by Colin Dexter
He must, too, surely he must, figure in at least the top 5 % of the IQ range? Jennifer wouldn't fall for an ignorant buffoon, would she? That letter. Clever chap, well schooled. If he wrote it. If, if, if. Carry on. Where's our x now? Go on. He must be attractive to women. Yet who can say what attracts those lovely creatures? But yes. Say yes. Subdivide. Cars! God, he'd forgotten cars. Not everyone has a car. About what proportion? Never mind, subdivide. Just a minute— red car. He felt slightly delirious. Just a fraction longer. . That really would be a significant subdivision. The x was floating slowly away, and now was gone. The pain was less vicious. Comfortable. . almost. . comfortable. .
He was woken at 4.00 p.m. by Lewis's inability to manage the front door without a disturbing clatter. And when Lewis anxiously put his head round the bedroom door, he saw Morse scribbling as furiously as Coleridge must have scribbled when he woke up to find, full grown within his mind, the whole of Kubla Khan.
'Sit down, Lewis. Glad to see you.' He continued to write with furious rapidity for two or three minutes. Finally he looked up. 'Lewis, I'm going to ask you some questions. Think carefully — don't rush! — and give me some intelligent answers. You'll have to guess, I know, but do your best.'
Oh hell, thought Lewis.
'How many people live in North Oxford?'
'What do you call "North Oxford", sir?'
'I'm asking the questions, you're answering 'em. Just think generally what you think North Oxford is; let's say Summertown and above. Now come on!'
'I could find out, sir.'
'Have a bloody guess, man, can't you?"
Lewis felt uncomfortable. At least he could see that only three of the beer cans were empty. He decided to plunge in. 'Ten thousand.' He said it with the assurance and unequivocal finality of a man asked to find the sum of two and two.
Morse took another sheet of paper and wrote down the number 10,000. 'What proportion of them are men?'
Lewis leaned back and eyed the ceiling with the confidence of a statistical consultant. 'About a quarter.'
Morse wrote down his second entry neatly and carefully beneath the first: 2,500. 'How many of those men are between 35 and 50?'
Quite a lot of retired people in North Oxford, thought Lewis, and quite a lot of young men on the estates. 'About half, no more.'
The third figure was entered: 1,250. 'How many of them are married, would you say?'
Lewis considered. Most of them, surely? 'Four out of five, sir.'
Morse formed the figures of his latest calculation with great precision: 1,000.
'How many of them regularly go out for a drink — you know what I mean — pubs, clubs, that sort of thing?'
Lewis thought of his own street. Not so many as some people thought. The neighbours on either side of him didn't — mean lot! He thought of the street as a whole. Tricky this one. 'About half.'
Morse revised his figure and went on to his next question. 'You remember the letter we had, Lewis. The letter Jennifer Coleby said she knew nothing about?' Lewis nodded. 'If we were right in thinking what we did, or what I did, would you say we were dealing with a man of high intelligence?'
'That's a big if, isn't it, sir?'
'Look, Lewis. That letter was written by our man — just get that into your head. It was the big mistake he made. It's the best clue we've got. What the hell do they pay us for. We've got to follow the clues, haven't we?' Morse didn't sound very convinced, but Lewis assured him that they had to follow the clues. 'Well?'
'Well what, sir?'
'Was he an intelligent man?'
'Very much so, I should think.'
'Would you think of writing a letter like that?',
'Me? No, sir.'
'And you're pretty bright, aren't you Sergeant?'
Lewis squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and decided not to minimize his intellectual capacity. 'I'd say I was in the top 15 %, sir.'
'Good for you! And our unknown friend? You remember he not only knows how to spell all the tricky words, he knows how to misspell them, too!'
'Top 5 %, sir.'
Morse wrote down the calculation.
'What proportion of middle-aged men are attractive to women?' Silly question! Morse noticed the derision in Lewis's face. "You know what I mean. Some men are positively repulsive to women!' Lewis seemed unconvinced. 'I know all about these middle-aged Romeos. We're all middle-aged Romeos. But some men are more attractive to women than others, aren't they?'
'I don't get many falling for me, sir.'
'That's not what I'm asking you. Say something, for God's sake!'
Lewis plunged again. 'Half? No, more than that. Three out of five.'
'You're sure you mean that?'
Of course he wasn't sure. 'Yes.'
Another figure. 'How many men of this age group have cars?'
'Two out of three.' What the hell did it matter?
Morse wrote down his penultimate figure. 'One more question. How many people own red cars?'
