by Colin Dexter
Nor was he sure what to think when half an hour later the findings of the laboratory were phoned through. Lewis watched the Inspector's curious reactions.
'Are you sure. .? You're quite sure. .? Yes. Well, many thanks. You'll bring them over? Good. Thank you.'
'Well, Lewis, you're in for a surprise.'
'About the note?'
'Yes. About the note — the note someone wrote to the young lady who is now visiting "some friends" in London. They say they know whose typewriter it was.'
'And whose was it?"
'That's what's puzzling me. We've never heard of him before! He's a Mr. Peter Newlove.'
'And who's Mr. Peter Newlove?'
'It's time we found out.' He rang Lonsdale College for the second time that afternoon and found the same slow-motion porter presiding over the Lodge.
'Mr. Newlove, sir? No, I'm afraid he's not in college. Just let me check in the book. . No, sir.' He's away till Monday. Can I take a message? No? All right. Goodbye, sir.'
'Well, that's that,' said Morse. 'All our birds have flown. And I don't see much point in staying here, do you?' Lewis didn't.
'Let's just tidy up all this mess,' said Morse.
Lewis gathered together the papers on his side of the table — the photographs of Sylvia Kaye and the carefully drawn diagrams of the yard at The Black Prince, annotated in thin, spidery writing with details of everything found therein. He looked again at the close-ups of the murdered girl lying there, and felt a paternally protective urge to cover the harsh nakedness of her beautiful body.
'I'd like to get the bastard who did this,' he muttered.
'What's that?' Morse took the photographs from him.
'He must be a sex maniac, don't you think, sir? Tearing off her clothes like that and leaving her for anyone and everyone to see. God, I wish I knew who he was!'
'Oh, I don't think there's much difficulty about that,' said Morse.
Lewis looked at him incredulously. 'You mean you know?'
Morse nodded slowly, and locked away the file on Sylvia Kaye.
PART THREE
Search for a killer
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sunday, 17 October
SUE SAW DAVID off on the Birmingham train at 7.13 on Sunday evening. She told him what a marvellous weekend it had been — and so it had. On Saturday they had gone to the cinema, had a delicious Chinese meal and generally luxuriated in being together. Most of Sunday they had spent in Headington at the home of David's parents, pleasant, warm-hearted people, sensible enough to leave the two young love-birds alone for the greater part of the day. They hoped to marry some time next autumn, after David had finished his post-graduate year of research in metallurgy at the University of Warwick. He was hopeful (for he had taken a 'first') of getting a lectureship somewhere, and Sue encouraged him: she would rather be married to a lecturer than to an industrial chemist, or whatever metallurgists became. She thought that was the only thing about David of which she couldn't wholeheartedly approve — his choice of metallurgy. It had something to do with her own schooldays and the distaste she'd always felt amid the smells and silver slivers of the metalwork shop. There was something, too, about the hands of people who worked with metal: a sort of ingrained griminess, however patiently they were scrubbed.
The train lingered at Oxford station for several minutes and Sue kissed David fully and freely as he leaned from the window of an empty carriage.
'It's been lovely seeing you again, darling,' said David.
'Super.'
'You enjoyed it, didn't you?'
'Of course I did.' She laughed gaily. "Why on earth did you ask that?'
David smiled. ''It's just nice to know, that's all.' They kissed again, and Sue walked along with him for a few yards as the train pulled out.
'See you in a fortnight. Don't forget to write.'
'I won't,' said Sue. 'Bye.' She waved until the train had left the platform and she watched it curving its way towards the north, the red light on the rear coach bobbing and winking in the gathering darkness.
She walked slowly back down the platform, along the subway and up to the barrier on the other side. She gave in her platform ticket and made her way to Carfax. Here she had to wait for half an hour before a number 2 bus came along, and it was eight o'clock before she got off in North Oxford. She crossed the road and with her head down walked along Charlton Road and thought about the last two days. She could never have told David about Wednesday night. There was nothing to tell anyway, was there? Just a minor peccadillo. She supposed most people had their foolish moments — even engaged people — and there were some things that just could not be told. Not that David would have been jealous; he wasn't that sort, at all — mild, equable, balanced David. Perhaps she wouldn't mind if he were a bit jealous. But she knew, or thought she knew, that he wasn't; she could spot jealousy a mile off. She thought of Morse. She really had been very naughty at The Sheridan with Doctor Eyres, and Morse had been jealous — rabidly, furiously jealous. She'd secretly enjoyed making him jealous until. . Well, she wasn't going to think of him any more. . But she'd never cried over David. . She wondered if Morse believed her when she said she would be crying herself to sleep on Wednesday night. She hoped he had, for it was true. There she went again, starting with David and finishing with him. He'd probably not given her another thought. . David! He was her man. Married to David she would be happy at last. Marriage. A big step, they all said. But she was twenty-three now. . She hoped Morse had given her another thought. . Forget him!
