Ruth Rendell - Not in the Flesh

No wonder he saw ghosts, he thought, but didn't say aloud. Their chicken tikka and lamb korma arrived, brought by the proprietor. He seemed nervous. It was as if, Wexford said when the man had gone, he feared being questioned about Matea's conduct. An explanation for it awaited them next door in the police station but first they had their lunch.

“Poor Charlie Cummings was never found,” said Wexford.

“A great many missing people never are found. Darracott was never found.”

“I know. But all through this case I've had a sort of absurd hope that one of us would come across Cummings somewhere, alive and well. I suppose I should be glad we didn't find him dead. Yet somewhere he's dead. In some pond or lake or cave or deep ditch his bones are lying and it seems wrong, though I'm not sure I could say why, for anyone's body to lie unburied.”

Burden always felt uncomfortable when Wexford talked in this vein.

“What do they eat in Uzbekistan?”

“Camel,” said Wexford who didn't know. “Yak. Abominable Snowmen. Noodles. I wish I knew what was wrong with that girl. It worries me.”

They walked across the police station forecourt. “D'you think they'll still make the film?”

“It'll be a blow to Sheila if they don't. But they will, Mike. When did you ever see a film where the name of the author mattered or anyone even knew it?”

Wexford was talking to the duty sergeant when Karen Malahyde came up to them. For the first time in months she called Wexford “sir.”

“Kingsmarkham Social Services have taken Shamis Imran into care, sir.”

Wexford was very still. He seemed turned to stone, the heavy cast on his arm held across his body as if defensively. “Was that necessary?” he said at last.

“I thought you'd be pleased,” Karen said.

“Did you?”

“At least she'll be safe, guv.”

“I suppose so. In one way.”

He walked toward the lift where Burden caught up with him. “So that was what was wrong with Matea. It can't be helped, Reg. While she was at home there was nothing to prevent her parents trying again. Another ‘auntie' would have been fetched from Somalia.” Wexford looked at him, surprised. “Yes, I know. I've been reading up on genital mutilation. I think I've got some idea now how strongly these people feel about it. Not having it done would be like us not having our daughters immunized. Worse than that-not sending our daughters to school.”

Once again Wexford said he supposed so. As the lift climbed slowly to the second floor he seemed to see the Imrans in their “penthouse” flat, hard rock beating out from the place next door, the two parents silent, not understanding why this had been done to them, bewildered by inexplicable laws. They had been doing the very best for their daughter, ensuring her acceptance in the community and her eligibility for a good marriage, but she had been taken from them. They were unfit to have the care of her. Where had they gone wrong? Le métier d'homme est difficile. The job of being a human being was indeed difficult. It sounded a lot better in French.

On a gloomy day in late November, the day John Grimble heard from the Kingsmarkham planners that his application to build more than one house had again been refused, Jim Belbury and Honey came cautiously back to their truffle-hunting ground. The trench had been filled in, the crime tape had gone, but the season wasn't quite over. Jim had a nice cut off the Sunday joint, hygienically wrapped in a recyclable plastic bag, to reward Honey if she struck lucky.

Their hunting ground it was but not the same location. Jim would have felt a bit squeamish about that. They went prospecting around the field and among the trees until Jim saw a swarm of flies buzzing about under an oak tree. The oak was right up against Pickfords' fence, but no one was about in the Pickford garden. It was too cold and too damp. Jim could see the television screen glowing behind the French windows and Mr. Pickford and his son watching the cricket game from Australia.

Jim said what he always said, “Get digging, girl.”

Honey waited for those words. Perhaps no others would have served as a trigger. But those three words were enough. She snapped at the flies and began a busy rooting in the fallen leaves, the leaf mold beneath, and the soft loam under that. Jim thought they weren't going to be lucky. Not this time. It was too late in the year. But Honey was enjoying herself. He tugged at her collar, pulling her away to where the banished flies had regathered and once more begun their frenzied dance.

He slightly varied his command. “Give it a go, girl.”

She took longer than usual about it. She dug deeper. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the enormous truffle she came up with. It was almost too big for her to hold in her mouth, it was as big as the largest corm of celeriac Morella's had in their farm shop, as big as a Halloween pumpkin.

Without protest she let it drop into Jim's cupped hands. He sniffed its aroma, the scent that one of those posh London chefs who went on the TV would pay more for than the whole of his winter fuel supplement. “Good girl,” he said and popped into Honey's mouth a thick slice of prime Scottish beef.