that stood about on every available surface. One drawer in the dresser refused to close, it was so stuffed full with bottles and jars, makeup brushes and tissues. From another trailed the end of a pink chiffon scarf and one leg of a pair of fishnet tights.

  “Imagine the mayhem when Brand came in here,” said Wexford.

  Burden shrugged. “If he ever did. The child doesn’t seem to have figured large in her life.”

  “Well, we don’t know that yet. Maybe we don’t need to.” Wexford meant, let it stay that way so that I don’t have to wake up in the night and worry about it. Sylvia’s predicament is bad enough to be going on with. Let me have an ostrich side to my life.

  Burden was opening those drawers, one after another. No order was to be found anywhere. One, scattered with drifts of a white substance Burden said was talcum powder, also held screwed-up used tissues, balls of cotton wool, and half-used jars of cosmetics. Others were crammed with a heterogeneous mix of things to wear, things to read, cuttings (or, rather, tearings) from magazines, ballpoint pens, single socks,
sunglasses, curling tongs, a hairdryer, and several hairbrushes and combs. Mixed up with them was a passport. Opening it, he looked first at Amber’s photograph, for once a passport photograph that showed its subject as beautiful, then at an inside page on which were stamps for entry to Thailand on December 7 and exit on December 21 of the previous year. He passed it to Wexford and turned his attention to those of the garments that had pockets, and after a search that revealed two squashed cigarettes, several coins of small denomination, more used tissues, and another condom, pulled out with something like triumph an envelope stuffed full of notes.

  “I’ll count them,” he said, “but there’s at least another thousand there, don’t you think?”

  “Probably. I’m mystified. Did she steal it or earn it?”

  “If she earned it,” said Burden, pulling a long face, “she must have been on the game. There’s no other way she could have got that much.”

  “For such a puritan,” said Wexford, “your mind steams along lurid channels.”

  In Kingsmarkham High Street the digital clock outside the Kingsbrook Shopping Centre showed the time as eleven-fifteen and the temperature at thirty-three degrees Celsius.

  “That’s ninety degreees to you,” said Burden kindly.

  “All right, I can work it out. I taught my daughters how to do it. It’s just that the mental arithmetic takes time.”

  A good-looking young man with longish fair hair was leaning against the boot of a car in the police station parking area. He had positioned his Audi in the bay marked RESERVED FOR THE CHIEF CONSTABLE. Wexford went over to him and, meeting his eyes, dark blue with very clear whites, said sharply, “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s really what I can do for you. Or can’t do, come to that.” A long brown hand was extended. “Daniel Hilland. How do you do?”

  There is really no answer to this and Wexford made none. Nor did he shake hands. “You can’t leave your car there. Whatever they do out there, in here we clamp.”