But she was not to be allowed to forget him. As she reached the house she saw the Lancia outside. Her heart pounded against her ribs and a wave of involuntary joy coursed through her blood. She let herself in and went straight to the living-room. There he was, sitting talking to Mary. He stood up as she came in.
'Hullo.'
'Hullo,' she said weakly.
'I really called to see Miss Coleby, but I gather she may not be back yet for a while. So I've been having a delightful little chat with Mary here.'
Mary indeed! Dumpy, freckled, little man-eater! Why don't you go, Mary? Mary, why don't you leave us alone — just for a few minutes? Please! She felt viciously jealous. But Mary seemed very taken with the charming Inspector and showed no signs of imminent surrender. Sue, still wearing her summer coat, sat on the arm of a chair, trying to resist the wave of desperation that threatened to engulf her.
She heard herself say: 'She'll catch the 8.15 from Paddington, I should think. Probably get here about ten.' That was two hours. Two whole hours. If only Mary would go! He might ask her out for a drink and they could talk. But the wave swept her over, and she left the room and rushed upstairs. Morse got up as she left and thanked Mary for her hospitality. As he opened the front door he turned to Mary. Would she ask Sue to come down for a second? He would like to have a quick word with her. Mary, too, disappeared upstairs and blessedly faded from the scene. Morse stepped out into the concrete drive and Sue appeared, framed in the doorway. She stopped there.
'You wanted a word with me, Inspector?'
'Which room do you sleep in, Sue?' She stepped out and stood next to him. Her arm brushed his as she pointed to the window immediately above the front door, and Morse felt a jagged ache between his temples. He wasn't a tall man and she was almost his own height in the very high wedge-heeled shoes she wore. She dropped her arm and their hands met in an accidental, beautiful way. Leave your hand there, Sue. Leave it there, my darling. He felt the electric thrill of the contact and gently, softly he ran his finger tips along her wrist.
'Why do you want to know that?' Her voice sounded hoarse and breathless.
'I don't know. I suppose if I drive past and see a light on in your window I shall know it's you in there.'
Sue could bear it no longer. She took her hand from his and turned away. 'You came to see Jennifer, then?'
'Yes.'
'Ill tell her, of course — when she comes in.' Morse nodded.
&nb
sp; 'You think she's got something to do with the Woodstock business, don't you?"
'Something, perhaps.'
They stood in silence for a minute. Sue was wearing a sleeveless dress and she was trying not to shiver.
'Well, I'd better be off.'
'Goodnight, then.'
'Goodnight.' He turned towards the gate and had almost reached it when he turned round. 'Sue?' She stood in the doorway.
'Yes?'
He walked back. 'Sue, would you like to come out with me for a little while?'
'Oh. .' Sue got no further. She flung her arms around him and cried joyfully on his shoulder, and neither heard the front gate open.
'If you'll excuse me, please?' said a cool, well-spoken voice, and Jennifer Coleby edged past them into the house.
The other wanderers, too, were just returning. Bernard Crowther had returned from London on the same train as Jennifer Coleby; but they had travelled in separate parts of the train, and no one watching them alight at platform number 2 could have formed the slightest suspicion that either was aware of the other's existence.
About this time, too, Peter Newlove was taking his leave of a red-headed, radiant girl in Church Street, Woodstock. They kissed again with eagerness and seeming insatiability.
'I'll be in touch, Gaye.'
'Make sure you do — and thanks again.'
It had been an expensive weekend; very expensive, in fact. But it was, in Peter's view, worth almost every penny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Monday, 18 October
ON MONDAY MORNING, Morse decided that however embarrassing it would be he had his job to do. How he dreaded it, though! Here was the big moment, the denouement of the case (of that he felt quite confident) and yet he felt as if he himself were the guilty party. Lewis collected Jennifer Coleby in his own car; Morse felt he could just about spare her the official trappings. Bernard Crowther said he would make his own way, if that was all right. It was. Morse had tried to think out the likeliest approaches, but his concentration had been lapsing sadly. He decided to let things take their course.
At 10.25 a.m. Crowther arrived, five minutes early, and Morse poured him coffee and asked him a few casual questions about the 'conference'.
'Oh. The usual thing, you know. One long yawn,' said Crowther.
'What was it about exactly?'
'University admissions. Arguing the toss about A-level requirements. We're not very popular with the Schools Council, you know. They think Oxford is the last bastion of academic elitism. Still, I suppose it is really. .' He had no chance to develop his theme. Lewis came in with Jennifer Coleby, and Crowther got to his feet.
