Wolf to the Slaughter

by Ruth Rendell

  Drayton, too, asked himself these questions as the tumultuous ringing of the church bells ceased and he turned the corner into York Street

  . In the strengthening sunshine the rhinestone ropes glittered at him from the window of Joy Jewels. He thought of the silver chain Linda wore around her neck and simultaneously of that smooth warm skin, silky to his touch.

  He had to shake himself and tighten his mouth before going into the Red Star Garage. They showed him two ageing red Hillmans and he turned away to catch the bus for Stowerton. There he found Russell Cawthorne in his office. On the one bit of solid wall behind his head was a calendar of a girl wearing three powder puffs and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Drayton looked at it with contempt and a certain unease. It reminded him of the magazines in Grover's shop. Cawthorne sat up stiffly when Drayton told him who he was and gave a brisk nod, the C.-in-C. receiving a promising subaltern.

  "Morning. Sit down. More trouble brewing?'

  Affected old bore, Drayton thought. 'I want to ask you about hiring cars. You do hire cars, don't you?'

  'My dear boy, I thought you were here in your official capacity, but if you just...'

  ‘I am. This is an official question. What colour are they, these hire cars of yours?'

  Cawthorne opened a fanlight. The fresh air made him cough. 'What colour are they? They're all the same. Three black Morris Minors.'

  'Were any of them hired on Saturday, the 3rd?'

  'Now when would that have been, laddie?'

  ‘Last week. There's a calendar behind you.' Cawthorne's face darkened to an even maroon. 'It'll be in the book,' he muttered.

  The book looked well-kept. Cawthorne opened it and turned back a few pages, frowning slightly. 'I remember that morning,' he said. 'I lost my best mechanic. Impertinent young devil, treating the place like he owned it. I gave him the push, lost my temper ...' Drayton fidgeted impatiently. 'About the cars,' Cawthorne said moodily. 'No, they were all in.'

  'What about sales? You wouldn't have sold anyone a green car about that time?'

  One of the veined, not very steady hands, went up to twitch at his moustache. 'My business hasn't been exactly booming.' He hesitated, eyeing Drayton warily. 'I'll tell you frankly,' he said, ‘I haven't made a sale since Mr Grover took delivery of his Mini in February.'

  Drayton felt his face grow hot. The name was enough to do it. ‘I want to hire a car myself,' he said. 'For tonight.'

  Blustering, confident as only the weak can be, Alan Kirkpatrick stood defiantly in Wexford's office. He had refused to sit down and a constantly reiterated, 'Rubbish' and 'I don't believe it' had greeted Wexford's hints as to Anita Margolis's probable death.

  'In that case,' Wexford said, 'you won't mind telling us about your movements last Tuesday, the night you had a date with her.'

  'A date?' Kirkpatrick gave a short sneering laugh. 'I like the way you put it. I got to know that woman solely because I'm keen on art. The only way to get into that place and look at Margolis's pictures was through her.'

  Burden got up from his corner where he had been sitting quietly and said, 'Interested in his work, are you? So am I. I've been trying to remember the name of that thing he's got in the Tate. Perhaps you can refresh my memory.'

  That it was so obviously a trap did not derogate from its significance as a question and a question which, if Kirkpatrick were to sustain his role as a seeker after artistic enlightenment, must be answered. His soft mobile mouth twitched.

  'I don't know what he calls them,’ he muttered.

  'Funny,' said Burden. 'Any admirer of Margolis would surely know "Nothing’'.' For a moment Wexford himself stared. Then he recalled the Weekend Telegraph lying close to his hand in the desk drawer. As he listened to the inspector who had suddenly launched into an esoteric review of modern art, he was lost in admiration. Instead of reaching for his gun, Burden had evidently reached for a work of reference. Kirkpatrick, also perhaps overcome, sat down abruptly, his face puzzled and aggressive.

  'I don't have to answer your questions,' he said.

