He was a boy of about seven, big for his age, aggressive looking and with food adhering to his face in greasy red and brown streaks. 'Who is it, Dominic?’ came a voice from the sleazy depths of this small and totally inadequate council house. ‘A man,’ said Dominic simply. ‘What does he want?’ To put an end to all this pointless colloquy, Wexford stepped into the hail, then the living room. Three more children were watching athletics on television. The remains of lunch were still on the stained crumb-scattered tablecloth and a woman sat at the table feeding a baby from a bottle. She might have been any age between thirty and sixty and Wexford set the lower limit so low only because of her young children. Her hair was thin and fair and long, caught back with an elastic band, and her face was thin and long too, wizened and pinched. A weariness that was as much chronic boredom as physical tiredness seemed the most dominant thing about her.
What do You think about Wexford 4 - The Best Man To Die?