Lewis went to the window and watched the traffic going by. He counted. Two black, one beige, one dark blue, two white, one green, one yellow, one black. 'One in ten, sir."
Morse had shown a growing excitement in his manner for the last few minutes. 'Phew! Who'd have believed it? Lewis, you're a genius!'
Lewis thanked him for the compliment and asked wherein his genius lay. 'I think, Lewis, that we're looking for a male person, resident in North Oxford, married — probably a family, too; he goes out for a drink fairly regularly, sometimes to Woodstock; he's a well-educated man, may even be a university man; he's about 35 to 45, as I see him, with a certain amount of charm — certainly, I think a man some of the young ladies could fall for; finally he drives a car — to be precise a red car.'
'He'd be as good as anyone, I suppose.'
'Well, even if we're a bit out here and there, I'd bet my bottom dollar he's pretty likely to fit into most of those categories. And, do you know, Lewis, I don't think there are many who fall into that category. Look here.' He passed over to Lewis the sheet of paper containing the figures.
North Oxford? 10,000
Men? 2,500
35-50? 1,250
Married? 1,000
Drinker? 500
Top 5 %? 25
Charm? 15
Car? 10
Red Car? 1
Lewis felt a guilty sense of responsibility for the remarkable outcome of these computations. He stood by the window in the fading light of afternoon, and saw two red cars go by one after the other. How many people did live in North Oxford? Was he really in the top 15 %? 25 % more likely. 'I'm sure, sir, that we could check a lot of these figures.' Lewis felt constrained to voice his suspicions. 'I don't think you can just fiddle about with figures like that, anyway. You'd need to. .' He had a dim recollection of the need for some statistical laws operating on data; the categories had to be ordered and reduced in logical sequence; he couldn't quite remember. But it was all little more than an elaborate game to amuse a fevered brain. Morse would be up in a day or so. Better look after him and humour him as best he could. But was there any logic in it? Was it all that stupid? He looked again at the paper of figures and another red car went by. There were nine 'ifs'. He stared gloomily out of the window and mechanically counted the next ten cars. Only one red one! North Oxford was, of course, the biggest gamble. But the fellow had to live somewhere didn't he? Perhaps the old boy was not so cuckoo as he'd thought. He looked at the sheet yet again. . The other big thing was that letter. If the murderer had written it.
'What do you think then, Lewis?'
'Might be worth a go.'
'How many men do you want?'
'We'd need to do a bit of thinking first, wouldn't we?'
'What do you mean?'
'The local authorities could help a good deal. First we'd need some up-to-date lists of residents.'
'Yes. You're right. We need to think it through before we do anything.'
'That's what I thought, sir'.<
br />
'Well?'
'We could get straight on to it in the morning, sir, if you felt up to it.'
'Or we could get straight on to it now if you felt up to it?'
'I suppose we could.'
Lewis rang his long-suffering spouse, and conferred with Morse for the next two hours. After he had left, Morse reached for a bedside phone and was lucky to find the Chief Superintendent still in his office. And half an hour later Morse was still talking, and ruefully cursing himself for having forgotten to reverse the charges.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saturday, 9 October
ON THE MORNING of Saturday, 9 October Bernard Crowther sat at his desk in his front room reading Milton, but not with his usual thrilled enjoyment. He was lecturing on Paradise Lost this term and in spite of his thorough and scholarly mastery of the work he felt he should do a little more homework. Margaret had caught the bus to Summertown to do her shopping and his car was ready outside to pick her up at midday. The children were out. Goodness knew where.
He was surprised to hear the front door bell ring, for they had few callers. Butcher perhaps. He opened the door.
'Why, Peter! What a surprise! Come in, come in.' Peter Newlove and Bernard had been firm friends for years. They had arrived at Lonsdale College the same term and since then had enjoyed a warm and genuine relationship. "What brings you here? Not very often we have the pleasure of seeing you in North Oxford. I thought you played golf on Saturday mornings, anyway.'
'I couldn't face it this morning. Bit chilly round the fairways, you know.' The weather had turned much colder the last two days, and the autumn had suddenly grown old. The day seemed bleak and sour. Peter sat down. "Working on Saturday morning, Bernard?'
'Just getting ready for next week.'
Peter looked across at the desk. 'Ah. Paradise Lost, Book I. I remember that. We did it for higher certificate.'
'You've read it since, of course.'
'From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer's day. What about that?'
'Very fine.' Bernard looked out of the window and saw the white hoar-frost still unmelted on his narrow lawn.
'Is everything all right, Bernard?' The man from Gloucestershire spoke with an abrupt kindliness.
'Course everything's all right. Why did you say that?' It was clear to Peter that everything was far from right.
