In the late eighties and nineties I gobbled Rendell's Inspector Wexford novels as if they were Godiva chocolates. If they were? They really were premium goodies for someone like me who'd barely progressed beyond Golden Age crime fiction at that time. She had a way of getting at psychology that was less pretty and rang truer than many other crime novelists. The road to Simenon, Highsmith, and Minette Walters ran through Rendell. It might be time for a reread of a few of these since I've forgotten so much.