Last Seen Wearing im-2

by Colin Dexter

  'As I say, sir, he's not going to like it very much.'

  Morse got up and abruptly terminated the conversation. 'Well, he'll have to bloody well lump it, won't he?'

  It was just after 6.30 p.m. when Morse pushed his way through the glass doors, left Police HQ behind him and made his way slowly and thoughtfully towards the housing estate. He wasn't looking forward to it, either. As Lewis had said, it was almost as good as saying you suspected them.

  The Taylors' green Morris Oxford was parked along the pavement, and it was the shirt-sleeved George himself who answered the door, hastily swallowing a mouthful of his evening meal.

  'I'll call back,' began Morse.

  'No. No need, Inspector. Nearly finished me supper. Come on in.' George had been sitting by himself in the kitchen finishing off a plate of stew and potatoes. 'Cup o' tea?'

  Morse declined and sat opposite George at the rickety kitchen table.

  'What can I do for you, Inspector Morse?' He filled an outsize cup with deep-brown tea and lit a Woodbine. Morse told him of Baines's murder. The news had broken just too late for the final edition of the Oxford Mail, a copy of which lay spread out on the table.

  George's reaction was flat and unconcerned. He'd known Baines, of course — seen him at parents' evenings. But that was all. It seemed to Morse curious that George Taylor had so little to say or (apparently) to feel on learning of the death of a fellow human being he had known; yet neither was there a hint of machination or of malice in his eyes, and Morse felt now, as on the previous occasion they had met, that he rather liked the man. But sooner or later he had to ask him, in the hallowed phrases, to account for all his movements on the previous evening. For the moment he stood on the brink and postponed the evil moment; and mercifully George himself did a good deal of the work for him.

  'The missus knew him better'n me. I'll tell her when she gets in. Mondays and Tuesdays she's allus off at Bingo down in Oxford.'

  'Does she ever win?' The question seemed oddly irrelevant

  'Few quid now and then. In fact she won a bit last night, I reckon. But you know how it is — she spends about a quid a night anyway. Hooked on it, that's what she is.'

  'How does she go? On the bus?'

  'Usually. Last night, though, I was playing for the darts team down at the Jericho Arms, so I took her down with me, and she called in at the pub after she was finished, and then came home with me. It's on the bus, though, usually.'

  Morse took a deep breath and jumped in. 'Look, Mr. Taylor, it's just a formality and I know you'll understand, but, er, I've got to ask you exactly where you were last night.'

  George seemed not in the least put out or perturbed. In fact — or was it a nothing, an imperceptibility, a fleeting flash of Morse's imagination? — there might have been the merest hint of relief in the friendly eyes.

  Lewis was already waiting when Morse arrived back in his office at 7.30 p.m., and the two men exchanged notes. Neither of them, it appeared, had been in too much danger of flushing any desperado from his lair. The alibis were not perfect — far from it; but they were good enough. Phillipson (according to Phillipson) had arrived home from school about 5.15 p.m.; had eaten, and had left home, alone, at 6.35 p.m. to see the Playhouse production of St. Joan. He had left his car in the Gloucester Green car park and reached the theatre at 6.50 p.m. The play had lasted from 7.15 to 10.30 p.m., and apart from walking to the bar for a Guinness in the first interval he had not left his seat until just after 10.30 when he collected his car and drove back home. He remembered seeing the BBC2 news bulletin at 11.00 p.m.

  'How far's Gloucester Green from Baines's house?' asked Morse.

  Lewis considered. 'Two, three hundred yards.'

  Morse picked up the phone and rang the path lab. No. The humpbacked surgeon had not yet completed the scrutiny of various lengths of Baines's innards. No. He couldn't be more precise about the time of death. Eight to midnight. Well, if Morse were to twist his arm it might be 8.30 to 11.30—even 11.00, perhaps. Morse cradled the phone, stared up at the ceiling for a while, and then nodded slowly to himself.

  'You know, Lewis, the trouble with alibis is not that some people have 'em and some people don't. The real trouble is that virtually no one's likely to have a really water-tight alibi. Unless you've been sitting all night handcuffed to a couple of high court judges, or something.'

