Kissing the Gunner's Daughter by Ruth Rendell

snip for the database, that would give him
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    something to mouse through his systems.
    To his annoyance, the Courier reporter was waiting for him as he came out of the stables. He was sitting on a low wall, swinging his legs. Wexford made it a rule never to talk 'cases' to the press except at the arranged conferences. This man must have been hanging about for an hour, on the chance he must emerge sooner or later.
    "No. Nothing more to say today."
    "That's very unfair. You ought to give priority to us. Support your local sheriff."
    "That means you supporting me," Wexford said, amused in spite of himself, "not me feeding facts to you. What's your name?"
    "Jason Sherwin Coram Sebright."
    "A bit of a mouthful, isn't it? Too long for a byline."
    "I've not decided what to call myself for professional purposes yet. I only started at the Conner last week. The point is I've got a distinct advantage over the rest of them. I know Daisy, you see. She's at my school, or where I was. I know her very well."
    All this was delivered with a confident brashness that was uncommon, even these days. Jason Sebright seemed entirely at ease.
    "If you're going to see her I hope you'll take me with you," he said. "I'm hoping for an exclusive interview."
    "Then your hopes are doomed to be dashed, Mr Sebright."
    He shepherded Sebright out, waited there watching until he had got into his own car.
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    Donaldson drove him down the main drive, the way they had come on the previous night. Sebright's tiny Fiat followed close behind. A quarter of a mile on, in an area where there were many fallen trees, they passed Gabbitas operating something Wexford thought might be a planking machine. The hurricane of three years before had done damage here. Wexford noticed cleared areas where there had been recent planting, the two-feet-high saplings tied to posts and sheathed in animal guards. Here too seasoning sheds had been built to protect the planked wood and under tarpaulins were stacked boards of oak and sycamore and ash.
    They came to the main gate and Donaldson got out to open it. Hanging from the left-hand gatepost was a bouquet of flowers. Wexford wound down the window to get a better look. This was no ordinary florist's confection but a flower-filled basket with one side deeply curved over to afford the maximum display. Golden freesias, sky-blue-scillas and waxen $faite stephanotis spilled over the gilded lip of 1&e basket. Attached to the handle was a card, ft "What does it say?"
    ?f Donaldson stumbled over the words, cleared his throat and began again. "'Now, boast ihee, death, in thy possession lies, A lass Itaparaltel'd.'"
    ^He left the gate open for Jason Sebright, who, JPfcxfbrd saw, had also got out to read the words
    the card. Donaldson turned on to the B 2428 Cambery Ashes and Stowerton. They were in ten minutes.
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    * * *
    Dr Leigh, a tired-looking woman in her mid twenties, met Wexford in the corridor outside MacAllister Ward.
    "I can understand it's urgent to talk to her, but could you keep it down to ten minutes today? I mean, as far as I'm concerned and if it's all right with her, you can come back tomorrow, but just at first I think it should be limited to ten minutes. That will be enough to get the essentials, won't it?"
    "If you say so," said Wexford.
    "She has lost a lot of blood," she said, confirming what he had told the press. "But the bullet didn't break the collarbone. More important, it didn't touch the lung. A bit of a miracle that. It's not so much that she's physically ill as that she's very distressed. She's still very very distressed."
    "I'm not surprised."
    "Would you come into the office a moment?"
    Wexford followed her into a small room which had 'Charge Nurse' on the door. It was empty and full of smoke. Why did hospital staff, who must hear more than most people of the evils and dangers of cigarettes, smoke more than anyone else? It was a mystery that often intrigued him. Dr Leigh clicked her tongue and opened the