Ruth RendellBuy a Copy of this Book
'I think you know who killed your stepfather,' said Wexford. It was a throwaway line, uttered on parting and over his shoulder as he reached the door. A swift exit was, however, impossible. The moment he got up he had not to duck his head merely but bend himself almost double. The girl he spoke to was a small woman, the boyfriend she lived with no more than five feet six. Life in the caravan, he thought, would otherwise have been insupportable. Stuck in the doorway, he said when she made no reply, 'You won't mind if I come back in a day or two and we'll have another talk.' 'All the same if I do, isn't it?' 'You don't have to talk to me, Miss Heddon. It's open to you to say no.' It would all have been more dignified if he could have stood up and faced her, but Wexford wasn't much concerned with dignity. He spoke rather gravely but with gentleness. 'But if you've no objection we'll continue this conversation on Monday. I've a feeling you know a lot more than you've told me.'
Classic Crime Fiction
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