by Colin Dexter
CHAPTER FORTY
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
(A. E. Housman, Last Poems)
IT WAS JUST AFTER ten-thirty when he paid and tipped the taxi driver: it cost him more than the return first-class fare to London. At the bottom of the building he found, as before, the lift for the even-numbered floors on his left and that for the odd on his right. He remembered the floor. Of course he did.
She was radiant. That was the best epithet for her, although there were many others. She wore a thin black sweater in which her full and bra-less breasts bobbed irresistibly; and a long black skirt, slit high along her leg and leaving a sublime uncertainty of what she wore below. Her mouth, just as he had seen it last, was stickily seductive, the lips moist and slightly parted, theteedi so gleaming white. O Lord, have mercy on our souls!
'What would you like to drink, Inspector? Whisky? Gin?'
'Whisky, please. Lovely.'
She disappeared into the kitchen, and Morse moved quickly over to a small shelf of books beside the deeply-leathered divan. Rapidly he flicked open the front covers of the books there, and as rapidly replaced them. Only one of them held his attention and that only for a few seconds, when the grey eyes momentarily flashed with a glint of satisfaction, if not surprise.
He was seated on the divan when she returned with a large whisky in a cut-glass tumbler and sat down beside him.
'Aren't you drinking?'
Her eyes met his and held them. 'In a minute,' she whispered, linking her arm through his, the tips of her fingers gently tracing slow designs along his wrist.
Softly he took her hand in his, and for a short sweet second the thrill was that of a sharp electric shock that shot along his veins, and a zig-zag current that sparked across his temples. He looked down at her delicately-fingered left hand, and saw across the bottom of the index finger the faint white line of an old scar — like the scar that was mentioned in the medical report on Valerie Taylor, when she had cut herself with a carving knife — in Kidlington, when she was a pupil at the Roger Bacon School.
'What shall I call you?' she asked suddenly. 'I can't go on calling you "Inspector" all night, can I?'
'It's a funny thing,' said Morse. 'But no one ever calls me by my Christian name.'
Lightly she touched his cheek with her lips, and her hand moved slowly along his leg. 'Never mind. If you don't like your name, you can always change it, you know. There's no law against that.'
'No, there isn't. I could always change it if I wanted to, I suppose. Just like you changed yours.'
Her body stiffened and she took her hand away. 'And what on earth is that supposed to mean?'
'You told me your name was Yvonne the last time I saw you. But that isn't your real name, is it? Is it, Valerie?'
'Valerie? You can't possibly. .' But she was unable to articulate her thoughts beyond that point, and a look of profound perplexity appeared to cross her beautiful face. She stood up.
'Look, Inspector, or whatever your name is, my name's Yvonne Baker — you'd better get that straight before we go any further. If you don't believe me you can ring the couple on the floor below. I was at school in Seven Sisters Road with Joyce—'
'Go ahead,' said Morse blandly. 'Ring up your old school pal if you want to. Why not tell her to come up to see us?'
A look of anger flashed across her face and momentarily made it less than beautiful. She hesitated; then walked over to the phone and dialled a number.
Morse leaned back and sipped his whisky contentedly. Even from across the room he could hear the muted, metallic purrs with perfect clarity; he found himself mentally counting them. . Finally she put down the phone and came back to sit beside him once more. He reached to the book-shelf, abstracted a small hardbound copy of Jane Eyre, and opened the front cover. Inside was the label of the Roger Bacon Comprehensive School, on which Valerie's own name appeared, appended to those of her literary predecessors:
Angela Lowe 5C
Mary Ann Baldwin 5B
Valerie Taylor 5C
He passed it across to her. 'Well?'
She shook her head in exasperation. 'Well what?'
'Is it yours?'
'Of course it isn't mine. It's Valerie's — you can see that. She gave it me to read in the clinic. It was one of her O-level set books, and she thought I'd enjoy reading it. But I never got round to it and I. . I just forgot to give it her back, that's all.'
'And that's your story?'
'It isn't a story. It's the truth. I don't know—'
'What went wrong at home, Valerie? Did you—'
'Oh God! What the hell are you on about? I'm not Valerie. It's. . I. . I. . I just don't know where to start. Look, my parents live in Uxbridge — can you understand that? I can ring them. You can ring them. I—'
'I know your parents, Valerie. You got so fed up with them that you left them. Left them without a word of explanation — at least until Ainley found you. And then at long last you did write home—'
'What are you talking about? Ainly? Who's he? I've. . Oh, what's the good!' Her voice had grown shrill and harsh, but suddenly she subsided almost helplessly against the back of the divan. 'All right, Inspector! Have it your way. You tell me what happened.'
'You wrote home then,' continued Morse. 'You hadn't realized what a terrible fuss you'd caused until Inspector Ainley saw you. But Ainley was killed. He was killed in a road accident on his way back to Oxford on the very same day he saw you.'
