by Colin Dexter
Apart from the typed and handwritten documents, there were three maps: an ordnance-survey map of the Oxford district showing the areas covered by the search parties; a larger map of the Oxfordshire region on which the major road and rail routes were marked with cryptic symbols; and finally a sketch-map of the streets between the Roger Bacon School and the Taylors’ house, with Valerie’s route to and from her school carefully and neatly drawn in in red biro by the late chief inspector. Whilst Lewis was plodding along, several miles behind his master, the master himself appeared to be finding something of extraordinary interest in this last item: his right hand shaded his forehead and he seemed to Lewis in the throes of the deepest contemplation.
‘Found something, sir?’
‘Uh? What?’ Morse’s head jerked back and the idle daydream was over.
‘The sketch-map, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. The map. Very interesting. Yes.’ He looked at it again, decided that he was unable to recapture whatever interest may have previously lain therein and picked up the Sunday Mirror once more. He read his horoscope: ‘You’re doing better than you realize, so there could be a major breakthrough as far as romance is concerned. This week will certainly blossom if you spend it with someone witty and bright.’
He looked glumly across at Lewis, who for the moment at least appeared neither very witty nor very bright.
‘Well, Lewis. What do you think?’
‘I’ve not quite finished yet, sir.’
‘But you must have some ideas, surely.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Oh, come on. What do you think happened to her?’
Lewis thought hard, and finally gave expression to a conviction which had grown steadily stronger the more he had read. ‘I think she got a lift and ended up in London. That’s where they all end up.’
‘You think she’s still alive, then?’
Lewis looked at his chief in some surprise. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Let’s go for a drink,’ said Morse.
They walked out of the Thames Valley HQ and at the Belisha crossing negotiated the busy main road that linked Oxford with Banbury.
‘Where are we going, sir?’
Morse took Ainley’s hand-drawn map from his pocket. ‘I thought we ought to take a gentle stroll over the ground, Lewis. You never know.’
The council estate was situated off the main road, to their left as they walked away from Oxford, and very soon they stood in Hatfield Way.
‘We going to call?’
‘Got to make a start somewhere, I suppose,’ said Morse.
The house was a neat, well-built property, with a circular rose-bed cut into the centre of the well-tended front lawn. Morse rang the bell, and rang again. It seemed that Mrs Taylor was out. Inquisitively Morse peered through the front window, but could see little more than a large, red settee and a diagonal line of ducks winging their inevitable way towards the ceiling. The two men walked away, carefully closing the gate behind them.
‘If I remember rightly, Lewis, there’s a pub just around the corner.’
They ordered a cheese cob and a pint apiece and Morse handed to Lewis the Colour Supplement of 24 August.
‘Have a quick look at that.’
Ten minutes later, with Morse’s glass empty and Lewis’s barely touched, it was clear that the quick look was becoming a rather long look, and Morse replenished his own glass with some impatience.
‘Well? What’s troubling you?’
‘They haven’t got it quite right, though, have they?’
Morse looked at him sharply. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well. It says here that she was never seen again after leaving the house.’
‘She wasn’t.’
‘What about the lollipop man?’
‘The what?’
‘The lollipop man. It was in the file.’
‘Oh, was it?’
‘You did seem a bit tired, I thought, sir.’
‘Tired? Nonsense. You need another pint.’ He drained what was left in his own glass, picked up Lewis’s and walked across to the bar.
An elegantly dressed woman with a full figure and pleasingly slim legs had just bought a double whisky and was pouring a modicum of water into it, the heavy diamond rings on the fingers of her left hand sparkling wickedly and bright.
‘Oh, and Bert, twenty Embassy, please.’ The landlord reached behind him, handed over the cigarettes, squinted his eyes as he calculated the tariff, gave her the change, said ‘Ta, luv,’ and turned his attention to Morse.
‘Same again, sir?’
As the woman turned from the counter, Morse felt sure he had seen her somewhere before. He seldom forgot a face. Still, if she lived in Kidlington, he could have seen her anywhere. But he kept looking at her; so much so that Lewis began to suspect the inspector’s intentions. She was all right – quite nice, in fact. Mid-thirties, perhaps, nice face. But the old boy must be hard up if . . .
Two dusty-looking builders came in, bought their ale and sat down to play dominoes. As they walked to the table one of them called over to the woman: ‘Hallo, Grace. All right?’ Morse showed little surprise. Hell of a sight better-looking than her photograph suggested, though.
At 1.20 Morse decided it was time to go. They walked back the way they had come, past the Taylors’ house and down to the main road, busy at this time with a virtually continuous stream of traffic either way. Here they turned right and came up to the Belisha crossing.
