by Colin Dexter
They were within ten miles of Oxford when Lewis became vaguely conscious of Morse's mumbled words, muddled and indistinct; just words without coherent meaning. Yet gradually the words assumed a patterned sequence that Lewis almost understood: 'Bloody photographs — wouldn't recognize her — huh! — bloody things — huh!'
'We're here, sir.' It was the first time he had spoken for more than five hours and his voice sounded unnaturally loud.
Morse shrugged himself awake and blinked around him. 'I must have dozed off, Lewis. Not like me, is it?'
'Would you like to drop in at my place for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat?'
'No. But thanks all the same.' He eased himself out of the car like a chronic arthritic, yawned mightily, and stretched his arms. 'We'll take tomorrow off, Lewis. Agreed? We've just about deserved it, I reckon.'
Lewis said he reckoned, too. He parked the police car, backed out his own and waved a weary farewell.
Morse entered Police HQ and made his way along the dimly lit corridor to his office, where he opened his filing cabinet and riffled through the early documents in the Valerie Taylor case. He found it almost immediately, and as he looked down at the so familiar letter, once more his mind was sliding easily along the shining grooves. It must be. It must be!
He wondered if Lewis would ever forgive him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
And then there were two.
(Ten Little Nigger Boys)
'. . not generally appreciated. We all normally assume that the sex instinct is so obviously overriding, so primitively predominant that it must. .' Morse, newly woken and surprisingly refreshed, switched over to Radio Three; and thence to Radio Oxford. But none of the channels seemed anxious to inform him of the time of day, and he turned back to Radio Four. '. . and above all, of course, by Freud. Let us assume, for example, that we have been marooned on a desert island for three days without food, and ask ourselves which of the bodily instincts most craves its instant gratification.' With sudden interest Morse turned up the volume: the voice was donnish, slightly effeminate. 'Let us imagine that a beautiful blonde appears with a plate of succulent steak and chips. .' Leaning over to turn the volume higher still, Morse inadvertently nudged the tuning knob, and by the time he had recentred the station it was clear that the beautiful blonde had lost on points. '. . as we tuck into the steak and. .' Morse switched off. 'Shert erp, you poncy twit!' he said aloud, got out of bed, pulled on his clothes, walked downstairs and dialled the speaking clock. 'At the first stroke it will be eleven — twenty-eight — and forty seconds.' She sounded nice, and Morse wondered if she were a blonde. It was over twenty-four hours since he had eaten, but for the moment steak and chips was registering a poor third on the instinct index.
Without bothering to shave he walked round to the Fletchers' Arms where he surveyed with suspicion a pile of 'freshly cut' ham sandwiches beneath their plastic cover and ordered a glass of bitter. By 12.45 p.m. he had consumed four pints, and felt a pleasing lassitude pervade his limbs. He walked slowly home and fell fully clothed into his bed. This was the life.
He felt lousy when he woke again at 5.20 p.m., and wondered if he were in the old age of youth or the youth of old age.
By 6.00 p.m. he was seated in his office, clearing up the litter from his desk. There were several messages lying there, and one by one he relegated them to an in-tray which never had been clear and never would be clear. There was one further message, on the telephone pad: 'Ring 01-787 24392'. Morse flicked through the telephone book and found that 787 was the STD code for Stoke Newington. He rang the number.
'Hello?' The voice was heavy with sex.
'Ah. Morse here. I got your message. Er, can I help?'
'Oh, Inspector,' purred the voice. 'It was yesterday I tried to get you, but never mind. I'm so glad you rang.' The words were slow and evenly spaced. 'I just wondered if you wanted to see me again — you know, to make a statement or something? I wondered if you'd be coming down again. . perhaps?'
'That's very kind of you, Miss — er, Yvonne. But I think Chief Inspector Rogers will be along to see you. We shall need a statement, though — you're quite right about that.'
'Is he as nice as you are, Inspector?'
'Nowhere near,' said Morse.
'All right, whatever you say. But it would be so nice to see you again.'
'It would, indeed,' said Morse with some conviction in his voice.
'Well, I'd better say goodbye then. You didn't mind me ringing, did you?'
'No, er no, of course I didn't. It's lovely to hear your voice again.'
'Well, don't forget if you're ever this way you must call in to see me.'
'Yes, I will,' lied Morse.
'I really would love to see you again.'
'Same here.'
'You've got my address, haven't you?'
'Yes, I've got it.'
'And you'll make a note of the phone number?'
'Er, yes. Yes, I'll do that.'
'Goodbye, then, till we see each other again.' From the tone of her voice Morse guessed she must be lying there, her hands sensuously sliding along those beautiful limbs; and all he had to do was to say, yes, he'd be there! London wasn't very far away, and the night was still so young. He pictured her as she had been on the night that he had met her, the top button of the pyjama jacket already undone; and in his mind's eye his fingers gently unfastened the other buttons, one by one, and slowly drew the sides apart.
