by Colin Dexter
‘Could we park the car there?’
‘In Brewer Street? Yer must be joking!’
Morse turned to Lewis. ‘We’d better do as Mrs Gibbs says, sergeant, and get the tube.’
On the steps outside Morse thanked the good lady profusely and, almost as an afterthought it seemed, turned to speak to her once more.
‘Just one more thing, Mrs Gibbs. It may be lunchtime before we get up there. Have you any idea where Mr Maguire will be if he’s not at work?’
‘Like as not the Angel – I know ’e often ’as a drink in there.’
As they walked to the car Lewis decided to get it off his chest. ‘Couldn’t you just have asked her straight out where he worked?’
‘I didn’t want her to think I was fishing,’ replied Morse. Lewis thought she must be educationally subnormal if she hadn’t realized that by now. But he let it go. They drove down to Putney Bridge, parked the car on a TAXIS ONLY plot, and caught the tube to Piccadilly Circus.
Somewhat to Lewis’s surprise, Morse appeared to be fairly intimately conversant with the geography of Soho, and two minutes after emerging from the tube in Shaftesbury Avenue they found themselves standing in Brewer Street.
‘There we are then,’ said Morse, pointing to the Angel, Bass House, only thirty yards away to their left. ‘Might as well combine business with a little pleasure, don’t you think?’
‘As you wish, sir.’
Over the beer, Morse asked the barman if the manager was around, and learned that the barman was the manager. Morse introduced himself, and said he was looking for a Mr J. Maguire.
‘Not in any trouble, is he?’ asked the barman.
‘Nothing serious.’
‘Johnny Maguire, you say. He works over the way at the strip club – the Penthouse. On the door, mostly.’
Morse thanked him, and he and Lewis walked over to the window and looked outside. The Penthouse was almost directly opposite.
‘Ever been to a strip club, Lewis?’
‘No. But I’ve read about ’em, of course.’
‘Nothing like first-hand experience, you know. C’mon, drink up.’
Outside the club Morse surveyed the pictorial preview of the erotic delights to be savoured within. 18 GORGEOUS GIRLS. The sexiest show in London. 95p only. NO OTHER ADMISSION CHARGE.
‘The real thing this is, gentlemen. Continuous performance. No G-strings.’ The speaker was a ginger-haired youth, dressed in a dark green blazer and grey slacks, who sat in a small booth at the entrance lobby.
‘Bit expensive, isn’t it?’ asked Morse.
‘When you’ve seen the show, sir, you’ll think it’s cheap at the price.’
Morse looked at him carefully, and thought there was something approaching honesty in the dark eyes. Maguire – almost certainly; but he wouldn’t run away. Morse handed over two pound-notes and took the tickets. To the young tout the policemen were just another couple of frustrated middle-aged voyeurs, and he had already spotted another potential customer studying the stills outside.
‘The real thing this is, sir. Continuous performance. No G-strings.’
‘You owe me 10p,’ said Morse.
They walked through a gloomy passage-way and heard the music blaring from behind a screened partition, where sat a smallish, swarthy gentleman (Maltese, thought Morse) with a huge chest and bulging forearms.
He took the tickets and tore them across. ‘Can I see membership cards, please?’
‘What membership cards?’
‘You must be members of the club, sir.’ He reached for a small pad, and tore off two forms. ‘Fill in, please.’
‘Just a minute,’ protested Morse. ‘It says outside that there’s no other admission charge and . . .’
‘One pown each, please.’
‘. . . We’ve paid our 95p and that’s all we’re paying.’
The small man looked mean and dangerous. He rose to his meagre height and moved a thick arm to Morse’s jacket. ‘Fill in, please. That will be one pown each.’
‘Will it buggery!’ said Morse.
The Maltese advanced slightly and his hands glided towards Morse’s wallet-pocket.
Neither Morse nor Lewis were big men, and the last thing that Morse wanted at this juncture was a rough-house. He wasn’t in very good condition anyway . . . But he knew the type well. Courage, Morse! He brushed the man’s hand forcibly from his jacket and stepped a menacing pace forward.