'I'm sorry to interrupt, Inspector. But I thought I was Yvonne Baker. When did I suddenly change to Valerie Taylor?' Her voice was quite calm now.
'You met Yvonne in the abortion clinic. You were fed up with home, fed up with school; and Yvonne. . well, probably, she put the idea into your head. For argument's sake, let's say she was a girl with lots of money, rich parents — probably going off to Switzerland or somewhere for a year's holiday after it was all over. Why not take her name? Start a new life? You've nothing to lose, have you? You'd decided not to go back home, whatever happened. You hardly saw your mother anyway, except at lunchtimes, and her only real interests in life were booze and Bingo — and men, of course. And then there's your step-father: not very bright, perhaps, but likeable enough, in an odd sort of way. That is until he started getting a bit too fond of his beautiful step-daughter. And your mother got to know about that, I think, and when you got yourself pregnant, she suspected a terrible thing. She suspected that he might well be the father, didn't she? And she flew into an almighty rage about it, and for you this was the last straw. You just had to go; and you did go. But fortunately you had someone to help you; your headmaster. There's no need to go into all that — but you know all about it as well as I do. You could count on him — always. He fixed up the clinic, and he gave you some money. You'd probably packed a case the night before and arranged to meet him somewhere to stow it away safely in the boot of his car. And then on the Tuesday he picked you up just after school had started for the afternoon and took you to the railway station. You only had a bag with you — no doubt with your clothes in it — and you changed on the train and arrived at the clinic. Shall I go on?'
'Yes please. It's quite fascinating!'
'You just interrupt me if I go wrong, that's all.'
'But. .' She gave it up and sat there silently shaking her head.
'I'm guessing now,' continued Morse, 'but I should think Yvonne put you on to a job — let's say a job in a West End store. The school-leavers hadn't crowded the market yet, and it was fairly easy for you. You'd need a testimonial or a reference, I realize that. But you rang Phillipson and told him the position, and he took care of that. It was your first job. No bother. No employment cards, or stamps or anything. So that was that.'
Morse turned and looked again at the chic, sophisticated creature beside him. They wouldn't recognize her back in Kidlington now, would they? They'd remember only the young schoolgirl in her red socks and her white blouse. They would
always attract the men, these two — mother and daughter alike. Somehow they shared the same intangible yet pervasive sensuality, and the Lord had fashioned them so very fair.
'Is that the finish?' she asked quietly.
Morse's reply was brusque. 'No, it's not. Where were you last Monday night?'
'Last Monday night? What's that got to do with you?'
'What train did you catch the night that Baines was killed?'
She looked at him in utter astonishment now. 'What train are you talking about? I haven't—'
'Didn't you go there that night?'
'Go where?'
'You know where. You probably caught the 8.15 from Paddington and arrived in Oxford at about 9.30.'
'You must be mad! I was in Hammersmith last Monday night.'
'Were you?'
'Yes, I was. I always go to Hammersmith on Monday nights.'
'Go on.'
'You really want to know?' Her eyes grew softer again, and she shook her head sadly. 'If you must know there's a sort of. . sort of party we have there every Monday.'
'What time?'
'Starts about nine.'
'And you were there last Monday?'
She nodded, almost fiercely.
'You go every Monday, you say?'
'Yes.'
'Why aren't you there tonight?'
'I. . well, I just thought. . when you rang. .' She looked at him with doleful eyes. 'I didn't think it was going to be like this.'
'What time do these parties finish?'
'They don't.'
'You stay all night, you mean.'
She nodded.
'Sex parties?'
'In a way.'
'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'
'You know. The usual sort of thing: films to start with. .'
'Blue films?'
Again she nodded.
'And then?'
'Oh God! Come off it. Are you trying to torture yourself, or something?'
She was far too near the truth, and Morse felt miserably embarrassed. He got to his feet and looked round fecklessly for his coat. 'You'll have to give me the address, you realize that.'
'But I can't. I'd—'
'Don't worry,' said Morse wearily. 'I shan't pry any more than I have to.'
He looked once more around the expensive flat. She must earn a lot of money, somehow; and he wondered if it was all much compensation for the heartache and the jealousy that she must know as well as he. Or perhaps we weren't all the same. Perhaps it wasn't possible to live as she had done and keep alive the finer, tenderer compassions.
He looked across at her as she sat at a small bureau, writing something down: doubtless the address of the bawdy house in Hammersmith. He had to have that, whatever happened. But did it matter all that much? He knew instinctively that she was there that night, among the wealthy, lecherous old men who gloated over pornographic films, and pawed and fondled the figures of the high-class prostitutes who sat upon their knees unfastening their flies. So what? He was a lecherous old man too, wasn't he? Very nearly, anyway. Just a sediment of sensitivity still. Just a little. Just a little.