  'Quite right,' Wexford said kindly. 'As you rightly say, we can't even prove Miss Margolis is dead.' And he nodded sagely as if Kirkpatrick's wisdom had recalled him from sensational dreams to reality. 'No, we'll just make a note that you were probably the last person to see her alive.'

  'Look,' said Kirkpatrick, on the edge of his chair but making no move to get up, 'my wife's a very jealous woman ...'

  'Seems to be infectious in your family. I'd have said it was jealousy made you threaten Miss Margolis a couple of weeks ago.' Wexford quoted Mrs Penistan. "‘I might kill you myself one of these fine days". Was last Tuesday one of those fine days? Funny way to talk to a woman you were only interested in because of her brother's painting, wasn't it?'

  'That date, as you call it, she never kept it. I didn't go out with her.'

  Ruby would know him again. Wexford cursed the paucity of their evidence. He did not think it would be an easy matter to persuade this man to take part in an identification parade. Kirkpatrick's confidence had been slightly shaken by Burden's questions, but as he sat down again some of his bravado seemed to return. With a look that was part impatience, part resignation, he took out a pocket comb and began to arrange his curly hair.

  'We're not interested in your wife's possible divorce proceedings,' Wexford said. 'If you're frank with us there's no reason why it should go further, certainly not to your wife's ears.’

  'There's nothing to be frank about,' Kirkpatrick said in a less belligerent tone, ‘I was going up North on Tuesday for my firm. It's true I'd arranged to meet Miss Margolis before I went. She was going to show me some of Margolis's - er, early work. He wouldn't have had it if he'd been there but he was going out.' Wexford raised his eyes and met Burden's calm, polite gaze. How green and gullible did this cosmetic salesman think they were? This story which seemed to fill its teller with pride was so near what Wexford called the 'old etching gag' that he could hardly suppress a chuckle of derision. Early work, indeed! ‘I was going home first for a meal but I was late and it was seven when I got to Kingsmarkham. Grover's were closing and I remember that girl made a bit of a scene because I wanted my evening paper. There wasn't time to go home then, so I went straight round to Pump Lane

  . Ann - Miss Margolis, that is - had forgotten all about me coming. She said she was going to a party. And that's all.'

  During the latter part of this explanation Kirkpatrick's face had grown red and he fidgeted uneasily.

  ‘It can't have been more than half-past seven, if that,' Wexford said. He was wondering why Burden had gone to the window and was staring down, his expression amused. 'Surely there was time for your artistic researches, especially as you'd missed your evening meal?'

  The flush deepened, ‘I asked her if I could come in for a bit and then I said I'd take her out for a meal before the party. She had her ocelot coat on ready to go out, but she wouldn't let me in. I suppose she'd just changed her mind.'

  Burden turned from the window and when he spoke Wexford knew what he had been scrutinizing. 'How long have you had this car?'

  'Since last Monday. I sold my own and got this one from my firm.'

  'So Miss Margolis had never seen it before?' ‘I don't know what you're getting at.' ‘I think you do, Mr Kirkpatrick. I think Miss Margolis wouldn't go out with you because she didn't care to be seen about in such a conspicuous car.' The shot had gone home. Again Wexford marvelled at Burden's perspicacity. Kirkpatrick, who blushed easily at mild slights, had now grown white with anger and perhaps with mortification.

  'She was a woman of taste,' Burden said, ‘I shouldn't be surprised to hear she burst out laughing when she saw all your pink and mauve decorations.'

  Apparently this was the salesman's soft spot. Whether he was a connoisseur of modern painting or just a philanderer, there was no room in either image for this ridiculous vehicle. It was the scar of the branding iron, the yellow armband, the shameful card of identity.

 
; 'What's so funny about it?' he said aggressively. 'Who the hell did she think she was laughing at me?' Indignation began to rob him of caution, it doesn't alter my personality, make me into a different man, just because I have to have a car with a slogan on it. I was good enough for her before, my money was good enough to spend on her ...' He had said too much, and his rage gave place to a sudden recollection of where he was and to whom he was speaking, ‘I mean, I'd given her a few samples in the past, I...'

