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Death is always solitary. For some, so is life . . . Fans of PD James, Ann Cleeves and Donna Leon will devour this enthralling mystery of deception, doubt and death from multi-million copy and SUNDAY TIMES bestselling author Ruth Rendell ...
'Probably the greatest crime writer in the world' -- Ian Rankin
'[Wexford] has become an old friend who gets better with age' -- Herald
'A cracking good tale' -- ***** Reader review
'Rendell at her complex best' -- ***** Reader review
'Unputdownable' -- ***** Reader review
'A treat from start to finish' -- ***** Reader review
'Couldn't put it down' -- ***** Reader review
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On a sultry August evening, the bloody body of a middle-aged woman is discovered beneath a hedge by a small boy.
There are only two things that surprise Wexford about the murder scene. One, that the only contents of the woman's handbag are some keys and a wallet containing nothing but some money. And two, how even in death, her deathly grey eyes possess a scornful glare.
The woman turns out to be Rhoda Comfrey, but there's no murder weapon, no apparent motive, and no one who actually cares that she died.
Wexford's only hunch is that the clues to her murder must lie in her solitary London life. But her existence there becomes frustratingly impossible to trace.
'Probably the greatest crime writer in the world' -- Ian Rankin
'[Wexford] has become an old friend who gets better with age' -- Herald
'A cracking good tale' -- ***** Reader review
'Rendell at her complex best' -- ***** Reader review
'Unputdownable' -- ***** Reader review
'A treat from start to finish' -- ***** Reader review
'Couldn't put it down' -- ***** Reader review
******************************************************************************************************
On a sultry August evening, the bloody body of a middle-aged woman is discovered beneath a hedge by a small boy.
There are only two things that surprise Wexford about the murder scene. One, that the only contents of the woman's handbag are some keys and a wallet containing nothing but some money. And two, how even in death, her deathly grey eyes possess a scornful glare.
The woman turns out to be Rhoda Comfrey, but there's no murder weapon, no apparent motive, and no one who actually cares that she died.
Wexford's only hunch is that the clues to her murder must lie in her solitary London life. But her existence there becomes frustratingly impossible to trace.
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