'Goodbye,' he said sadly.
He walked to the canteen and ordered black coffee.
'I thought you were taking the day off,' said a voice behind him.
'You must love this bloody place, Lewis!'
'I rang up. They said you were here.'
'Couldn't you stick it at home?'
'No. The missus says I get under her feet.'
They sat down together, and it was Lewis who put their thoughts into words. 'Where do we go from here, sir?'
Morse shook his head dubiously. 'I don't know.'
'Will you tell me one thing?'
'If I can.'
'Have you any idea at all about who killed Baines?'
Idly Morse stirred the strong black coffee. 'Have you?'
'The real trouble is we seem to be eliminating all the suspects. Not many left, are there?'
'We're not beaten yet,' said Morse with a sudden and unexpected lift of spirits. 'We got a bit lost in the winding mazes, and we still can't see the end of the road, but. .' He broke off and stared through the window. In a sudden gust of wind a shower of leaves rained down from the thinning trees.
'But what, sir?'
'Somebody once said that the end is the beginning, Lewis.'
'Not a particularly helpful thing to say, was it?'
'Ah, but I think it was. You see, we know what the beginning was.'
'Do we?'
'Oh yes. We know that Phillipson met Valerie Taylor one night, and we know that when he was appointed headmaster he discovered that she was one of his own pupils. That was where it all began, and that's where we've got to look now. There's nowhere else to look.'
'You mean. . Phillipson?'
'Or Mrs. Phillipson.'
'You don't think—'
'I don't think it matters much which of them you go for. They had the same motive; they had the same opportunity.'
'How do we set about it?'
'How do you set about it, you mean. I'm leaving it to you, Lewis.'
'Oh.'
'Want a bit of advice?' Morse smiled weakly. 'Bit of a cheek, isn't it, me giving you advice?'
'Of course I want your advice,' said Lewis quietly. 'We both know that.'
'All right. Here's a riddle for you. You look for a leaf in the forest, and you look for a corpse on the battle-field. Right? Where do you look for a knife?'
'An ironmonger's shop?'
'No, not a new knife. A knife that's been used — used continuously; used so much that the blade is wearing away.'
'A
butcher's shop?'
'Warmer. But we haven't got a butcher in the case, have we?'
'A kitchen?'
'Ah! Which kitchen?'
'Phillipson's kitchen?'
'They'd only have one knife. It would be missed, wouldn't it?'
'Perhaps it was missed.'
'I don't think so, somehow, though you'll have to check. No, we need to find a place where knives are in daily use; a lot of knives; a place where no one would notice the loss of a single knife; a place at the very heart of the case. Come on, Lewis! Lots of people cutting up spuds and carrots and meat and everything. .'
'The canteen at the Roger Bacon School,' said Lewis slowly.
Morse nodded. 'It's an idea, isn't it?'
'Ye-es.' Lewis pondered for a while and nodded his agreement. 'But you say you want me to look into all this? What about you?'
'I'm going to look into the only other angle we've got left.'
'What's that?'
'I've told you. The secret of this case is locked away in the beginning: Phillipson and Valerie Taylor. You've got one half; I've got the other.'
'You mean. .?' Lewis had no idea what he meant.
Morse stood up. 'Yep. You have a go at the Phillipsons. I shall have to find Valerie.' He looked down at Lewis and grinned disarmingly. 'Where do you suggest I ought to start looking?'
Lewis stood up, too. 'I've always thought she was in London, sir. You know that. I think she just. .'
But Morse was no longer listening. He felt the icy fingers running along his spine, and there was a sudden wild elation in the pale-grey eyes. 'Why not, Lewis? Why not?'
He walked back to his office, and dialled the number immediately. After all, she had invited him, hadn't she?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The only way of catching a train I ever discovered is to miss the one before.
(G. K. Chesterton)
'MUMMY?' ALISON MANAGED a very important frown upon her pretty little face as her mother tucked her early into bed at 8 p.m.
'Yes, darling?'
'Will the policemen be coming to see Daddy again when he gets back?'
'I don't think so, darling. Don't start worrying your little head about that.'
'He's not gone away to prison or anything like that, has he?'
'Of course he hasn't, you silly little thing! He'll be back tonight, you know that, and I'll tell him to come in and give you a big kiss — I promise.'
Alison was silent for a few moments. 'Mummy, he's not done anything wrong, has he?'
'No, you silly little thing. Of course he hasn't.'
Alison frowned again as she looked up into her mother's eyes. 'Even if he did do something wrong, he'd still be my daddy, wouldn't he?'
'Yes. He'd still be your daddy, whatever happened.'
