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  Acclaim for

  Ruth Rendell

  “The best mystery writer anywhere in the English-speaking world.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “Undoubtedly one of the best writers of English mysteries and chiller-killer plots.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Ruth Rendell is the best mystery writer in the English-speaking world.”

  —Time

  “Chief Inspector Wexford is one of the most admirable presences in mystery fiction today and Ruth Rendell … retains her place of highest distinction in the field.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Ruth Rendell is a master of the form.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “No one can take you so totally into the recesses of the human mind as does Ruth Rendell.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “If there were a craft guild for writers, I’d apprentice myself to Ruth Rendell.”

  —Sue Grafton

  “Ruth Rendell is, unequivocally, the most brilliant mystery novelist of our time. Her stories are a lesson in a human nature as capable of the most exotic love as it is of the crudest murder. She does not avert her gaze and magnificently triumphs in a style that is uniquely hers and mesmerizing.”

  —Patricia Cornwall

  “Rendell’s clear, shapely prose casts the mesmerizing spell of the confessional.”

  —The New Yorker

  “Ruth Rendell is one of the best crime novelists working today.”

  —Los Angeles Daily News

  “Rendell writes with such elegance and restraint, with such a literate voice and an insightful mind, that she transcends the mystery genre and achieves something almost sublime.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “No one writes with more devastating accuracy about the world we live and commit sin in today.… She is one of our most important novelists.”

  —John Mortimer

  Ruth Rendell

  Some Lie and Some Die

  Ruth Rendell is the author of Road Rage, The Keys to the Street, Bloodlines, Simisola, and The Crocodile Bird. Her most recent novel is A Sight for Sore Eyes. She is the winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grandmaster Award. She is also the recipient of three Edgars from the Mystery Writers of America and four Gold Daggers from England’s Crime Writers Association. In 1997 she was named a life peer in the House of Lords. She lives in England.

  FIRST VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD EDITION, MAY 1999

  Copyright © 1973 by Ruth Rendell

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Hutchinson, London, and in the United States by Doubleday, New York, in 1973.

  Vintage Books, Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, and colophon are

  trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rendell, Ruth, 1930–

  Some lie and some die / Ruth Rendell.

  p. cm. — (Vintage crime/Black Lizard)

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55985-2

  1. Wexford, Inspector (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Police—England—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PR6068.E63S58 1999

  823′.914—dc21 98-52888

  www.randomhouse.com/vintage

  v3.1_r1

  To my son, Simon Rendell, who goes

  to festivals, and my cousin,

  Michael Richards, who wrote the song,

  this book is dedicated with

  love and gratitude.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  LET-ME-BELIEVE

  I don’t miss her smile or the flowers,

  I don’t eclipse distance or hours,

  I don’t kiss the wind or the showers,

  I miss her, can’t kiss her with lips that were ours.

  So come by, come nigh,

  come try and tell why

  some sigh, some cry,

  some lie and some die.

  Remember me and my life-without-life,

  Come once more to be my wife,

  Come today before I grieve,

  Enter the web of let-me-believe.

  So come by, come nigh, etc.

  The house will be as if it were ours,

  She’ll fill the void with love-scented flowers,

  She’ll sit with me in the fast-fading light,

  Then my dream will sift into night.

  So come by, come nigh, etc.

  Now she’s gone in the harsh light of day,

  When she’ll return the night would not say,

  And I am left to vision the time

  When once more she’ll come and be mine.

  So come by, come nigh,

  come try and tell why

  some sigh, some cry,

  some lie and some die.

  (Zeno Vedast’s song from the ‘Let-me-believe’ L.P. and the ‘Sundays Album’, issued by Galaphone Ltd., and obtainable from good record shops everywhere.)

  1

  ‘But why here? Why do they have to come here? There must be thousands of places all over this country where they could go without doing anyone any harm. The Highlands for instance. Dartmoor. I don’t see why they have to come here.’

  Detective Inspector Michael Burden had made these remarks, or remarks very much like them, every day for the past month. But this time his voice held a note which had not been there before, a note of bitter bewilderment. The prospect had been bad enough. The reality was now unreeling itself some thirty feet below him in Kingsmarkham High Street and he opened the window to get a better—or a more devastating—look.

  ‘There must be thousands of them, all coming up from Station Road. And this is only a small percentage when you consider how many more will be using other means of transport. It’s an invasion. God, there’s a dirty-looking great big one coming now. You know what it reminds me of? That poem my Pat was doing at school. Something about a pied piper. If “pied” means what I think it does, that customer’s pied all right. You should see his coat.’

  The only other occupant of the room had so far made no reply to this tirade. He was a big, heavy man, the inspector’s senior by two decades, being at that time of life when people hesitated to describe him as middle-aged and considered ‘elderly’ as the more apt epithet. His face had never been handsome. Age and a very nearly total loss of hair had not improved its pouchy outlines, but an expression that was not so much easy-going as tolerant of everything but intolerance, redeemed it and made it almost attractive. He was sitting at his rosewood desk, trying to compose a directive on crime prevention, and now, giving an impatient shake of his head, he threw down his pen.

