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Zusatztext "Rendell is a master of the form." -- The Washington Post Book World "An unusual detective story. . .intelligent! well-written! with a surprising twist." -- The Times Literary Supplement "Ruth Rendell. . .retains her place of highest distinction in the field." -- The New York Times Book Review "The best mystery writer anywhere in the English-speaking world." -- The Boston Globe "No one can take you so totally into the recesses of the human mind as does Ruth Rendell." -- The Christian Science Monitor Informationen zum Autor Ruth Rendell Klappentext Rhoda Comfrey's death seemed unremarkable; the real mystery was her life. In A Sleeping Life , master mystery writer Ruth Rendell unveils an elaborate web of lies and deception painstakingly maintained by a troubled soul. A wallet found in Comfrey's handbag leads Inspector Wexford to Mr. Grenville West, a writer whose plots revel in the blood, thunder, and passion of dramas of old; whose current whereabouts are unclear; and whose curious secretary--the plain Polly Flinders--provides the Inspector with more questions than answers. And when a second Grenville West comes to light, Wexford faces a dizzying array of possible scenarios--and suspects--behind the Comfrey murder. Brilliantly entertaining, exceptionally crafted, A Sleeping Life evokes the dark realities, half-truths, and flights of fancy that constitute a life. Leseprobe 1 Home early for once. Maybe he'd start getting home early regularly now August had begun, the silly season. Criminals as well as the law-abiding take their holidays in August. As he turned the car into his own road, Wexford remembered his grandsons would be there. Good. It would be light for another three hours, and he'd take Robin and Ben down to the river. Robin was always on about the river because his mother had read The Wind in the Willows to him, and his great desire was to see a water rat swimming. Sylvia's car was parked outside the house. Odd, thought Wexford. He'd understood Dora was having the boys for the afternoon as well as the evening and that they'd be staying the night. As he edged his own car past his daughter's into the drive, she came running out of the house with a screaming Ben in her arms and six-year-old Robin looking truculent at her heels. Robin rushed up to his grandfather. "You promised we could see the water rat!" "So you can as far as I'm concerned and if there's one about. I thought you were staying the night." Sylvia's face was crimson, with rage or perhaps just from haste. It was very hot. "Well, they're not. Thanks to my dear husband, nobody's going anywhere even though it does happen to be our wedding anniversary. Will you shut up, Ben! He's bringing a client home for dinner instead, if you please, and I, of course, as usual have to be the one to do the cooking and fetch the kids." "Leave them here," said Wexford. "Why not?" "Yes, leave us here," Robin shouted. " Go on ." "Oh, no, that's out of the question. Why do you have to encourage them, Dad? I'm taking them home and Neil can have the pleasure of putting them to bed for once." She thrust both children into the car and drove off. The windows of the car were all open, and the yells of the two little boys, for Robin had begun to back his brother up, vied with the roar of the ill-treated engine. Wexford shrugged and went indoors. Some sort of scene had evidently been taking place, but he knew his wife better than to suppose she would be much disturbed by it. True to his expectations, she was sitting placidly in the living room watching the tail end of a children's programme on television. A great many books had been pulled out of the shelves, and on a tower block of them sat a Teddy bear. "What's got into Sylvia?" "Women's Lib," said Dor...