  'For services rendered, no doubt?'

  'What the hell does that mean?'

  'You said she showed you her brother's paintings without his knowledge. A kindly act, Mr Kirkpatrick. Worth a pot of nail varnish or some soap, I should have thought.' Wexford smiled at him. 'What did you do, borrow a more innocuous car?'

  ‘I tell you, we didn't go anywhere. If we had, we could have gone in hers.'

  'Oh, no,' Wexford said softly. 'You couldn't have used hers. The radiator was leaking. I suggest you got hold of a green car and used this to drive Miss Margolis into Stowerton.'

  Still smarting from the derision his car had aroused, Kirkpatrick muttered, ‘I suppose someone saw me in Stowerton, did they? Cawthorne, was it? Come on, you may as well tell me who it 'was.'

  'Why Cawthorne?'

  Kirkpatrick flushed patchily. 'He lives in Stowerton,' he said, stammering a little over the dentals and the sibilant. 'He was giving that party.'

  'You were on your way to Scotland,' Wexford said thoughtfully. 'You must have made a detour to go through Stowerton.' He got up ponderously and went over to the wall map. 'Look, here's the London Road

  and you'd have to go that way, or East into Kent, if you wanted to bypass London. Either way, Stowerton was miles off your route.'

  'What the hell does it matter?' Kirkpatrick burst out. ‘I had the whole evening to kill. There was nothing else to do. I didn't want to land up in Scotland in the small hours. I should have thought the main thing was Ann wasn't with me. My God, she wasn't even in Stowerton, she didn't go to that party!'

  ‘I know,' Wexford said, returning to his chair. 'Her brother knows and Mr Cawthorne knows, but how do you know? You never got back into Sussex till this morning. Now listen, an identification parade would clear the whole thing up. Do you object?'

  Suddenly Kirkpatrick looked tired. It could have been mere physical exhaustion or that the strain of lying - and lying ineffectually - was telling badly on him. His good looks were particularly vulnerable to anxiety. They depended on a swagger in the tilt of his head, a laugh on his full mouth. Now there was sweat on his upper lip and the brown eyes, which were his most compelling feature, looked like those of a dog when someone has trodden on its tail.

  'I'd like to know what it's in aid of,' he said sullenly, ‘I'd like to know who saw me where and what I'm supposed to have been doing.'

  'I'll tell you, Mr Kirkpatrick,' said Wexford, drawing up his chair.

  'When am I going to get my carpet back?' said Ruby Branch.

  'We're not cleaners, you know. We don't do an express service.'

  She must be lamenting the days, Burden thought, when women wore veils as a matter of course, as often as not just to go out in the public street. He could remember one his grandmother had had on a toque, a thick, seemingly opaque curtain which when lowered was a perfect disguise for its wearer.

  'Pity we're not in Morocco,' he said, 'you could put on your yashmak.'

  Ruby gave him a sulky glance. She pulled down the brim of her hat until it almost covered her eyes and muffled her chin with a chiffon scarf.

  'I shall be a marked woman,' she said. 'I hope you lot realize that. Suppose I pick him out and he escapes? The jails can't hold them these days. You've only got to look at the papers.'

  'You'll have to take your chance on that,' said Burden.

  When they were in the car she said diffidently, 'Mr Burden? You never told me whether you're going to do anything about that other thing, that keeping a what-d'you-call-it house?'

  'That depends. We shall have to see.'

  'I'm putting myself out to help you.'

  They drove in silence until they reached the outskirts of Kingsmarkham. Then Burden said, 'Be honest with me, Ruby. What's Matthews ever done for you except take your money and pretty well break up your marriage?'

  The painted mouth trembled. There were callouses and the long grey indentations housework makes on the fingers that held the scarf to her lips. 'We've been so much to each other, Mr Burden.'

