Last Seen Wearing im-2

by Colin Dexter

  Morse had already learned enough; and he knew — had known earlier, really — that what Rogers had written was true. There was now no doubt whatsoever that Valerie Taylor had somehow found her way into a London abortion clinic on the very same day on which she had disappeared. The doctor who ran the nursing home had been pleasantly co-operative, but had categorically refused to break what he termed the code of professional confidentiality by revealing the identity of the person or persons who had negotiated Miss Taylor's visit. It had amazed Morse that the affluent abortionist should have heard of, let alone practised, any code of professional confidentiality; but short of a forcible entry into his filing cabinets, the ambivalent doctor made it abundantly clear that further information was not forthcoming.

  After explaining the situation to her pyjama-bottomed beau Miss Baker retired briefly to the bedroom, examined herself once more in the mirror, and wrapped her dressing-gown — not too tightly — around her. She was beginning to feel chilly.

  'There was no need to worry too much about me,' said Morse. 'I'm pretty harmless with women, they say.' For the first time she smiled at him, fully and freely, and immediately Morse wished she hadn't.

  'I'll take it off again if you'll turn the fire on, Inspector.' She purred the words at him, and the danger bells were ringing in his head.

  'I shan't keep you much longer, Miss Baker.'

  'Most people call me Yvonne.' She smiled again and lay back in the armchair. No one ever called Morse by his Christian name.

  'I'll turn on the fire if you're not careful,' he said. But he didn't.

  'You tell me she said she was from Oxford — not from Kidlington?'

  'From where?'

  'Kidlington. It's just outside Oxford.'

  'Oh, is it? No. She said Oxford, I'm sure of that.'

  Perhaps she would anyway, thought Morse. It did sound a bit more imposing. He had nearly finished. 'Just one last thing, and I want you to think very hard, Miss — er Yvonne. Did Miss Taylor mention to you at any stage who the father was? Or who she thought the father was?'

  She laughed openly. 'You're so beautifully delicate, Inspector. But as a matter of fact she did, yes. She was quite a lass really, you know.'

  'Who was it?'

  'She said something about one of her teachers. I remember that because I was a bit surprised to learn she was still a schoolgirl. She looked much older than that. She seemed much more. . much more knowing somehow. She was nobody's fool, I can tell you that.'

  'This teacher,' said Morse. 'Did she say anything else about him?'

  'She didn't mention his name, I don't think. But she said he'd got a little beard and it tickled her every time he. . every time. . you know.'

  Morse took his eyes from her and stared sadly down at the thick-piled, dark-green carpet It had been a crazy sort of day.

  'She didn't say what he taught? What subject?'

  She thought a moment. 'Do you know, I. . I rather think she did. I think she said he was a French teacher or something.'

  He drove her into the West End, tried to forget that she was off to an open-ended orgy dressed only in the pyjamas he had eyed so lovingly in her flat, and decided that life had passed him by.

  He dropped her in Mayfair, where she thanked him, a little sadly, and turned towards him and kissed him fully on the lips with her soft, open mouth. And when she was gone, he looked after her, the flared pale-green bottoms of her pyjamas showing below the sleek fur coat. There had been many bad moments that day, but as he sat there in the Lancia slowly wiping the gooey, deep-orange lipstick from his mouth, he decided that this was just about the worst.

  Morse drove back to Soho and parked his car on the double yellow lines immediately in front of the Penthouse Club. It was 9.00 p.m. At a glance he could see that the man seated at the receipt of custom was not Maguire, as he hoped it would be. But he was almost past caring as he walked into the foyer.

  'Fraid you can't leave your car there, mate.'

  'Perhaps you don't know who I am,' said Morse, with the arrogant authority of a Julius Caesar or an Alexander walking among the troops.

  'I don't care who you are, mate,' said the young man, rising to his feet, 'you just can't. .'

  'I'll tell you who I am, sonny. My name's Morse. M-O-R-S-E. Got that? And if anyone comes along and asks you whose car it is tell 'em it's mine. And if they don't believe you, just refer 'em to me, sonny boy — sharpish!' He walked past the desk and through the latticed doorway.

  'But. .' Morse heard no more. The Maltese dwarf sat dutifully at his post, and in a perverse sort of way Morse was glad to see him.

  'You remember me?'

  It was clear that the little man did. 'No need for ticket, sir. You go in. Ticket on me.' He smiled weakly, but Morse ignored the offer.

  'I want to talk to you. My car's outside.' There was no argument, and they sat side by side in the front

  'Where's Maguire?'

  'He gone. He just gone. I do' know where.'

  'When did he leave?'

  'Two day, three day.'

  'Did he have a girlfriend here?'

  'Lots of girls. Some of the girls here, some of the girls there. Who know?'

  'There was a girl here recently — she wore a mask. I think her name was Valerie, perhaps.'