‘Do you think that’s our lollipop man?’ asked Morse. In the middle of the road stood a white-coated attendant in a peak cap, wielding the sceptre of his authority like an arthritic bishop with a crook. Several pupils of the Roger Bacon School were crossing under the aegis of the standard-bearer, the girls in white blouses, grey skirts and red knee-length socks, the boys (it seemed to Morse) in assorted combinations of any old garments. When the attendant returned from mid-stream, Morse spoke to him in what he liked to think of as his intimate, avuncular manner.
‘Been doing this long?’
‘Just over a year.’ He was a small, red-faced man with gnarled hands.
‘Know the chap who did it before?’
‘You mean old Joe. ’Course I did. ’E did it for – oh, five or six year.’
‘Retired now, has he?’
‘Ah. S’pose you could say so. Poor old Joe. Got knocked ovver – feller on a motorbike. Mind you, old Joe were gettin’ a bit slow. Seventy-two he were when he were knocked ovver. Broke ’is ’ip. Poor old Joe.’
‘Not still in hospital, I hope?’ Morse fervently prayed that poor old Joe was still limping along somewhere in the land of the living.
‘No. Not ’im. Down at the old folkses place at Cowley.’
‘Well, you be careful,’ said Morse, as he and Lewis crossed over with another group of schoolchildren, and stood and watched them as they dawdled past the line of shops and the public lavatories, and reluctantly turned into the main drive leading to the school.
Back in the office Morse read aloud the relevant part of the testimony of Mr Joseph Godberry, Oxford Road, Kidlington:
I almost always saw Valerie Taylor at dinner times, and I saw her on 10 June. She didn’t cross by my Belisha because when I saw her she was on the other side of the road. She was running fairly quickly as if she was in a dickens of a hurry to meet somebody. But I remember she waved to me. I am quite sure it was Valerie. She would often stop and have a quick word with me. ‘Joe’ she called me, like most of them. She was a very nice girl and always cheery. I don’t know what she did after I saw her. I thought she was going back to school.
Morse looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder, now,’ he said.
‘Wonder what, sir?’
Morse was looking into the far distance, through the office window, and into the filmy blue beyond, excitement glowing in his eyes. ‘I was just wondering if she was carrying a bag of some sort when old Joe Godberry saw her.’
Lewis looked as mystified as he felt, but rec
eived no further elucidation. ‘You see,’ said Morse, his eyes gradually refocusing on his sergeant, ‘you see, if she was, I’m beginning to think that you’re wrong.’
‘Wrong, sir?’
‘Yes, wrong. You said you thought Valerie Taylor was still alive, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes. I think she is.’
‘And I think, think, mind you, that you’re wrong, Lewis. I think that Valerie Taylor is almost certainly dead.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
And French she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For French of Paris was to hir unknowe.
Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales
DONALD PHILLIPSON ARRIVED in school at 8.00 on Tuesday morning. The Michaelmas Term had been under way for one full week now and things were going well. The anti-litter campaign was proving moderately successful, the new caretaker seemed an amenable sort of fellow, and the Parent–Teacher Association had (somewhat surprisingly, he thought) backed him up to the hilt in his plea for a more rigid ruling on school uniforms. On the academic side only four members of staff had left in the summer (one quarter the previous year’s total), the GCE and CSE results had been markedly better than before, and the present term saw the first full intake of thirteen-plus pupils, among whom (if junior-school headmasters could be believed) were some real high-flyers. Perhaps in a few years’ time there would be one or two Open Awards at Oxbridge . . . Yes, he felt more than a little pleased with himself and with life this Tuesday morning. The only thing that marred the immediate prospect was a cloud, rather larger than a man’s hand, on the not-so-distant horizon. But he felt confident that he would be able to weather whatever storm might break from that quarter, although he must think things through rather more carefully than he had done hitherto.
At 8.20 the head boy and the head girl would be coming to his study, as they did each morning, and there were several matters requiring his prompt attention. He heard Mrs Webb come in at 8.15, and Baines at 8.30. Punctuality was sharper, too. He did a small amount of teaching with the sixth form (he was an historian), but he kept Tuesdays completely free. It had been his practice since he was appointed to take off Tuesday afternoons completely and he looked forward to a fairly gentle day.
The morning’s activities went off well enough – even the singing of the hymns in assembly was improving – until 11.15 when Mrs Webb received the telephone call.
‘Is the headmaster there?’
‘Who shall I say is calling, please?’
‘Morse. Inspector Morse.’