‘Look, you miserable wog. You want a fight? That’s fine. I wouldn’t want to bruise my fist against your ugly chops, myself, but this pal of mine here will do it with the greatest pleasure. Just up his street. Army middleweight champion till a year ago. Where shall we go, you dirty little squit?’
The little man sat back and sagged in his chair like a wilting balloon, and his voice was a punctured whine.
‘You got to be members of the club. If you not I get prosecuted by police.’
‘F—— off,’ said Morse, and with the ex-boxing champion behind him walked through the screen partition.
In the small auditorium beyond sat a sprinkling of males, dotted around on the three rows of seats facing the small, raised stage, on which a buxom blonde stripper had just, climactically, removed her G-string. At least one of the management’s promises had been honoured. The curtains closed and there was a polite smatter of half-hearted applause.
‘How did you know I was a boxing champion?’ whispered Lewis.
‘I didn’t,’ said Morse, with genuine surprise.
‘You might get it right, though, sir. Light middleweight.’
Morse grinned happily, and a disembodied voice from the wings announced the advent of The Fabulous Fiona. The curtains opened jerkily to reveal a fully-clothed Fiona; but it was immediately apparent that her fabulous body, whatever delights were soon to be unveiled, was signally bereft of any rhythmic suppleness as she struggled amateurishly to synchronize a few elementary dance steps with the languorously suggestive music.
After The Sexy Susan and The Sensational Sandra even Morse was feeling a trifle blasé; but, as he explained to an unenthusiastic Lewis, there might be better things to come. And indeed The Voluptuous Vera and The Kinky Kate certainly did something to raise the general standard of the entertainment. There were gimmicks aplenty: fans, whips, bananas and rubber spiders; and Morse dug Lewis in the ribs as an extraordinarily shapely girl, dressed for a fancy-dress ball, titillatingly and tantalizingly divested herself of all but an incongruously ugly mask.
‘Bit of class there, Lewis.’
But Lewis remained unimpressed; and when the turn came round for the reappearance of The Fabulous Fiona Morse reluctantly decided they had better go. The little gorilla was fleecing a thin, spotty-faced young man of his one pown membership fee as they walked out of the club into the dazzling sunshine of the London street. After a few breaths of comparatively clean air, Morse returned to the entrance and stood by the young man.
‘What’s your name, lad?’
‘William Shakespeare. What’s yours?’ He looked at Morse with considerable surprise. Who the hell did he think he was? It was over two years ago since anyone had spoken to him in that tone of voice. At school, in Kidlington.
‘Can we go and talk somewhere?’
‘What is this?’
‘John Maguire, if I’m not mistaken? I want to talk to you about Miss Valerie Taylor – I think you may have heard of her. Now we can do it quietly and sensibly, or you can come along with me and the sergeant here to the nearest police station. Up to you.’
Maguire was obviously worried. ‘Look. Not here, please. I’ve got half an hour off at four o’clock. I’ll meet you then. I’ll be in there.’ He pointed anxiously to a sleazy-looking snack bar across the road next to the Angel.
Morse pondered what to do.
‘Please,’ urged Maguire. ‘I’ll be there. Honest, I will.’
It was a difficult decision, but Morse finally agreed. He thought it would be foolish to antagonize Maguire befo
re he’d even started on him.
Morse gave quick instructions to Lewis as they walked away. He was to take a taxi back to Southampton Terrace and wait until Morse returned. If Maguire did decide to scuttle (it seemed unlikely, though) he would almost certainly go back there for some of his things.
At the end of the street Lewis found a cab almost immediately, and Morse guiltily strolled back to the Penthouse.
‘You’d better give me another ticket,’ demanded Morse brusquely. He walked once more down the murkily-lit passage, gave his ticket to a surprised and silent dwarf, and without further trouble re-entered the auditorium. He recognized The Voluptuous Vera without difficulty and decided that it would be no more than a minimal hardship thus to while away the next hour and a half. He just hoped the masked young lady was still on the bill . . .
At 4.00 p.m. they sat opposite each other in the snack bar.
‘You knew Valerie Taylor then?’
‘I was at school with her.’
‘Her boyfriend, weren’t you?’