  The little man thought he saw the light and visibly relaxed. 'Valerie? No. You mean Vera. Oh yeah. Boys oh boys!' He was beginning to feel more confident now and his dirty hands expressively traced the undulating contours of her beautiful body.

  'Is she here tonight?'

  'She gone, too.'

  'I might have known it,' muttered Morse. 'She's buggered off with Maguire, I suppose.'

  The little man smiled, revealed a mouthful of large, brilliantly white teeth, and shrugged his oversized shoulders. Morse repressed his strong desire to smash his fist into the leering face, and asked one further question.

  'Did you ever take her out, you filthy little bastard?'

  'Sometimes. Who know?' He shrugged his shoulders again and spread out his hands, palms uppermost, in a typically Mediterranean gesture.

  'Get out.'

  'You want to come in, mister policeman? See pretty girls, no?'

  'Get out,' snarled Morse.

  For a while Morse sat on silently in his car and pondered many things. Life was down to its dregs, and he had seldom felt so desolate and defeated. He recalled his first interview with Strange at the very beginning of the case, and the distaste he had felt then at the prospect of trying to find a young girl in the midst of this corrupt and corrupting city. And now, again, he had to presume that she was alive. For all his wayward unpredictability, there was at the centre of his being an inner furnace of passion for truth, for logical analysis; and inexorably now the facts, almost all the facts, were pointing to the same conclusion — that he had been wrong, wrong from the start.

  A constable, young, tall, confident, tapped sharply on the car window. 'Is this your car, sir?'

  Morse wound the window down and wearily identified himself.

  'Sorry, sir. I just thought. .'

  'Of course you did.'

  'Can I be of any assistance, sir?'

  'Doubt it,' replied Morse. 'I'm looking for a young girl.'

  'She live round here, sir?'

  'I don't know,' said Morse. 'I don't even know if she lives in London. Not much hope for me, is there?'

  'But you mean she's been seen round here recently?'

  'No,' said Morse quietly. 'She's not been seen anywhere for over two years.'

  'Oh, I see, sir,' said the young man, seeing nothing. 'Well, perhaps I can't help much then. Good night, sir.' He touched his helmet, and walked off, uncomprehending, past the gaudy strip clubs and the pornographic bookshops.

  'No,' said Morse to himself, 'I don't think you can.'

  He started the engine and drove via Shepherd's Bush and the White City towards the M40. He was back in his office just before midnight.

  It did not even occur to h
im to go straight home. He was fully aware, even if he could give no explanation for it, of the curious feet that his mind was never more resilient, never sharper, than when apparently it was beaten. On such occasions his brain would roam restlessly around his skull like a wild and vicious tiger immured within the confines of a narrow cage, ceaselessly circumambulating, snarling savagely — and lethal. During the whole of the drive back to Oxford he had been like a chess player, defeated only after a monumental struggle, who critically reviews and analyses the moves and the motives for the moves that have led to his defeat. And already a new and strange idea was spawning in the fertile depdis of his mind, and he was impatient to get back.

  At three minutes to midnight he was poring over the dossiers on the Taylor case with the frenetic concentration of a hastily summoned understudy who had only a few minutes in which to memorize a lengthy speech.

  At 2.30 a.m. the night sergeant, carrying a steaming cup of coffee on a tray, tapped lightly and opened the door. He saw Morse, his hands over his ears, his desk strewn with documents, and an expression of such profound intensity upon his face that he quickly and gently put down the tray, reclosed the door, and walked quickly away.

  He called again at 4.30 a.m. and carefully put down a second cup of coffee beside the first, which stood where he had left it, cold, ugly-brown, untouched. Morse was fast asleep now, his head leaning back against the top of the black leather chair, the neck of his white shirt unfastened, and an expression on his face as of a young child for whom the vivid terrors of the night were past. .

  It had been Lewis who had found her. She lay supine upon the bed, fully clothed, her left arm placed across the body, the wrist slashed cruelly deep. The white coverlet was a pool of scarlet, and blood had dripped its way through the mattress. Clutched in her right hand was a knife, a wooden-handled carving knife, 'Prestige, Made in England', some 35–36 centimetres long, the cutting blade honed along its entire edge to a razor-sharp ferocity.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many.

  (Phaedrus)

  LEWIS REPORTED BACK for duty at eight o'clock and found a freshly shaven Morse seated at his desk. He could scarcely hide his disappointment as Morse began to recount the previous day's events, and found himself quite unable to account for the inspector's sprightly tone. His spirits picked up, however, when Morse mentioned the crucial evidence given by Miss Baker, and after hearing the whole story, he evinced little surprise at the string of instructions that Morse proceeded to give him. There were several phone calls to make and he thought he began to understand the general tenor of the inspector's purpose.

  At 9.30 he had finished, and reported back to Morse.

  'Feel up to the drive then?'

  'I don't mind driving one way, sir, but—'

  'Settled then. I'll drive there, you drive back. Agreed?'