‘Oh, just a minute, sir. I’ll see if the headmaster’s free.’ She dialled the head’s extension. ‘Inspector Morse would like a word with you, sir. Shall I put him through?’
‘Oh. Er. Yes, of course.’
Mrs Webb switched the outside call to the headmaster’s study, hesitated a moment, and then quickly lifted the receiver to her ear again.
‘. . . hear from you. Can I help?’
‘I hope you can, sir. It’s about the Taylor girl. There are one or two things I’d like to ask you about.’
‘Look, Inspector. It’s not really very convenient to talk at the minute – I’m interviewing some of the new pupils this morning. Don’t you think it would be . . .’ Mrs Webb put the phone down quickly and quietly, and when Phillipson came out her typewriter was chattering along merrily. ‘Mrs Webb, Inspector Morse will be coming in this afternoon at three o’clock, so I shall have to be here. Can you arrange some tea and biscuits for us?’
‘Of course.’ She made a note in her shorthand book. ‘Just the two of you?’
‘No. Three. He’s bringing a sergeant along – I forget his name.’
The anonymous sergeant himself was spending the same morning at the old people’s home in Cowley, and finding Mr Joseph Godberry (in small doses) an interesting sort of fellow. He had fought at Mons in the ‘14–’18 War, had slept, by his own account, with all the tarts within a ten mile radius of Rouen, and had been invalided out of the army in 1917 (probably from sexual fatigue, thought Lewis). He reminisced at considerable length as he sat by his bed in D ward, accepting his present confinement with a certain dignity and good humour. He explained that he could hardly walk now and recounted to Lewis in great detail the circumstances and consequences of his memorable accident.
In fact the ‘accident’, together with Mons and Rouen, had become one of the major incidents of his life and times; and it was with some difficulty that Lewis managed to steer Joe’s thoughts to the disappearance of Valerie Taylor. Oh, he remembered her, of course. Very nice girl, Valerie. In London, bet your bottom dollar. Very nice girl, Valerie.
But could Joe remember the day she disappeared? Lewis listened carefully as he rambled on, repeating with surprising coherence and accuracy most of what he had said in his statement to the police. In Lewis’s opinion, he was a good witness, but he was becoming tired and Lewis felt the moment had come to put the one question which Morse had been so eager for him to ask.
‘Do you remember by any chance if Valerie was carrying anything when you saw her that day – the day she disappeared?’
Joe moved uneasily in his chair and slowly turned his rheumy old eyes on Lewis. Something seemed to be stirring there and Lewis pressed home the point.
‘You know what I mean, a carrier bag, or a case, or anything like that?’
‘Funny you should say that,’ he said at last. ‘I never thought about it afore.’ He looked as though he were about to haul out some hazy memory on to the shores of light, and Lewis held his breath and waited. ‘I reckon as you’re right, you know. She were carryin’ something. That’s it. She were carryin’ a bag of some sort; carryin’ it in ’er left hand, if me memory serves me correck.’
In Phillipson’s study formalities were exchanged in friendly fashion. Morse asked polite questions about the school – quite at his best, thought Lewis. But the mood was to change swiftly.
Morse informed the headmaster that he had taken over the Taylor case from Chief Inspector Ainley, and the cease-fire was duly observed for a further few minutes, whilst the proper commiserations were expressed. It was only when he produced the letter from Valerie that Morse’s manner appeared to Lewis to become strangely abrasive.
Phillipson read through the letter quickly.
‘Well?’ said Morse.
Lewis felt that the headmaster was more surprised by the sharp tone in the inspector’s voice than by the arrival of a letter from his troublesome, long-lost ex-pupil.
‘Well what?’ Phillipson clearly was not a man easily bullied.
‘Is it her writing?’
‘I can’t tell. Don’t her parents know?’
Morse ignored the question. ‘You can’t tell me.’ The statement was flat and final, with the tacit implication that he had expected something better.
‘No.’
‘Have you got some of her old exercise books we could look at?’
‘I don’t really know, Inspector.’
‘Who would know?’ Again the astringent impatience in his voice.
‘Perhaps Baines would.’
‘Ask him in, please,’ snapped Morse.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but Baines has this afternoon off. Tuesday is games afternoon and . . .’
‘I know, yes. So Baines can’t help us either. Who can?’
Phillipson got up and opened the study door. ‘Mrs Webb? Will you come in here a minute, please.’
Was Lewis mistaken, or did she throw a rather frightened glance in Morse’s direction?
‘Mrs Webb, the inspector here wonders if any of Valerie Taylor’s old exercise books may have been kept somewhere in the school. What do you think?’