  'You think Phillipson could have murdered Baines, then?'

  'Of course he could.'

  Lewis put his notebook away. 'How did you get on with the Taylors, sir?'

  Morse recounted his own interview with George Taylor, and Lewis listened carefully.

  'So he could have murdered Baines, too.'

  Morse shrugged noncommittally. 'How far's the Jericho Arms from Baines's place?'

  'Quarter of a mile — no more.'

  'The suspects are beginning to queue up, aren't they, Lewis?'

  'Is Mrs. Taylor a suspect?'

  'Why not? As far as I can see, she'd have had no trouble at all. Left Bingo at 9.00 p.m. and called in at the Jericho Arms at 9.30 p.m. or so. On the way she walks within a couple of hundred yards of Baines's place, eh? And where does it all leave us? If Baines was murdered at about 9.30 last night — what have we got? Three of 'em — all with their telephone numbers on Baines's little list.'

  'And there's Acum, too, sir. Don't forget him.'

  Morse looked at his watch. It was 8.00 p.m. 'You know, Lewis, it would be a real turn-up for the books if Acum was playing darts in the Jericho Arms last night, eh? Or sitting at a Bingo board in the Town Hall?'

  'He'd have a job wouldn't he, sir? He's in Caernarfon.'

  'I'll tell you one thing for sure, Lewis. Wherever Acum was last night he wasn't in Caernarfon.'

  He picked up the phone and dialled a number. The call was answered almost immediately.

  'Hello?' The line crackled fitfully, but Morse recognized the voice.

  'Mrs. Acum?'

  Yes. Who is it?'

  'Morse. Inspector Morse. You remember, I rang you up—'

  'Yes, of course I remember.'

  'Is your husband in yet?'

  'No. I think I mentioned to you, didn't I, that he wouldn't be back until late tonight?'

  'How late will he be?'

  'Not too late, I hope.'

  'Before ten?'

  'I hope so.'

  'Has he got far to travel?'

  'Quite a long way, yes.'

  'Look, Mrs. Acum. Can you please tell me where your husband has been?'

  'I told you. He's been on a teachers' conference. Sixth form French.'

  'Yes. But where exactly was that?'

  'Where? I'm not quite sure where he was staying.'

  Morse was becoming impatient. 'Mrs. Acum, you know what I mean. Where was the conference? In Birmingham?'

  'Oh, I'm sorry. I see what you mean. It was in Oxford, actually.'

  Morse turned to Lewis and his eyebrows jumped an inch. 'In Oxford, you say?'

  'Yes. Lonsdale College.'

  'I see. Well, I'll ring up again — about ten. Will that be all right?'

  'Is it urgent, Inspector?'

  'Well, let's say it's important, Mrs. Acum.'

  'All right, I'll tell him. And if he gets back before ten, I'll ask him to ring you.'

  Morse gave her his number, rang off, and whistled softly. 'It gets curiouser and curiouser, does it not, Lewis? How far is Lonsdale College from Kempis Street?'

  'Half a mile?'

  'One more for the list, then. Though I suppose Acum's got just as good, or just as bad, an alibi as the rest of'em.'

  'Haven't you forgotten one possible suspect, sir?'

  'Have I?' Morse looked at his sergeant in some surprise.

  'Mrs. Phillipson, sir. Two young children, soon in bed, soon asleep. Husband safely out of the way for three hours or so. She's got as good a motive as anybody, hasn't she?'

  Morse nodded. 'Perhaps she's got a better motive than most.' He nodded again and looked so
mbrely at the carpet.

  With a startling suddenness, a large spider darted across the floor with a brief, electric scurry— and, as suddenly, stopped — frozen into a static, frightening immobility. A fat-bodied, long-legged spider, the angular joints of the hairy limbs rising high above the dark squat body. Another scurry — and again the frozen immobility — more frightening in its stillness than in its motion. It reminded Morse of a game he used to play at children's parties called 'statues'; the music suddenly stopped and — still! Freeze! Don't move a muscle! Like the spider. It was almost at the skirting board now, and Morse seemed mesmerized. He was terrified of spiders.

