by Colin Dexter
Morse worked at his desk through most of the afternoon. The report on Crowther’s car had come in, but appeared to signify little. One long blonde hair, heavily peroxided, was found on the floor behind the nearside driving seat, but that was about it. No physical traces whatsoever of the second girl. Several other reports, but again nothing that appeared to advance the progress of the investigation. He turned his attention to other matters. He had to appear the next morning in the Magistrates’ Court: there were briefs and memorandums to read. His mind was grateful to have, for a change, some tangible data to assimilate and he worked through the material quite oblivious to the passage of time. When he looked at his watch at 5.00 p.m. he was surprised how swiftly the afternoon had gone by. Another day over – almost. New day tomorrow. For some reason he felt contented and he wondered to himself if that reason had anything to do with Wednesday and Sue Widdowson.
He rang Lewis, who was about to go home. Yes, of course he could come along. Perhaps he could just ring his long-suffering wife? She’d probably just got the chips in the pan. ‘You say, Lewis, that Crowther has got another typewriter in his rooms in college. I think we ought to check. Well?’
‘Anything you say, sir.’
‘But you’d like to do it straight this time, wouldn’t you?’
‘I think that would be best, sir.’
‘Anything you say, Lewis.’
Morse knew the Principal of Lonsdale College fairly well and he rang him up there and then. Lewis was a little surprised at Morse’s request. The chief really was doing it properly this time. He listened to the monologue. ‘How many typewriters would there be? Yes. Yes. Including those . . . Yes. As many as that? But it could be done? Well that would be an enormous help, of course . . . You’d rather it that way? No, doesn’t matter to me . . . By the end of the week? Good. Most grateful. Now listen carefully . . .’
Morse gave his instructions, iterated his thanks at inordinate length, and beamed at his sergeant when he finally cradled the phone. ‘Co-operative chap that, Lewis.’
‘Not much option, had he?’
‘Perhaps not. But it will save us a lot of time and trouble.’
‘You mean save me a lot of time and trouble.’
‘Lewis, my friend, we’re a team you and me, are we not?’ Lewis nodded a grudging assent. ‘By the end of the week we shall have evidence from every typewriter in Lonsdale College. What about that?’
‘Including Crowther’s?’
‘Of course.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been a bit easier . . .’
‘To fire straight at the bull’s-eye? It would. But you said you wanted to do this in accordance with the great unprejudiced principles of English law, did you not? We haven’t got a thing on Crowther. He’s probably as innocent as my Aunt Freda.’
Since Lewis had never seen or heard of the said Aunt Freda he refrained from direct comment. ‘Do you think Crowther’s our man, sir?’
Morse stuck his thumb in the corner of his mouth. ‘I don’t know, Lewis. I just don’t know.’
‘I had a bit of an idea today, sir,’ said Lewis after a pause. ‘I saw what I thought was a girl and when I got close and she turned round she wasn’t a she, she was a he.’
‘You explain yourself very succinctly, Sergeant.’
‘But you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do. When we were boys we tried to look like boys; if you looked like a girl you were a cissy. Nowadays you’ve got young fellows with eye make-up and handbags. Makes you wonder.’
But Morse hadn’t quite seen his point and Lewis filled in the picture. He was no ideas man, he’d always realized that, and felt great diffidence in putting his notion forward. ‘You see, sir, I was just thinking. We know Mrs Jarman saw the two girls’ (he needn’t have gone on, but Morse held his peace) ‘at the bus stop. She must have been right, surely. She actually spoke to one of them and the other one was Sylvia Kaye. All right. The next thing is that the lorry driver, Baker, saw the girls being picked up at the other side of the roundabout by a man in a red car. But it was getting dark. He said they were two girls. But he might have been wrong. I could have sworn I saw a girl this morning – but I was wrong. Everybody has been dazzled by Sylvia – all the eyes were on her and no wonder. But what if the lorry driver had seen Sylvia and another person, and what if this other person looked like a girl but wasn’t. The other person could have been a man. Remember, sir, the other girl Mrs Jarman saw was wearing slacks, and the descriptions we had from Baker fitted so well we thought they must be the same two people. But what if the other girl decided in the end not to hitch-hike to Woodstock. What if she caught up with Sylvia, told her she wasn’t going to bother to go to Woodstock after all, and what if Sylvia met up with some man, probably someone she knew anyway, who’d been waiting for a lift before she got there, and the two of them hitched together. I know you’ve probably thought of this anyway, sir’ (Morse gave no indication either way – he hadn’t) ‘but I thought I ought to mention it. We’ve been trying to find the man who did this and I just thought he might have been in the car with Sylvia all along.’