She came over to him, and for a moment she was very beautiful again. 'I've been very patient with you, Inspector, don't you think?'
'I suppose so, yes. Patient, if not particularly cooperative.'
'Can I ask you a question?'
'Of course.'
'Do you want to sleep with me tonight?'
The back of Morse's throat felt suddenly very dry. 'No.'
'You really mean that?'
'Yes.'
'All right.' Her voice was brisker now. 'Let me be "co-operative" then, as you call it.' She handed him a sheet of notepaper on which she had written two telephone numbers.
The first one's my father's. You may have to drag him out of bed, but he's almost certainly home by now. The other one's the Wilsons, downstairs. As I told you, I was at school with Joyce. I'd like you to ring them both, please.'
Morse took the paper and said nothing.
Then there's this.' She handed him a passport. 'I know it's out of date, but I've only been abroad once. To Switzerland, three years ago last June.'
With a puzzled frown Morse opened the passport and the unmistakable face of Miss Yvonne Baker smiled up at him in gentle mockery from a Woolworth poly-foto. Three years last June. . whilst Valerie Taylor was still at school in Kidlington. Well before she. . before. .
Morse took off his coat and sat down once again on the divan. 'Will you ring your friends below, Yvonne? And if you're feeling very kind, can I please ask you to pour me another whisky? A stiff one.'
At Paddington he was informed that the last train to Oxford had departed half an hour earlier. He walked into the cheerless waiting room, put his feet up on the bench, and soon fell fast asleep.
At 3.30 a.m. a firm hand shook him by the shoulder, and he looked up into the face of a bearded constable,
'You can't sleep here, sir. I shall have to ask you to move on, I'm afraid.'
'You surely don't begrudge a man a bit of kip, do you, officer?'
'I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to move on, sir.'
Morse almost told him who he was. But simultaneously the other sleepers were being roused and he wondered why he should be treated any differently from his fellow men.
'All right, officer.' Huh! 'All right': that's what Valerie would have said. But he put the thought aside and walked wearily out of the station. Perhaps he'd have more luck at Marylebone. He needed a bit of luck somewhere.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Pilate saith unto him, What is truth?
(John, xviii)
DONALD PHILLIPSON WAS a very worried man. The sergeant had been very proper, of course, and very polite: 'routine inquiries', that was all. But the police were getting uncomfortably close. A knife that might be missing from the school canteen — that was perfectly understandable: but from his own kitchen! And it was no great surprise that he himself should be suspected of murder: but Sheila! He couldn't talk to Sheila, and he wouldn't let her talk to him: the subject of Valerie Taylor and, later, the murder of Baines lay between them like a no-man's-land, isolated and defined, upon which neither dared to venture. How much did Sheila know? Had she learned that Baines was blackmailing him? Had she learned or half-guessed the shameful reason? Baines himself may have hinted at the truth to her. Baines! God rot his soul! But whatever Sheila had done or intended to do on the night that Baines was killed was utterly unimportant, and he wished to know nothing of it. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he, Donald Phillipson, who was guilty of murdering Baines.
The walls of the small study seemed gradually to be closing in around him. The cumulative pressures of the last three years had now become too strong, and the tangled web of falsehood and deceit had enmeshed his very soul. If he were to retain his sanity he had to do something; something to bring a period of peace to a conscience tortured to its breaking-point; something to atone for all the folly and the sin. Again he thought of Sheila and the children and he knew that he could hardly face them for much longer. And interminably his thoughts went dancing round and round his head and always settled to the same conclusion. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he and only he who was guilty of murdering Baines.
Morning school was almost over, and Mrs. Webb was tidying up her desk as he walked through.
'I shan't be in this afternoon, Mrs. Webb.'
'No. I realize that, sir. You never are on Tuesdays.'
'Er, no. Tuesday afternoon, of course. I'd, er. . I'd forgotten for the minute.'
It was like hearing the phone in a television play: he knew there was no need to answer it himself. He still felt wretchedly tired and he buried his head again in the pillows. Having found no more peace at Marylebone than at Paddington, he had finally arrived back in Oxford at 8.05 a.m., and had taken a taxi home. One way or another it had been an expensive debacle.
An hour later the phone rang again. Shrill, peremp
tory, now, registering at a higher level of his consciousness; and shaking his head awake, he reached for the receiver on the bedside table. He yawned an almighty 'Yeah?' into the mouthpiece and levered himself up to a semi-vertical position. 'Lewis? What the hell do you want?'
'I've been trying to get you since two o'clock, sir. It's—'
'What? What time is it now?'
'Nearly three o'clock, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you but I've got a bit of a surprise for you.'
'Huh, I doubt it.'
