By Ruth Rendell
Whilst Margaret Parsons disappears, Inspector Burden attempts to reassure her frantic husband that she is going to be again via morning. Privately, although, he's yes Margaret has run off with one other guy. yet then the lacking woman's physique is located, strangled and deserted in a close-by wooden. And whilst Mr. Parsons we could the police into his domestic, a startling discovery leads everybody to query simply who Margaret Parsons quite was once . . .
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Additional info for From Doon with Death
I should take the day off. ’ Parsons went out jerkily, walking like a paraplegic, and from the window Burden watched him get into the car beside Gates. The shops were opening now and the fruiterer on the opposite side of the street was putting up his sun-blind in anticipation of a fine day. If this had been an ordinary Wednesday, a normal weekday, Burden thought, Margaret Parsons might now have been kneeling in the sun, polishing that gleaming step, or opening the windows and letting some air into those musty rooms.
A stray car,’ Prewett said distastefully. ‘Of course this is a private road. Just as private in fact, Chief Inspector, as your own garage drive, but nobody respects privacy these days. I don’t think any of the local lads and lasses come up here on foot. The fields are much more - well, salubrious, shall we say? We do get cars up here. ’ Prewett waved a not very horny hand up towards the entrance to the lane and Burden saw what he meant. The lane was all tire marks; in fact it was the tire marks that made it into a road.
But they had only sold one and that in a colour called Mutation Mink, and they didn’t put prices on their goods. The girl in the fifth shop, a queenly creature with hair like pineapple candy-floss, said that she was wearing Arctic Sable herself. She lived in a flat above the shop and she went upstairs to fetch the lipstick. It was identical to the one found in the wood except that it had no price written on its base. ‘It’s a difficult shade to wear,’ the girl said. ’ Now there were no more shops on this side of the High Street, only a couple of big houses, the Methodist Church - Mrs Parsons’ church - standing back from the road behind a sweep of gravel, a row of cottages, before the fields began.