‘We’ve got Crowther’s evidence you know, Sergeant,’ said Morse slowly.
‘I know, sir. I’d like to see that again if I could. As I remember it he didn’t have much to say about his second passenger, did he?’
‘No, that’s true,’ admitted Morse. ‘And I can’t help thinking he knows more than he’s told us anyway.’ He walked over to the filing cabinet, took from his files the statement of Bernard Crowther, read the first sheet, passed it over to Lewis, and read the second. When both men had finished, they looked at each over the table.
‘Well, sir?’
Morse read it out: ‘“The girl nearer to the road I saw clearly. She was an attractive girl with long fair hair, white blouse, short skirt and a coat over her arm. The other girl had walked on a few yards and had her back towards me; she seemed to be quite happy to leave the business of getting a lift to her companion. But she had darkish hair, I think, and if I remember correctly was a few inches taller than her friend . . .” What do you think?’
‘Not very definite is it, sir?’
Morse searched for the other relevant passage: ‘“I think the girl sitting in the back spoke only once and that was to ask the time . . .” You may have got something, you know,’ said Morse.
Lewis warmed to his theory. ‘I’ve often heard, sir, that when a couple are hitching the girl shows a leg, as it were, and the man keeps out of the way. You know, suddenly shows himself when the car stops and it’s too late for the driver to say no.’
‘That didn’t happen here though, Sergeant.’
‘No. I know that, sir. But it fits a bit doesn’t it: “seemed quite happy to leave the business of getting a lift to her companion.”’ Lewis felt he should quote his evidence, too.
‘Mm. But if you’re right, what happened to the other girl?’
‘She could have gone home, sir. Could have gone anywhere.’
‘But she wanted to go to Woodstock very badly, didn’t she, according to Mrs Jarman.’
‘She could have got to the bus stop.’
‘The conductor doesn’t remember her.’
‘But when we asked him we were thinking of two girls, not one.’
‘Mm. Might be worth checking again.’
‘And another thing, sir.’ The tide was coming in inexorably and was lapping already at the sand-castles of Morse’s Grand Design.
‘Yes?’
‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, sir, but Crowther says that the other girl was a few inches taller than Sylvia.’ Morse groaned, but Lewis continued, remorseless as the tide. ‘Now Sylvia Kaye was 5' 9", if I remember it right. If the other girl was Jennifer Coleby she must have been wearing stilts, sir. She’s only about 5' 6", isn’t she—’
‘But don’t you see, Lewis? That’s the sort of thing he would lie about. He’s trying to put us off. He wants to protect this other girl.’
‘I’m only trying to go on the evidence we’ve got, sir.’
Morse nodded. He thought seriously that he should take up schoolteaching – primary school would be about his level; spelling, he thought, the safest bet. Why hadn’t he thought about that height business before? But he knew why. In the Grand Design it was Crowther who had been the guilty man.
And now the waves were curling perilously close to the last of the sand-castles; had already filled the moat and breached the rampart. It was 6.00 p.m., and Lewis’s second batch of chips was getting cold.
Morse limped out of the building with Lewis, and the two stood talking by the sergeant’s car for several minutes. Lewis felt rather like a pupil in Morse’s putative primary school who had caught his master out in the spelling of a simple word, and he hesitated to mention a little thing that had been on his mind for several days. Should he keep it for tomorrow? But he knew that Morse had a busy day in front of him at the courts. He plunged in.
‘You know the letter, sir, addressed to Jennifer Coleby?’
Morse knew it by heart. ‘What about it?’
‘Could there have been some fingerprints on the original copy?’