  'When were you thinking of going, sir?'

  'Now,' said Morse. 'Give the missus a ring and tell her we should be back about er. .'

  'Do you mind me mentioning something, sir?'

  'What's worrying you?'

  'If Valerie was in that nursing home—'

  'She was,' interrupted Morse.

  '—well, someone had to take her and fetch her and pay for her and everything.'

  'The quack won't tell us. Not yet, anyway.'

  'Isn't it fairly easy to guess, though?'

  'Is it?' said Morse, with apparent interest.

  'It's only a guess, sir. But if they were all in it together — you know, to cover things up. .'

  'All?'

  'Phillipson, the Taylors and Acum. When you come to think of it, it would kill a lot of birds with one stone, wouldn't it?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'Well, if you're right about Phillipson and Valerie, he'd have a bit of a guilt complex about her and feel morally bound to help out, wouldn't he? And then there's the Taylors. It would save them any scandal and stop Valerie mucking up her life completely. And then there's Acum. It would get him out of a dickens of a mess at the school and save his marriage into the bargain. They've all got a stake in it.'

  Morse nodded and Lewis felt encouraged to continue. 'They could have cooked it all up between them: fixed up the clinic, arranged the transport, paid the bill, and found a job for Valerie to go to afterwards. They probably hadn't the faintest idea that her going off like that would create such a fuss, and once they started on it, well, they just had to go through with it. So they all stuck together. And told the same story.'

  'You may well be right'

  'If I am, sir, don't you think it would be a good idea to fetch Phillipson and the Taylors in? I mean, it would save us a lot of trouble.'

  'Save us going all the way to Caernarfon, you mean?'

  'Yes. If they spill the beans, we can get Acum brought down here.'

  'What if they all stick to their story?'

  'Then we'll have to go and get him.'

  'I'm afraid it's not quite so easy as that,' said Morse.

  'Why not?'

  'I tried to get Phillipson first thing this morning. He went off to Brighton yesterday afternoon — to a headmasters' conference.'

  'Oh.'

  'And the Taylors left by car for Luton airport at 6.30 yesterday morning. They're spending a week on a package tour in the Channel Islands. So the neighbours say.'

  'Oh.'

  'And,' continued Morse, 'we're still trying to find out who killed Baines, remember?'

  'That's why you've asked the Caernarfon police to pick him up?'

  'Yep. And we'd better not keep him waiting too long. It's about four and a half hours — non-stop. So we'll allow five. We might want to give the car a little rest on the way.'

  Outside a pub, thought Lewis, as he pulled on his overcoat. But Lewis thought wrong.

  The traffic this Sunday morning was light and the police car made its way quickly up through Brackley and thence to Towcester where it turned left on to the A5. Neither man seemed particularly anxious to sustain much conversation, and a tacit silence soon prevailed between them, as if they waited tensely for the final wicket to fall in a test match. The traffic decelerated to a paralytic crawl at road works in Wellington, and suddenly Morse switched on full headlights and the blue roof-flasher, and wailing like a dalek in distress the car swept past the stationary column of cars and soon was speeding merrily along once more out on the open road. Morse turned to Lewis and winked almost happily.

  Along the Shrewsbury ring-road, Lewis ventured a conversational gambit. 'Bit of luck about this Miss Baker, wasn't it?'

  'Ye-es.' Lewis looked at the inspector curiously. 'Nice bit of stuff, sir?'

  'She's a prick-teaser.'

  'Oh.'

  They drove on through Betws-y-coed: Caernarfon 25 miles.

  'The real trouble,' said Morse suddenly, 'was that I thought she was dead.'

  'And now you think she's still alive?'

  'I very much hope so,' said Morse, with unwonted earnestness in his voice. 'I very much hope so.'

  At five minutes to three they came to the outskirts of Caernarfon, where ignoring the sign directing traffic to the city centre Morse turned left on to the main Pwllheli Road.

  'You know your way around here then, sir?'

  'Not too well. But we're going to pay a brief visit before we meet Acum.' He drove south to the village of Bont-Newydd, turned left off the main road and stopped outside a house with the front door painted Cambridge blue.

  'Wait here a minute.'

  Lewis watched him as he walked up the narrow front path and knocked on the door; and knocked again. Clearly there was no one at home. But then of course David Acum wouldn't be there; he was three miles away, detained for questioning on the instructions of the Thames Valley Police. Morse came back to the car and got in. His face seemed inexplicably grave.

  'No one in, sir?'

  Morse appeared not to hear. He kept looking around him, occasionally
glancing up into the driving mirror. But the quiet street lay preternaturally still in the sunny autumn afternoon.

  'Shan't we be a bit late for Acum, sir?'

  'Acum?' The inspector suddenly woke from his waking dreams. 'Don't worry about Acum. He'll be all right.'

  'How long do you plan to wait here?'