"Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

foxes. But there's not much malice in them -- if they like you."
He was pouring the tea into two large earthenware mugs, both labeled A Present from
Windermere.
Lund said, "I gather they didn't like their daughter-in-law?"
Reade handed him the tea. "I don't think they disliked her. The son Jeff is lazy. He tends to stay
in bed all day long. So the girl threatened to take a whole bottle of sleeping tablets."
"And he let her do it. And then let her crawl into his bed. . ."
"Yes. But you don't understand how stupid these people are. He could have saved her if he'd
forced her to make herself sick -- in fact, I think she tried to make herself sick later. But he didn't really
believe anything would happen."
Lund said with sharp disgust, "Until she had convulsions. And even then he didn't get out of bed."
His voice took on a tone of amazed disbelief. He said, coldly and violently, "He should be on a murder
charge."
Reade said, "I'm not trying to defend them. But you don't understand. You put yourself in their
place, and that's a mistake. You probably imagine how you'd react if your own wife took poison. These
people have no values; life is meaningless to them. They collect their dole money every week -- I think
it's national assistance now -- and then do nothing for a week. At least, Jeff doesn't. He's completely
passive. They're really like something out of a Russian novel. I don't think he wanted his wife to die."
Lund said, "That's what they're saying in the village."
"They would. But they all hate the Bowdens. Why should Jeff have wanted her to die? He
doesn't really want anything -- except perhaps to start to live. Perhaps he'd got rather bored with her.
She wanted him to move to Carlisle and get a job on a building site. But he didn't really mind that. He just
didn't care."
He could see that Lund was trying to repress his irritation, so he said, "Let's change the subject.
That is, unless that's what you want to discuss."
Lund seized the cue. "No, sir, it isn't."
He smiled, and Reade saw that the irritation was only superficial. He thought, with a touch of
sadness: He doesn't really care either. For him it's not a tragedy, only a crime. He said, responding to the
smile, "I must confess that I haven't the remotest idea of what could bring a detective inspector out from
Lancaster to see me."
"Detective sergeant. No, I expect you couldn't guess. S'matter of fact, it's only a very routine
inquiry." He smiled apologetically. "Otherwise they wouldn't have sent me."
"Won't you take your coat off?"
"Thank you. I wouldn't mind. It's getting hot in here." He threw his coat into the old armchair in
the corner of the room, then sat down again. The stew was bubbling by now and sending up a pleasant
smell of onion and beef.
"Well, then, sir, to come to the point. You've read about these Thames murders?"
"No."
"No?"
"You see, I seldom read a newspaper. And although I've got a portable radio set, I don't think
I've listened to it for a year."
Lund looked as if he wanted to scratch his head with the stem of his pipe, but contented himself
with rubbing his chin.
"Can't say I blame you. And of course you've no television out here. Hmm, so we'll have to start
from scratch." He fumbled in his pocket, then went over to the overcoat and took out a notebook.
"Would you like me to light a lamp?"
"No, sir. It's all right. I'll stand by the window." He cleared his throat. "Right. There have been
nine murders so far. The first on February the tenth last year -- fourteen months ago. They're all the work
of a madman."
Reade asked, "How can you know that? Has he been caught?"