  'Did you see that whopper in Baines's bath?' asked Lewis.

  'Shut up, Lewis. And put your foot on the bloody thing, quick!'

  'Mustn't do that, sir. He's got a wife and kids waiting for him somewhere.' He bent down and slowly moved his hand towards the spider; and Morse shut his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  John and Mary are each given 20p.

  John gives 1p to Mary.

  How much more does Mary have than John?

  (Problem set in the 11+ examination)

  THE URGE TO GAMBLE is so universal, so deeply embedded in unregenerate human nature that from the earliest days the philosophers and moralists have assumed it to be evil. Cupiditas, the Romans called it — the longing for the things of this world, the naked, shameless greed for gain. It is the cause, perhaps, of all our troubles. Yet how easy it remains to understand the burning envy, felt by those possessing little, for those endowed with goods aplenty. And gambling? Why, gambling offers to the poor the shining chance of something got for nothing.

  Crude analysis! For to some it is gambling itself, the very process and the very practice of gambling that is so immensely pleasurable. So pleasurable indeed that gambling needs, for them, no spurious raison d'etre whatsoever, no necessary prospect of the jackpots and the windfalls and the weekends in Bermuda; just the heady, heavy opiate of the gambling game itself with the promise of its thousand exhilarating griefs and dangerous joys. Win a million on the wicked spinning-wheel tonight, and where are you tomorrow night but back around the wicked spinning-wheel?

  Every society has its games, and the games are just as revealing of the society as are its customs — for in a sense they are its customs: heads or tails, and rouge ou noir, and double or quits and clunk, clunk, clunk, in the pay-off tray as the triple oranges align themselves along the fruit machine; and odds of 10 to 1 as the rank outsider gallops past the post at Kempton Park; and then came the first, saying, Lord, thy pound hath gained ten pounds. And he said unto him, Well done, thou good servant: because thou hast been faithful in a very little, have thou authority over ten cities. And once a week, a hope a light-year distant, of half a million pounds for half a penny stake, where happiness is a line of Xs and a kiss from a buxom beauty queen. For some are lucky at the gambling game. And some are not, and lose more than they can properly afford and try to recoup their losses and succeed only in losing the little that is left; and finally, alas, all hope abandoned, sit them down alone in darkened garages and by the gas rings in the kitchens, or simply slit their throats — and die. And some smoke fifty cigarettes a day, and some drink gin or whisky; and some walk in and out of betting shops, and the wealthier reach for the phone.

  But what wife can endure a gambling husband, unless he be a steady winner? And what husband will ever believe his wife has turned compulsive gambler, unless she be a poorer liar than Mrs. Taylor is. And Mrs. Taylor dreams she dwells in Bingo halls.

  It had started some years back in the church hall at Kidlington. A dozen of them, no more, seated in rickety chairs with a clickety subfusc vicar calling the numbers with a dignified Anglican clarity. And then she had graduated to the Ritz in Oxford, where the acolytes sit comfortably in the curving tiers of the cinema seats and listen to the harsh metallic tones relayed by microphones across the giant auditorium. There is no show here of human compassion, little even of human intercourse. Only 'eyes down' in a mean-minded race to the first row, the first column, the first diagonal completed. Many of the players can cope with several cards simultaneously, a cold, pitiless purpose in their play, their mental antennae attuned only to the vagaries of the numerical combinations.

  The game itself demands only an elementary level of numeracy, and not only does not require but cannot possibly tolerate the slightest degree of initiative or originality. Almost all the players almost win; the line is almost complete, and the card is almost full. Ye gods! Look down and smile once more! Come on, my little number, come! I'm there, if only, if only, if only. . And there the women sit and hope and pray and bemoan the narrow miss and curse their desperate luck, and talk and think 'if only'. .

  Tonight Mrs. Taylor caught the № 2 bus outside the Ritz and reached Kidlington at 9.35 p.m.; she decided she would call in at the pub.