  ‘Anyone not in the know,’ said Chief Inspector Wexford, ‘would think you were talking about rats.’ He pushed back his chair and got up. ‘A plague of rats,’ he said. ‘Why can�
�t you expand your mind a bit? They’re only a bunch of kids come to enjoy themselves.’

  ‘You’ll tell a different tale when we get car-burning and shop-lifting and decent citizens beaten up and—and Hell’s Angels.’

  ‘Maybe. Wait till the time comes. Here, let me have a look.’

  Burden shifted grudgingly from his point of vantage and allowed Wexford a few inches of window. It was early afternoon of a perfect summer’s day, June the tenth. The High Street was busy as it always was on a Friday, cars pulling into and out of parking places, women pushing prams. Striped shop awnings were down to protect shoppers from an almost Mediterranean sun, and outside the Dragon workmen sat on benches drinking beer. But it was not these people who had attracted Burden’s attention. They watched the influx as avidly as he and in some cases with as much hostility.

  They were pouring across the road towards the bus stop by the Baptist church, a stream of boys and girls with packs on their backs and transistors swinging from their hands. Cars, which had pulled up at the zebra crossing to let them pass, hooted in protest, but they were as ineffectual as the waves of the Red Sea against the Children of Israel. On they came, not thousands perhaps, but a couple of hundred, laughing and jostling each other, singing. One of them, a boy in a tee-shirt printed with the face of Che Guevara, poked out his tongue at an angry motorist and raised two fingers.

  Mostly they wore jeans. Not long since they had been at school—some still were—and they had protested hotly at the enforced wearing of uniforms. And yet now they had their own, voluntarily assumed, the uniform of denims and shirts, long hair and, in some cases, bare feet. But there were those among them making a total bid for freedom from conventional clothes, the girl in red bikini top and dirty ankle-length satin skirt, her companion sweating but happy in black leather. Towering above the rest walked the boy Burden had particularly singled out. He was a magnificent tall Negro whose hair was a burnished black bush and who had covered his bronze body from neck to ankles in a black and white pony-skin coat.

  ‘And that’s only the beginning, sir,’ said Burden when he thought Wexford had had time enough to take it all in. ‘They’ll be coming all night and all tomorrow. Why are you looking like that? As if you’d—well, lost something?’

  ‘I have. My youth. I’d like to be one of them. I’d like to be swinging along out there, off to the pop festival. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘No, frankly, I wouldn’t. I’m sure I never would have. Those young people are going to cause a lot of trouble, make a hell of a noise and ruin the weekend for all those unfortunate citizens who live on the Sundays estate. Heaven help them, that’s all I can say.’ Like most people who make that remark, Burden had a lot more to say and said it. ‘My parents brought me up to be considerate of the feelings of others and I’m very glad they did. A trip to the local hop on a Saturday night, maybe, and a few drinks, but to take over God knows how many acres of parkland just to indulge my tastes at the expense of others! I wouldn’t have wanted it. I’d have thought I hadn’t achieved enough to deserve it.’

  Wexford made the noise the Victorians wrote as ‘Pshaw!’ ‘Just because you’re so bloody virtuous it doesn’t mean there aren’t going to be any more cakes and ale. I suppose you’ll stop that boy of yours going up there?’

  ‘I’ve told him he can go to Sundays tomorrow evening for two hours just to hear this Zeno Vedast, but he’s got to be in by eleven. I’m not having him camp there. He’s only just fifteen. Zeno Vedast! That’s not the name his godfathers and godmothers gave him at his baptism, you can bet your life. Jim Bloggs, more like. He comes from round here, they say. Thank God he didn’t stay. I don’t understand this craze for pop music. Why can’t John play classical records?’

  ‘Like his dad, eh? Sit at home getting a kick out of Mahler? Oh, come off it, Mike.’

  Burden said sulkily, ‘Well, I admit music’s not my style. None of this is.’

  ‘Your scene, Mike, your scene. Let’s get the jargon right. We’re pigs and fuzz as it is. We don’t have to be square as well. Anyway, I’m sick of being an onlooker. Shall we get up there?’

  ‘What, now? We’ll have to be there tomorrow when the fighting and the burning starts.’

  ‘I’m going now. You do as you like. Just one thing, Mike. Remember the words of another Puritan—“Bethink ye, bethink ye, in the bowels of Christ, that ye may be mistaken.” ’

  Where the Regency mansion now stands a house called Sundays has stood since the Norman Conquest. Why Sundays? No one knows. Probably the name has nothing to do with the Sabbath Day; probably—and this is the general belief—it derives from the name of the man who built the first house, Sir Geffroy Beauvoir de Saint Dieu.