Morse heard the question and stared blankly into the middle distance. At last he shook his head sadly. ‘Too late now.’
The primary school became a distinctly firmer prospect as the minutes ticked by. The sand-castle lurched forward and prepared to topple headlong. It was time someone else took over; he would see the Commissioner.
A police car stopped a few yards from him. ‘Want some help, sir?’
‘I’m all right, thanks.’ Morse shook off his gloom. ‘I’ll be back in training next week. You’ll see me in the first-team squad for the next home game.’
The constable laughed. ‘Bit of a nuisance, though. Especially when you can’t drive.’
Morse had almost forgotten his car. It had been locked up for over a week now. ‘Constable, jump in the front with me, will you? It’s high time I had a try.’ He climbed into the driving seat, waggled his right foot over the brake and accelerator, pushed the foot with firmness on the brake-pedal, and decided he could cope. He started the engine, drove off round the yard, tested his ability to do the right things, came to a stop, got out and beamed like an orphan handed a teddy bear.
‘Not bad, eh?’ The constable helped Morse into the building and along to his office.
‘You’ll be able to use your car again tomorrow, won’t you, sir?’
‘I think I shall,’ said Morse.
He sat down and thought of tomorrow. The Commissioner. In the afternoon would be best, perhaps. He rang the Commissioner’s number, but there was no reply. He was seeing someone else, too, in the evening. He was looking forward to seeing Sue Widdowson – it was little use pretending he wasn’t. But what a mess he’d made of it. The ‘Bird and Baby’ indeed! Why on earth hadn’t he invited her to the Elizabeth or the Sorbonne or the Sheridan. And why hadn’t he arranged to pick her up, like any civilized man would have done? Hang Jennifer Coleby! It wasn’t too late, though, was it? She would be home by now. He looked at his watch: 6.30 p.m., the Oxford Mail lay on his desk and he scanned the entertainments page. Hot Pants and Danish Blue, he noticed, had been retained for a second week ‘by public demand’. He could have taken her to the pictures, of course. Perhaps not to Studio 2, though. Restaurants. Not much there. Then he spotted it. ‘Sheridan Dinner Dance: double ticket – £6. 7.30–11.30 p.m. Bar. Dress informal.’ He rang the Sheridan. Yes, a few double tickets still available, but he would have to collect them tonight. Could he ring back in a quarter of an hour or so? Yes. They would keep a double ticket for him.
Jennifer Coleby’s telephone number was somewhere in the file and he soon found it. He thought over what he was to say. ‘Miss Widdowson – that would be best. He hoped that Sue would answer.
Brr. Brr. He felt excited. Fool.
‘Yes?’ A young girl’s voice, but whose? The line crackled.
‘Is that Oxford 54385?
‘Yes, it is. Can I help you?’ Morse’s heart sank. It was unmistakably the cool, clear voice of Jennifer Coleby. Morse tried in some inchoate way to speak as if he wasn’t Morse. ‘I want to speak to Miss Widdowson if she’s there, please.’
‘Yes, she is. Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Oh tell her it’s one of her old school friends,’ replied the unMorselike voice.
‘I’ll get her straight away, Inspector Morse.’
‘Sue! Su-ue!’ he heard her shouting. ‘One of your old school friends on the line!’
‘Hello. Sue Widdowson here.’
‘Hello.’ Morse didn’t know what to call himself. ‘Morse here. I just wondered if you’d like to make it the Sheridan tomorrow night instead of going for a drink. There’s a dinner-dance on and I’ve got tickets. What do you say?’
‘That’d be lovely.’ Morse thought he liked her voice. ‘Absolutely lovely. Several of my friends are going. Should be great fun.’
Oh no! thought Morse. ‘Not too many, I hope. I don’t want to have to share you with a lot of others, you know.’ He said it lightly with a heavy heart.
‘Well, quite a few,’ admitted Sue.
‘Let’s make it some other place, shall we? Do you know anywhere?’
‘Oh, we can’t do that. You’ve got the tickets anyway. We’ll enjoy it – you’ll see.’
Morse wondered if he would ever learn to tell the truth. ‘All right. Now I can pick you up, if you like. Would that suit you?’