  It was 9.35 p.m., too, when Acum rang, a little earlier than expected. He had been fortunate with the traffic (he said); on to the A5 at Towcester and a good clear run for a further five uncomplicated hours. He had left Oxford at 3.15, just before the conference had officially broken up. Jolly good conference, yes. The Monday night? Just a minute; let's think. In hall for dinner, and then there had been a fairly informal question-and-answer session afterwards. Very interesting. Bed about 10.30; a bit tired. No, as far as he remembered — no, he did remember; he hadn't gone out at all. Baines dead? What? Could Morse repeat that? Oh dear; very sorry to hear it. Yes, of course he'd known Baines — known him well. When did he die? Oh, Monday. Monday evening? Oh, yesterday evening, the one they'd just been speaking about. Oh, he saw now. Well, he'd told Morse what he could — sorry it was so little. Not been much help at all, had he?

  Morse rang off. He decided that trying to interview by telephone was about as satisfactory as trying to sprint in divers' boots. There was no option; he would have to go up to Caernarfon himself, if. . if what? Was it really likely that Acum had anything to do with Baines's death? If he had, he'd picked a pretty strange way of drawing almost inevitable attention to himself. And yet. . And yet Acum's name had been floating unobtrusively along the mainstream of the case from the very beginning, and yesterday he had seen Acum's telephone number in the index file on Baines's desk. Mm. He would have to go and see him. He ought to have seen him before now, for whatever else he was or wasn't Acum had been a central figure during that school summer when she'd disappeared. But. . but you don't just come down to Oxford for a meeting and decide that while you're there you'll murder one of your ex-colleagues. Or do you? Who would suspect? After all, it was quite by accident that he himself had learned of Acum's visit to Oxford. Had Acum presumed. .? Augrrh! It was suddenly cold in the office and Morse felt tired. Forget it! He looked at his watch. 10 p.m. Just time for a couple of pints if he hurried.

  He walked over to the pub and pushed his way into the overcrowded public bar. The cigarette smoke hung in blue wreaths, head-high like undispersing morning mist, and the chatter along the bar and at the tables was raucous and interminable, the subdeties of conversational silence quite unknown. Cribbage, dominoes and darts and every available surface cluttered with glasses: glasses with handles and glasses without, glasses empty, glasses being emptied and glasses about to be emptied, and then refilled with the glorious, amber fluid. Morse found a momentary gap at the bar and pushed his way diffidently forward. As he waited his turn, he heard the fruit machine (to the right of the bar) clunking out an occasional desultory dividend, and he leaned across the bar to look more carefully. A woman was playing the machine, her back towards him. But he knew her well enough.

  The landlord interrupted a new and improbable line of thought. 'Yes, mate?'

  Morse ordered a pint of best bitter, edged his way a little further along the bar, and found himself standing only a few feet behind the woman playing the machine. She pushed her glass over the bar.

  'Stick another double in there, Bert.'

  She opened an inordinately
large leather handbag and Morse saw the heavy roll of notes inside. Fifty pounds? More? Had she had a lucky night at Bingo?

  She had not seen Morse — he was sure of that — and he observed her as closely as he could. She was drinking whisky and swopping mildly ribald comments with several of the pub's habitues. And then she laughed — a coarse, common cackle of a laugh, and curiously and quite unexpectedly Morse knew that he found her attractive, dammit! He looked at her again. Her figure was still good, and her clothes hung well upon her. Yes, all right, she was no longer a beauty, he knew that. He noticed the fingernails bitten down and broken; noticed the index finger of her right hand stained dark-brown with nicotine. But what the hell did it matter! Morse drained his glass and bought another pint. The germ of the new idea that had taken root in his mind would never grow this night. He knew why, of course. It was simple. He needed a woman. But he had no woman and he moved to the back of the room and found a seat. He thought, as he often thought, of the attractiveness of women. There had been women, of course; too many women, perhaps. And one or two who still could haunt his dreams and call to him across the years of a time when the day was fair. But now the leaves were falling round him: mid-forties; unmarried; alone. And here he sat in a cheap public bar where life was beer and fags and crisps and nuts and fruit machines and. . The ashtray on the table in front of him was revoltingly full of stubs and ash. He pushed it away from him, gulped down the last of his beer and walked out into the night.