[Wexford 01] From Doon & Death Read Free Page A

as if the personal fate of the men and women who came through the swing doors mattered less than Chief Inspector Wexford's impeccable records.
    He left Parsons dazed between a rubber plant and a chair shaped like the bowl of a spoon, a spongy spoon, cough-mixture red. It was absurd, he thought, knocking on Wexford's door, to build a concrete box of tricks like this amid the quiet crowded houses of the High Street Wexford called him to come in and he pushed open the door.
    'Mr Parsons is outside, sir.'
    'All right' Wexford looked at his watch. I'll see him now.'
    He was taller than Burden, thick-set without being fat, fifty-two years old, the very prototype of an actor playing a top-brass policeman. Born up the road in Pomfret, living most of his life in this part of Sussex, he knew most people and he knew the district we ll enough for the map on the buttercup-yellow wall to be regarded merely as a decoration.
    Parsons came in nervously. He had a furtive cautious look, and there was something defiant about him as if he knew his pride would be wounded and was preparing to defend it
    'Very worrying for you ’ Wexford said. He spoke without emphasizing any particular word, his voice level and strong. Inspector Burden tells me you haven't seen your wife since yesterday morning.'
    That’ s right' He took the snapshot of his wife from his pocket and put it on Wexford's de sk. That’ s her, that's Margaret ’ He twitched his head at Burden. 'He said you'd want to see it.'
    It showed a youngish woman in cotton blouse and -dirndl skirt standing stiffly, her arms at her sides, in the Parsonses' garden. She was smiling an unnaturally broad smile straight into the sun and she looked flustered, rather short of breath, as if she had been called away from some mundane household task - the washing-up perhaps - had flung off her apron, dried her hands and run down the path to her husband, waiting with his box camera.
    Her eyes were screwed up, her cheeks bunchy; she might really have been saying 'Cheese!' There was nothing here of the delicate cameo Jean's words had suggested.
    Wexford looked at it and said. Is this the best you can do?'
    Parsons covered the picture with his hand as if it had been desecrated.
    He looked as if he might flare into rage, but all he said was:
    'We're not in the habit of having studio portraits taken.' 'No passport?'
    ’I can't afford foreign holidays.'
    Parsons had spoken bitterly. He glanced quickly at the Venetian blinds, the scanty bit of haircord carpet, Wexford's chair with its mauve tweed seat, as if these were signs of a personal affluence rather than the furnishings supplied be a detached authority.
    ‘I’d like a description of your wife, Mr Parsons,' Wexford said. 'Won't you sit down?'
    Burden called young Gates in and set him tapping with one finger at the little grey typewriter.
    Parsons sat down. He began speaking slowly, shame-facedly, as if he had been asked to uncover his wife's nakedness.
    'She's got fair hair ’ he said. ‘F air curly hair and very light blue eyes. She's pretty.' He looked at Wexford defiantly and Burden wondered if he realized the dowdy impression the photograph had given. 'I think she's pretty. She's got a high sort of forehead.' He touched his own low narrow one. 'She's not very tall, about five feet one or two.'
    Wexford went on looking at the picture.
    Thin? Well built?'
    Parsons shifted in his chair.
    'Well built, I suppose.' An awkward flush tinged the pale face. 'She's thirty. She was thirty a few months ago, in March.'
    'What was she wearing?'
    'A green and white dress. Well, white with green flowers on it, and a yellow cardigan. Oh, and sandals. She never wears stockings in the summer.'
    Handbag?'
    'She never carried a handbag. She doesn't smoke or use make-up, you see. She wouldn't have any use for a handbag. Just her purse and her key.'
    'Any distinguishing marks?'
    'Appendicitis scar,' Parsons said, flushing again.
    Gates ripped the sheet from the typewriter