‘Oh, yes please. Jenny was going to run me down in her car – but if you . . .’
‘All right. I’ll pick you up at 7.15.’
‘7.15 it is then. Is it long dresses?’ Morse didn’t know. ‘Never mind – I can easily find out.’
From one of your many friends, doubtless, thought Morse. ‘Good. Looking forward to it.’
‘Me, too.’ She put down the receiver and Morse’s own endearing adieu was left unspoken. Was he really looking forward to it? They were usually a bit of an anticlimax, these things. Still it would do him good. Or serve him right. He didn’t much care. He’d have a decent meal anyway, and it would be good to hold a young girl in his arms again, tripping the light fantastic . . . Oh hell! He’d forgotten all about that. He was going out of his mind, the stupid, senseless fool that he was. He could no more invite the fair Miss Widdowson to share the delights of a dreamy waltz than invite a rabbi to a plate of pork. He hobbled to the enquiry desk. ‘Get me a car, Sergeant.’
‘There’ll be one in a few minutes, sir. We’ve got to . . .’
‘Get me a car now, Sergeant. And I mean now.’ The last word resounded harshly through the open hall and several heads turned round. The desk Sergeant reached for the phone. ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’
‘Want some help, sir?’ The desk sergeant was a kindly man, and had known the Inspector for several years. Morse waited by the desk. He was angry with himself and he had many reasons for feeling so. But why he should think he had a right to take things out on one of his old friends he could not imagine. He cursed his own selfishness and discourtesy.
‘Yes, Sergeant, I could do with some help.’ It had not been Morse’s day.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
* * *
Wednesday, 13 October, a.m.
A FREAK STORM struck the Oxford area in the early hours of Wednesday morning, demolishing chimneys, blowing down television aerials and lifting roof-tiles in its path. The 7.00 a.m. News reported a trail of devastation in Kidlington, Oxon, where a Mrs Winifred Fisher had a narrow escape when the roof of a garage broke its moorings and crashed through an upstairs window. ‘I just can’t describe it,’ she said. ‘Terrifying.’ The portable radio stood on the bedside table along with a telephone and an alarm clock which, at 6.50 a.m., had wakened Morse from a long, untroubled sleep.
He got out of bed when the news had finished and peered through the curtains. At least his own garage seemed intact. Funny, though, t
hat the storm had not awakened him. Gradually the memory of yesterday’s events filtered through his consciousness and settled like a heavy sediment at the bottom of his mind. Gone were the flights of angels that had guarded him in sleep and he sat on the edge of his bed fingering the rough stubble on his chin and wondering what this day would bring. Increasingly, as the case progressed, the graph of his moods was resembling a jagged mountain range, peaks and valleys, troughs and elations.
At a quarter to eight he was shaved, washed and dressed, and feeling fresh and confident. He swilled out the dregs from his late-night cup of Horlicks, rinsed his late-night whisky glass, filled the kettle and turned his attention to a major problem.
For the last few days he had worn, around his wounded foot, an outsize white plimsoll, loosely laced, and slit down the heel. It was time to get back to something normal. He was loath to appear in the court in such eccentric footwear and he could hardly believe that Miss Widdowson would be overjoyed with a semiplimsolled escort at the dance. He had two pairs of shoes only and a dangerously low supply of suitable socks; and with such limited permutations of possibilities, the prospect of being presentably shod that day was somewhat remote. He slipped his faithful battered plimsoll back on, and decided to buy a large pair of shoes from M and S, his favourite store. It was going to be an expensive day. He drank a cup of tea, and looked out of the window. His dustbin lid was leaning against the front gate, with litter everywhere. He must remember to have a look at the roof-tiles . . .
In retrospect he thought he had got yesterday’s events out of all perspective; he had been standing too close to the trees, and now he thought he saw again the same familiar wood, labyrinthine, certainly, as before – but still the same. He was feeling his old resilient self, or almost so. But the drastic course of action he had contemplated – what about that? He would have to consider things again; he had a more immediate problem on his mind. Where were his pen, his comb and his wallet? Amazingly, and with deep relief, he found them all in the same heap on the bedroom mantelpiece.
