‘A bull in a china shop,’ said Wexford.
He picked his way through the fragments which littered the carpet, stopping occasionally to lift between finger and thumb a sliver of transparent porcelain. His expression was impassive and cold but a little heat entered it as he approached the table where the chessmen had been. Not a piece remained intact, but here and there among the red and white gravel he found a delicate spear with an amputated hand still grasping it, a fragment of ivory lace, a horse’s hoof.
Burden was kneeling down, smoothing out torn remnants of the silk pictures. A big rough footprint scarred the scales of the painted fish, the print of the same foot that had ground sake cups to dust.
‘Frightening, isn’t it?’ said Wexford. ‘Barbarity is frightening. I’m glad I don’t know…’
‘What all this stuff was worth?’ Burden hazarded.
‘Not so much as all that. I meant I’m glad I don’t know it’s uniqueness, its age, its quality really; looting must be like this, I suppose, wanton, revengeful.’
‘You said Charlie Hatton was a soldier of fortune.’
‘Yes. Is there any point in going to talk to his comrade-in-arms? I suppose we have to.’
Jack Pertwee was in the kitchen with Sergeant Martin. He was sitting down, his arms spread and his body slumped across the table. Wexford shook him roughly and jerked his head back. Their eyes met and for a moment Wexford still held on to the electrician’s coat collar, shaking it as might a man who has brought a destructive dog under control. Jack’s jowls shook and his teeth chattered.
‘You’re a fool, Pertwee,’ Wexford said scornfully. ‘You’ll lose your job over this. And for what? For a friend who’s dead and can’t thank you?’
His voice almost inaudible, Jack said, ‘The best… The best friend a man ever had. And it was me sent him here.’ He clenched his fist, drove it hard against the table.
‘Oh, take him away, Sergeant.’
Jack dragged himself to his feet. His fist opened and some thing fell to the floor, rolled and came to rest at Wexford’s feet. The chief inspector stared downwards. It was the knight’s decapitated head. The wicked sharp face, tricked into expression by a ribbon of sunlight, grinned widely and showed its teeth.
‘Charlie,’ Jack whispered. He tried to say it again but great agonised sobs tore away the name.
Ruth Rendell