‘One of ’em.’
‘Like that, was it?’ Maguire was non-committal. ‘Why did Inspector Ainley come to see you?’
‘You know why.’
‘Did you know he was killed in a road accident the day he saw you?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I asked you why he came to see you.’
‘Same reason as you, I suppose.’
‘He asked you about Valerie?’
Maguire nodded, and Morse had the feeling that the boy was suddenly feeling more relaxed. Had Morse missed the turning?
‘What did you tell him?’
‘What could I tell him? Nothing more to tell, is there? They got me to write out a statement when I was at school, and I told them the truth. Couldn’t do much more than that, could I?’
‘You told the truth?’
‘Course, I did. I couldn’t have had anything to do with it. I was in school all day, remember?’
Morse did remember, although he cursed himself for not bringing the boy’s statement with him. Maguire had stayed at school for dinner and had been playing cricket the whole afternoon. At the time he must have seemed a peripheral figure in the investigation. Still was, perhaps. But why, then, why had Ainley come to London just to see him again – after all that time? There must have been something, something big. Morse finished the last dregs of his cold coffee and felt a bit lost. His devious manoeuvrings of the day began to look unnecessarily theatrical. Why couldn’t he be a straight policeman for once in his life? Still, he had a couple of trump cards, and one never knew. He prepared to play the first.
‘I’ll give you one more chance, Maguire, but this time I want the truth – all of it.’
‘I’ve told you . . .’
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ said Morse. ‘I’m interested in Valerie Taylor – that’s all. I’m not worried about any of those other things . . .’ He left the words in the air, and a flash of alarm glinted in the boy’s eyes.
‘What other things? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘We’ve been to your flat today, lad.’
‘So?’
‘Mrs Gibbs doesn’t seem too happy, does she, about one or two things . . .?’
‘Old cow.’
‘She didn’t have to tell us anything, you know.’
‘What am I supposed to have done? Come on – let’s have it.’
‘How long have you been on drugs, lad?’
It hit him solidly between the eyes, and his effort at recovery was short of convincing. ‘What drugs?’
‘I just told you, lad. We’ve been to your flat today.’
‘And I suppose you found some pot. So what? Just about everybody smokes pot here.’
‘I’m not talking about everybody.’ Morse leaned forward and let him have it. ‘I’m talking about you, lad. Smoking pot’s illegal, you know that, and I could frogmarch you out of here and ship you to the nearest police station – remember that! But I’ve just told you, lad, I’m quite prepared to let it ride. Christ, why do you have to make it so hard for yourself? You can go back to your bloody flat and pump yourself with heroin for all I care. I’m just not bothered, lad – not if you cooperate with me. Can’t you get that into your thick skull?’
Morse let it sink in a minute before continuing. ‘I want to know just one thing – what you told Inspector Ainley, that’s all. And if I can’t get it out of you here, I’ll take you in and I’ll get it out of you somewhere else. Please yourself, lad.’
Morse picked up his overcoat from the seat beside him and draped it across his knees. Maguire stared dejectedly at the table-top and played nervously with a bottle of tomato ketchup. There was indecision in his eyes, and Morse timed what he hoped was his second trump card perfectly.
‘How long had you known that Valerie was pregnant?’ he asked quietly.
Bull’s-eye. Morse replaced his coat on the seat beside him, and Maguire spoke more freely. ‘About three weeks before.’
‘Did she tell anyone else?’
Maguire shrugged his shoulders. ‘She was a real sexy kid – everyone was after her.’
‘How often did you go to bed with her?’
‘Ten – dozen times, I suppose.’
‘The truth, please, lad.’
‘Well, three or four times, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Where was this?’
‘My place.’
‘Your parents know?’
‘No. They were out working.’
‘And she said you were the father?’
‘No. She wasn’t like that. Said I could have been, of course.’
‘Did you feel jealous?’ Morse had a suspicion that he did, but Maguire made no answer. ‘Was she very upset?’
‘Just scared.’
‘What of? Scandal?’
‘More scared of her mum, I think.’
‘Not her dad?’
‘She didn’t say so.’