'And we'd forgive him, wouldn't we?'
'Yes, my darling. . And you'd forgive Mummy, too, wouldn't you, if she did something wrong? Especially if. .'
'Don't worry, Mummy. God forgives everybody, doesn't he? And my teacher says that we must all try to be like him.'
Mrs. Phillipson walked slowly down the stairs, and her eyes were glazed with tears.
Morse left the Lancia at home and walked down from North Oxford to the railway station. It took him almost an hour and he wasn't at all sure why he'd decided to do it; but his head felt clear now and the unaccustomed exercise had done him good. At twenty past eight he stood outside the station buffet and looked around him. It was dark, but just across the way the street lights shone on the first few houses in Kempis Street. So close! He hadn't quite realized just how close to the railway station it was. A hundred yards? No more, certainly. Get off the train on Platform 2, cross over by the subway, hand your ticket in. . For a second or two he stood stock-still and felt the old familiar thrill that coursed along his nerves. He was catching the 8.35 train — the same train that Phillipson could have caught that fateful night so long ago. . Paddington about 9.40. Taxi. Let's see. . Yes, with a bit of luck he'd be there about 10.15.
He bought a first-class ticket and walked past the barrier on to Platform № 1, and almost immediately the loudspeaker intoned from somewhere in the station roof above: 'The train now arriving at Platform 1, is for Reading and Paddington only. Passengers for. .' But Morse wasn't listening.
He sat back comfortably and closed his eyes. Idiot! Idiot! It was all so simple really. Lewis had found the pile of books in the store-room and had sworn there'd been no dust upon the top one; and all Morse had done had been to shout his faithful sergeant's head off. Of course there had been no dust on the top book! Someone had taken a book from the top of the selfsame pile — a book that was doubtless thick with dust by then. Taken it recently, too. So very recently in fact that the book at the top of the remaining pile was virtually free from dust when Lewis had picked it up. Someone. Yes, a someone called Baines who had taken it home and studied it very hard. But not because he'd wished to forge a letter in Valerie Taylor's hand. That had been one of Morse's biggest mistakes. There was, as he had guessed the night before, a blindingly obvious answer to the question of why Baines had written the letter to Valerie's parents. The answer was that he hadn't. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor had received the letter on the Wednesday morning and had been in two minds about taking it to the police — George Taylor himself had told Morse exactly that. Why? Obviously because they couldn't decide whether it had come from Valerie or not: it might just have been a hoax. It must surely have been Mrs. Taylor who had taken it to Baines; and Baines had very sensibly taken an exercise book from the store-room and written out his own parallel version of the brief message, copying as accurately as he could the style and shape of Valerie's own lettering as he found it in the Applied Science book. And then he'd compared the letter from Valerie with his own painstaking effort, and pronounced to Mrs. Taylor that at least in his opinion the letter seemed completely genuine. That was how things must have happened. And there was something else, too. The logical corollary of all this was that Mr. and Mrs. Taylor had no idea at all about where Valerie was. For more than two years they had heard nothing whatsoever from her. And if both of them were genuinely puzzled about the letter, there seemed one further inescapable conclusion: the Taylors were completely in the clear. Go on, Morse! Keep going! With a smooth inevitability the pieces were falling into place. Keep going!
Well, if this hypothesis were correct, the overwhelming probability was that Valerie was alive and that she had written the letter herself. It was just as Peters said it was; just as Lewis said it was; just as Morse himself had said it wasn 't. Moreover, as he had learned the previous evening, there was a very interesting and suggestive piece of corroborative evidence. Acum had given it to him: Valerie was always using the expression 'all right', he'd said. And on his return Morse had checked the letter once again:
Just to let you know I'm alright so don't worry. Sorry I've not written before but I'm alright.
And Ainley (poor old Ainley!) had not only known that she was still alive; he'd actually found her — Morse felt sure of that now. Or, at the very least, he'd discovered where she could be found. Stolid, painstaking old Ainley! A bloody sight better cop than he himself would ever be. (Hadn't Strange said the same thing — right at the beginning?) Valerie could never have guessed the full extent of the hullabaloo that her disappearance had caused. After all, hundreds of young girls went missing every year. Hundreds. But had she suddenly learned of it, so long after the event? Had Ainley actually met her and told her? It seemed entirely probable now, since the very next day she had sat down and written to her parents for the very first time. That was all. Just a brief scratty little letter! And that prize clown Morse had been called in. Big stuff. Christ! What a mess, what a terribly unholy mess he'd made of everything!
They were well into the outskirts of London now, and Morse walked out to the corridor and lit a cigarette. Only one thing worried him now: the thought that had flashed across his mind as he stood outside the station buffet and looked acros
s at Kempis Street. But he'd know soon enough now; so very soon he'd know it all.