'Oh, I don't know. You just seemed a bit on edge on Wednesday night. Scuttled away like a startled hare after the dinner.'
'I'd forgotten that Margaret would be late, and I knew the kids would be waiting outside.'
'I see.'
'Was it that obvious?'
'No, not really. I was watching you, that's all. You didn't seem your old self when we had a drink together, and I thought you might be a bit under the weather.' Bernard said nothing. 'Everything OK with you and er Margaret?'
'Oh, yes. Fine. I've got to collect her, by the way, at twelve. What's the time now?'
'Half past eleven.' Peter rose to his feet.
'No, don't go! We've got time for a quick drink. What'll you have?'
'Are you going to have one?'
'Of course I am. Whisky?'
'Fine.'
Bernard withdrew to the kitchen to get the glasses, and Peter stood in front of the window, looking out into the narrow street. A car, white and pale blue, with a light (not flashing) on the roof and POLICE marked in bold black lettering across its side, was parked across the way, two or three doors to the left. It had not been there when Peter arrived. As he watched, a police constable, with a black and white chequered band around his flat, peaked hat, was coming out of a front gate. A middle-aged woman walked with him and the two were talking freely, pointing between them to every point of the compass. More talk and further pointing arms. Was she pointing here? The constable had a list in his hand and he was clearly checking some names. The woman stood with her apron around her, clutching her arms about her middle to keep warm and chattering interminably on.
Bernard came in, the glasses clattering a little on the tray. 'Say when!'
'I see you've got a few criminals in the road, Bernard.'
'What did you say?' Bernard looked up sharply.
'Is the law always prowling around here like this?' Peter got no further. The door bell rang twice; shrill, peremptory. Bernard opened the door and stood face to face with the young constable.
'Can I help you, officer?'
'Yes, I think so, sir, if you will. Won't take more'n a minute. Is this your car, sir?' He pointed to the red 1100 outside.
'Yes, it is.'
'Just checking, sir. We've had a lot of cars stolen recently. Just checking.' He made a note in his book. 'Can you remember the registration number, sir?'
Mechanically Bernard recited the number.
'That's yours all right then, sir. Have you got your log-book handy, sir?'
'Is it necessary?'
'Well, it is rather important, if you don't mind, sir. We're checking as thoroughly as we can.'
Peter heard the conversation through the open door and felt strangely worried. Bernard came in and poked about haphazardly in his desk. 'Where the hell's Margaret. . They're checking on stolen cars, Peter. Shan't be a minute." He looked ashen, and could find nothing. I'm sorry, officer,' he called. 'Come in a minute, will you?'
'Thank you, sir. Don't worry if you can't put your hand on the log-book, sir. You can give me the information yourself quite easily.'
'What do you want to know?'
'Full name, sir?'
'Bernard Michael Crowther.'
'Age, sir?'
'Forty-one.'
'Married, sir?'
'Yes.'
'Children?'
'Two.'
'Occupation?'
'University lecturer.'
'That's about all, sir.' He closed his book. 'Oh, just one more thing. Have you left your car unlocked recently? You know what I mean. Is it locked now, for example?'
'No, I don't think so.'
"No, it isn't, sir. I tried all the doors before I called. It's an open invitation to car thieves, you know.'
'Yes, I'm sure you're right. I'll try to remember.'
'Do you use your car much, sir?'
'Not a great deal. Running around a bit in Oxford. Not much really.'
'You don't take it out when you go for a drink, for example?'
Peter thought he saw the daylight. Bernard had been drinking and driving, had he?
'No, not very often,' answered Bernard. 'I usually go round to The Fletcher's. It's not far; I always walk there.'
'Would you take the car if you went drinking outside Oxford, sir?'
'I'm afraid I would,' said Bernard slowly, in a helpless sort of way.
'Well, don't drink too much, sir, if you're driving. But I'm sure you know all about that.' The constable glanced quickly round the room and looked dryly at the two large tumblers of whisky; but he said nothing more until he reached the door. 'You don't know anyone else in the road who's got a red car, do you, sir? I've got to make a few more inquiries.'
Bernard thought, but his mind was swimming. He couldn't think of anybody. He closed his eyes and put his left hand on his forehead. Every day in term time he walked to the far end of the road. Red car? Red car? His was the only one, he was pretty sure of that.
'Well don't worry, sir. I'll just make one or two more, er. . Anyway, thank you for your help, sir.' He was gone. But not, Peter noticed, to make any more inquiries in that particular road. He walked straight to the police car (left unlocked) and immediately accelerated away.
