Task 38

Excerpt 3 – “End in Tears” by Ruth Rendell
Ruth Rendell takes a very different approach to crime fiction – blood and gore, witty detectives searching for the killer and no matter what the hindrances, always conclude the story with a “Who Dunnit?”, elegantly portrayed in an archetypal Poirot fashion; these all come to mind when I think of the swarms of books lined on the shelves of libraries or bookstores or even in my English teacher’s bedroom! I therefore completely agree with Mr. Savage when he says that the crime fiction genre has been repeated in many different ways, but all with a streak of distinct similarity. I think it’s time for a change and I believe Miss Rendell had done just that. I would like to start with the way she allows us as readers to psychologically understand the mentality of the killer. He appears to me to be an amateur in the crime game due to his uncertainty and lack of confidence in finding the right person to murder. On the contrary, the whole basis of the killing isn’t typical; I doubt a lump of concrete is the ideal murder weapon you would choose if writing an excerpt for this genre! Moving away from poison, guns and knives, it may seem ludicrous to pick concrete over ammunition, for example, yet this is what makes it original and eye – catching. You hear about it on the news; teenagers on bridges throwing bricks at passing vehicles – it’s just not eponymous to the usual way we depict murder as being a “glamorous act of the affluent”. Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie’s Poirot, Miss Marple and Partners in Crime all echo this statement. Lastly, I would like to point out that the synopsis may be an effete cliché in real life, yet it is something I have never strolled across in my experience of reading!

Sins & Skeletons
“Murder. Isn’t it a terrible thing? A thing used by cowards to run away from the truth. Tell me. When you found out your daughter was pregnant, how did you feel? Being a lawyer, you’ve got an image to uphold. Good old Richard - always comes out smelling of roses. But not this time, oh no! Surely news like this would be unspeakable to talk about over a spiffing Friday luncheon? But gossip travels, Mr. Sandford. And you couldn’t bear the thought of the disapproving sniffs on the staircase; the pointing in the common room. Does it remind you of your childhood? The only boy in the whole year who got into St. Andrew’s with a scholarship! Now that is something! Even today, you told your colleagues you had to look after a sick aunt! Is this what you thrive on? Not only are you a murderer; a murderer who kills his own flesh and blood, but you’re a pathological liar, as well!”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Oh, and he speaks! It’s a shame that’s been repeated at least four times this past half hour!”
Silence gave Lorna the opportunity to appraise Richard for what he really was, behind the thick grey hair and lightly tanned skin. He was much more modest than David Dickinson and with his chiselled features and laurel – green eyes, he was rather attractive for a man suffering from a “midlife – crisis”. However, stress had begun to take its toll – bags hung like curtains underneath his eyes and deep – set wrinkles ran paths around his face; telling a thousand tales of hardship, despair and pain.
“I know you suffered from schizophrenia and clinical depression. Wouldn’t it be so easy to just lose it? To asphyxiate your daughter and regret it afterwards. Or, was it done out of malice? Pure malice. We can only find your DNA on Jennifer. You are the main suspect.”
Richard narrowly averted his eyes. Was this a sign of guilt? Losing his wife to lung cancer a year before his fourteen – year old son committed suicide must have made him weaker; made him disintegrate; made him prone to insanity.

Suddenly, a stabbing pain sliced through her temple; she quickly gulped down a much needed glass of warm water, obtained from her cluttered desk. It was all the stress of not getting any significant leads in this investigation. Tired and irritable, all Lorna wanted to do was to soak in her bath or sleep to the lullaby of opera on BBC Radio 3. You could call her a female Inspector Morse – a Mark 2 Jaguar sleeps in her garage and she hasn’t had her fair share of successful relationships over the years. The only startling difference was the sleek and straight waist – length red hair that she sported simply in a high ponytail.
A whole hour had passed and she had achieved nothing: something in life which she detested. She decided to call it a day.
“The interrogation with Mr. Richard Sandford ended at 19:02,” and she pressed the stop button on the recorder. The security guard led Richard out of the interview room and back into his cell. While Lorna rustled her papers, she couldn't help but wonder what it feels like to not know how long you have left in police custody - if you'll ever breathe freedom again. She spent the next three minutes placing empty and replete plastic sheets into her floral monochrome paper file; and after completing this errand, she walked out, locking the door behind her. Once out of the police station, she pulled her pink cashmere cardigan closer to her body, as she quickly paced towards the car park; it may have been summer but a brisk wind hung in the shadows, making her hair flutter in the wind.
As she neared her Jaguar, she immediately realised that her car had been somewhat damaged. She hurried towards it, her white ballerina pumps silent on the ground. Her eyes weren’t deceiving her. The car was vandalised, not just by a group of mindless thugs who put Banksy to shame, but a manipulative fiend set out to intimidate Lorna. She’d had harmless death threats in the past; it was her job – controversial and notorious in the media. But this was different. This had meaning. A prominent claw – mark had been scratched onto the bonnet and six words etched in beautiful calligraphic writing were sat next to it: “I’ve got her. Now pay me.”
“A ransom. He’s back . . .”