‘Did she talk about running away?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Who else might she have spoken to?’ Maguire hesitated. ‘She had another boyfriend, didn’t she,’ persisted Morse, ‘apart from you?’
‘Pete?’ Maguire could relax again. ‘He didn’t even touch her.’
‘But she might have spoken to him?’ Maguire was amused, and Morse felt that his questioning had lost its impetus. ‘What about her form tutor? She might have gone to her, perhaps?’
Maguire laughed openly. ‘You don’t understand.’
But suddenly Morse realized that he was beginning to understand, and as the dawn was slowly breaking in his mind, he leaned forward and fixed Maguire with grey eyes, hard and unblinking.
‘She could have gone to the headmaster, though.’ He spoke the words with quiet, taut emphasis, and the impact upon Maguire was dramatic. Morse saw the sudden flash of burning jealousy and knew that gradually, inch by inch, he was moving nearer to the truth about Valerie Taylor.
Morse took a taxi to Southampton Terrace where he found a patient Lewis awaiting him. The car was ready and they were soon heading out along the M40 towards Oxford. Morse’s mind was simultaneously veering in every direction, and he lapsed into uncommunicative introversion. It wasn’t until they left the three-lane motorway that he broke the long silence.
‘Sorry you had such a long wait, Lewis.’
‘That’s all right, sir. You had a long wait, too.’
‘Yes,’ said Morse. He made no mention of his return to the Penthouse. He must have gone down a good deal already in his sergeant’s estimation; he had certainly sunk quite low enough in his own.
It was five miles outside Oxford that Lewis exploded the minor bombshell.
‘I was having a talk with Mrs Gibbs, sir, while you were with Mr Maguire.’
‘Well?’
‘I asked her why he’d been such a nuisance.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She told me that until recently he’d
had a girl in the flat.’
‘She what?’
‘Yes, sir. Almost a month, she said.’
‘But why the hell didn’t you tell me before, man? You surely realize . . .?’ He glared at Lewis, incredulous and exasperated, and sank back in despair behind his safety belt.
His stubborn conviction that Valerie was no longer alive would (one had thought) have been sorely tested when he looked back into his office at 8.00 p.m. Awaiting him was a report from the forensic laboratory, short and to the point.
‘Sufficient similarities to warrant positive identification. Suggest that investigation proceed on firm assumption that letter was written by signatory, Miss Valerie Taylor. Please contact if detailed verification required.’
But Morse seemed far from impressed. In fact, he looked up from the report and smiled serenely. Reaching for the telephone directory, he looked up Phillipson, D. There was only one Phillipson: ‘The Firs’, Banbury Road, Oxford.
CHAPTER NINE
We hear, for instance, of a comprehensive school in Connecticut where teachers have three pads of coloured paper, pink, blue and green, which are handed out to pupils as authority to visit respectively the headmaster, the office or the lavatory.
Robin Davis, The Grammar School
SHEILA PHILLIPSON WAS absolutely delighted with her Oxford home, a four-bedroomed detached house, just below the Banbury Road roundabout. Three fully grown fir trees screened the spacious front garden from the busy main road, and the back garden, with its two old apple trees and its goldfish pond, its beautifully conditioned lawn and its neatly tended borders, was an unfailing joy. With unimaginative predictability she had christened it ‘The Firs’.
Donald would be late home from school; he had a staff meeting. But it was only a cold salad, and the children had already eaten. She could relax. At a quarter to six she was sitting in a deck-chair in the back garden, her eyes closed contentedly. The evening air was warm and still . . . She felt so proud of Donald; and of the children, Andrew and Alison, now contentedly watching the television. They were both doing so well at their primary school. And, of course, if they didn’t really get the chances they deserved, they could always go to private schools; and Donald would probably send them there – in spite of what he’d told the parents at the last speech day. The Dragon, New College School, Oxford High, Headington – one heard such good reports. But that was all in the future. For the moment everything in the garden was lovely. She lifted her face to catch the last rays of the sloping sun and breathed in the scent of thyme and honeysuckle. Lovely. Almost too lovely, perhaps. At half-past six she heard the crunch of Donald’s Rover on the drive.