  'That was a long time ago,' he said gently. 'You've got yourself to think of now.' It was cruel what he had to say. Perhaps justice always is and he was used, if not to administering it, at least to leading people to its seat. Now, to find out what he wanted, he would lead Ruby away from it and cruelty would have to be his means. 'You're nearly ten years off your pension. How many of those women you work for would employ you if they knew what you'd been up to? They will know, Ruby. They read the papers.'

  ‘I don't want to get George into trouble.' It took him, as it had Wexford, a moment's reflection before he remembered that George was Monkey's Christian name. 'I was crazy about him once. You see, I never had kids, never had what you'd call a real husband. Mr Branch was old enough to be my father.'

  She paused and with a tiny lace handkerchief dabbed at the tear-stained space between scarf and hat brim. 'George had been in prison. When I found him he seemed - well, so kind of happy to be with me.' In spite of himself, Burden was moved. He could just recall old Branch, doddery and crotchety in advance of his years. 'Four quid George had off me,' she said unevenly, 'and all the drink I'd got in the place and God knows how many good dinners, but he wouldn't lie down beside me. It's not nice, Mr Burden, when you've got memories and you can't help ...'

  'He's not worth your loyalty. Come on now. Cheer Up. Mr Wexford'll think I've been giving you the third degree. You never heard that Geoff Smith call the girl Ann, did you? It was all made up to save Monkey.'

  'I reckon it was.'

  'That's a good girl. Now then, did you search the room at all when you'd found the stain?'

  'I was too scared for that. Look, Mr Burden, I've been thinking and thinking about it. George was alone in there for hours and hours on the Thursday doing that letter when I was out at work. I think he must have found something they'd left behind them.'

  'I've been thinking, too, Ruby, and I think great minds think alike.'

  When they got to the police station a dozen men were lined up in the yard. None was more than five feet nine and all had hair of shades between mid-brown and coal-black. Kirkpatrick stood fourth from the end on the left. Ruby came hesitantly across the concrete, cautious, absurd in her high heels and with her swathed face. Wexford, who had not heard her story, could hardly keep himself from smiling, but Burden watched her rather sadly. Her eyes flickered across the first three men on the left and came to rest for a brief moment on Kirkpatrick. She came closer and walked slowly down the line, occasionally turning to look over her shoulder. Then she turned back. Kirkpatrick looked afraid, his expression bewildered. Ruby stopped in front of him. A spark of recognition seemed to pass between them and it was as marked on his part as on hers. She moved on, lingering longest of all in front of the last man on the right.

  ‘Well?'said Wexford just inside the door. '

  'For a minute I thought it was the one on the end.' Wexford sighed softly. 'The one on the end' was Police Constable Peach. 'But then I knew I'd got it wrong. It must be the one with the red tie.'

  Kirkpatrick.

  'Must be? Why must it be?'

  Ruby said simply, ‘I know his face. I don't know none of the others. His face is kind of familiar.'

  'Yes, yes, I daresay. My face ought to be familiar to you by this time, but I didn't hire your knocking shop last Tuesday.' Under the veil Ruby looked resentful. 'What I want to know is, is he Geoff Smith?'

  ‘I don't know. I wouldn't know him if I saw him now. Ever since then I've been dead scared every time I've seen a dark ma
n in the street. All I know is I saw that fellow with the red tie somewhere last week. Maybe it was Tuesday. I don't know. He knew me too. You saw that?' She made a little whimpering, snivelling sound. Suddenly she was a little girl with an old face, ‘I want to go home,' she said, darting a vicious glance at Burden. He smiled back at her philosophically. She was not the first person to make a confession to him and then regret it

  Kirkpatrick came back into Wexford's office but he did not sit down. Ruby's failure to identify him had restored his confidence and for a moment Wexford thought that he was going to add further touches to the image he had tried to create of himself as a patron or connoisseur of the arts. He picked up the blue glass sculpture and fingered it knowingly while giving Wexford a sullen glance.

  ‘I hope you're satisfied,' he said, ‘I think I've been very patient. You could see that woman didn't know me.'