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by Ruth Rendell
Concealed by a shroud of dirty brown velvet, looking like a heap of rags, the woman's dead body lay between a silver Escort and a dark-blue Lancia. In the desolate shopping centre car park, Wexford has been too preoccupied to notice anything out of the ordinary – only the teenage girl in the red car, driving past him rather too fast. It was Burden who called him at home with the grim news later that evening: the woman had been attacked from behind, perhaps with a thin length of wire.
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