  Once the Sundays lands extended from Kingsmarkham to Forby and beyond, but gradually fields and woodlands were sold off, and now the house has only a small garden and a park of a few acres. In the eyes of the preservationists Sundays is irretrievably spoilt. Its tall cedars remain and its avenue of hornbeams, the overgrown quarry is still untouched, but the Italian garden is gone, Martin Silk, the present owner, grows mushrooms in the orangery, and the view is ruined by the newly built Sundays estate.

  The Forby road skirts the park and bisects the estate. It is along here that the Forby bus runs four times a day, halting at the Sundays request stop which is outside the park gates. Wexford and Burden pulled in to a lay-by and watched the first of the young pilgrims tumble out of the two-thirty bus and hump their baggage over to the gates. These were open and on the lodge steps stood Martin Silk with half a dozen helpers ready to examine tickets. Wexford got out of the car and read the poster which was pasted over one of the gates: The Sundays Scene, June 11th and 12th, Zeno Vedast, Betti Ho, The Verb To Be, Greatheart, The Acid, Emmanuel Ellerman. As the busload went through and passed into the hornbeam avenue, he went up to Silk.

  ‘Everything O.K., Mr Silk?’

  Silk was a small man in late middle age with shoulder-length grey hair and the figure—at any rate, until you looked closely or saw him walk—of a boy of twenty. He was rich, eccentric, one of those people who cannot bear to relinquish their youth. ‘Of course it’s O.K.,’ Silk said abruptly. He had no time for his own contemporaries. ‘Everything will be fine if we’re left alone.’

  He stepped aside, turning on a big smile, to take tickets from half a dozen boys whose slogan-painted Dormobile, pink, orange and purple, had come to a stop by the lodge.

  ‘Welcome, friends, to Sundays. Pitch your tents where you like. First come, first served. You can park the truck up by the house.’

  Burden, who had joined them, watched the Dormobile career rather wildly up the avenue, music braying from its open windows.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said dourly. ‘Beats me why you want to do it.’

  ‘I want to do it, Inspector, because I love young people. I love their music. They’ve been hounded out of the Isle of Wight. No one wants them. I do. This festival is going to cost thousands and a good deal of it will come out of my pocket. I’ve had to sell another bit of land to raise money and people can say what they like about that.’

  Burden said hotly, ‘The preservationists will have plenty to say, Mr Silk. The older residents don’t want all this new building. Planning permission can be rescinded, you know.’

  Seeing Silk’s face grow red with anger, Wexford intervened.

  ‘We all hope the festival’s going to be a success. I know I do. I’m told Betti Ho’s arriving in her own helicopter tomorrow afternoon. Is that a fact?’ When Silk, somewhat appeased, nodded, he went on: ‘We want to keep the Hell’s Angels out and try to keep trouble down to a minimum. Above all, we don’t want violence, bikes set on fire and so on, the kind of thing they had at Weeley. I want to address the crowd before the concert starts, so maybe you’ll allow me the use of your platform tomorrow evening. Shall we say six?’

  ‘I don’t mind as long as you don’t antagonise people.’ Silk greeted a group of girls, beaming on them, complim
enting them on their ankle-length, vaguely Victorian gowns, approving the guitars which they wore slung from their shoulders. They giggled. At him, rather than with him, Wexford thought privately, but the encounter had the effect of putting Silk in a better temper. When the girls had wandered off into the park he said quite graciously to the policemen, ‘D’you want to have a look round?’

  ‘If you please,’ said Wexford.

  The encampment was to be sited on the left-hand side of the avenue where, under the limes and the cedars, a small herd of Friesians usually grazed. The cattle had been removed to pasture behind the house and the first of the tents were already up. In the midst of the park a stage had been erected, faced by arc-lamps. Wexford, who generally deplored armoured fences, was glad that Sundays park was enclosed by a spiked wall to keep what Burden called ‘undesirable elements’ out. At only one point was the wall broken and this was at the side of the quarry, a deep semicircular fissure in the chalk at the Forby end. The two policemen walked up to the house, stood on the terrace and surveyed the scene.

  A mobile shop selling soft drinks, crisps and chocolate had already been parked in the avenue, and a queue of hungry youth had formed alongside it. The stronger-minded were staking claims to desirable sites and banging in tent pegs. Through the gates came a thin but steady stream of new arrivals, on foot, in cars and on motor-cycles. Wexford jerked his head in the direction of the quarry and walked down the steps.

  The lucky ones—those who had taken a day off work or missed a college lecture—had got there in the morning and established their camps. A boy in a Moroccan burnous was frying sausages over a calor-gas burner while his friends sat cross-legged beside him, entertaining him vocally and on a guitar. The Kingsbrook flows through Sundays park, dipping under the Forby road and meandering between willows and alders close to the wall. It had already become a bathing place. Several campers were splashing about in the water, the girls in bras and panties, the boys in the black scants that serve as underpants or swimming trunks. Crossing the little wooden bridge, Burden looked the other way. He kept his eyes so determinedly averted that he almost fell over a couple who lay embraced in the long grass. Wexford laughed.