'You two know each other?' asked Morse. There was not a hint of cynicism in his voice. Strangely, or so it seemed to Morse, Jennifer and Crowther shook hands. 'Good mornings' were exchanged, and Morse, a trifle nonplussed, poured two more coffees.
'You do know each other?' He sounded rather unsure of himself.
'We live fairly near each other, don't we, Mr. Crowther?'
'We do, yes. I've often seen you on the bus. It's Miss Coleby, I think, isn't it? You come round for the SPCC.'
Jennifer nodded.
Morse got up and passed the sugar basin round. He felt he couldn't sit still.
During the next few minutes Lewis was forced to wonder if the Inspector had lost his grip completely. He um'd and ah'd and said 'to be honest with you' and 'we have some reason to suppose' and finally managed to suggest to his pair of prime suspects, almost apologetically, that they might be having an affair with each other.
Jennifer laughed almost aloud and Bernard smiled shyly. It was Bernard who spoke first. 'I'm sure I feel very flattered, Inspector, and I very much wish perhaps that I was having some secret affair with Miss Coleby. But I'm afraid the answer's no. What else can I say?'
'Miss Coleby?'
'I think I have spoken to Mr. Crowther twice in my life — to ask him for a donation to the SPCC. I sometimes see him on the bus going into town — we get on and off at the same stops. But I think he always goes upstairs and I never do. I hate the smell of cigarettes.'
Morse, who was smoking his third cigarette, felt once more that he was getting the worst of things with Jennifer Coleby. He turned to Crowther.
'I must ask you this, sir. Please think very carefully before you answer, and remember that you are here in connection with a murder, the murder of the girl who was travelling in your car.' Morse saw a look of surprise on Jennifer's face. 'Was Miss Coleby here the other passenger you picked up that night?'
Bernard replied with an immediacy and conviction that sorely troubled Morse. 'No, Inspector, she wasn't. Of that you can be completely assured.'
'And you, Miss Coleby. Do you deny that you were the other passenger in Mr. Crowther's car?'
'Yes. I do deny it. Absolutely.'
Morse drained his coffee.
'Do you want us to sign anything, Inspector?' There was a deep cynicism in Jennifer's voice.
Morse shook his head. 'No. Sergeant Lewis has made notes on what you've both said. One more question though, Miss Coleby, if you don't mind. Can you give me the address of the friends you stayed with in London this weekend?'
Jennifer took a plain envelope from her handbag and wrote down an address in Lancaster Gardens. As an afterthought she added the telephone number, and handed the envelope to Morse.
They're lying — both of 'em,' said Morse when they had gone.
Crowther had to get to the centre of Oxford and had gallantly offered a lift to his fellow-suspect. Morse wondered what they would be talking about. Lewis had said nothing.
'Did you hear me?' Morse was angry.
'Yes, sir.'
'I said they're a pair of prize liars. LIARS.' Lewis remained silent. He thought the Inspector was wrong, terribly wrong. He himself was no stranger to interviewing liars and he had the firm conviction that both Crowther and Coleby were telling the plain truth.
Morse looked hard at his sergeant. 'Come on! Out with it!'
'What do you mean, sir?'
'What do I mean? You know what I mean. You think I'm up the bloody pole, don't you? You think
I'm going bonkers. You're willing to believe what everyone else says, but you don't believe me. Come on. Tell me! I want to know.'
Lewis was upset. He didn't know what to say, and Morse was losing the last remnants of his self-control, his eyes blazing and his voice growing vicious and deadly. 'Come on. You tell me. You heard what I said. I want to know!'
Lewis looked at him and saw the bitter failure in the Inspector's eyes. He wished he could put things right, but he couldn't. It had been the quality in him that from the start had endeared him to Morse. It was his basic honesty and integrity.
'I think you're wrong, sir.' It took a lot of saying, but he said it, and he deserved better than Morse's cruel rejoinder.
'You think I'm wrong? Well let me tell you something, Lewis. If anyone's wrong here, it's not me — it's you. Do you understand that? YOU — not me. If you've not got the nous to see that those two slimy toads are lying, lying to save their own necks, you shouldn't be on this case. Do you hear me? You shouldn't be on this case.'
Lewis felt a deep hurt; but not for himself. 'Perhaps you ought to have someone else with you, sir. On the case, I mean.'
'You may be right.' Morse was calming down a little and Lewis sensed it.
'There's this man Newlove, sir. Shouldn't we. .'
'Newlove? Who the hell's he?' Lewis had said the wrong thing, and Morse's latent anger and frustration rose to fever pitch again. 'Newlove? We've never heard of the bloody man before. All right — he's got a typewriter. That's not a sin, is it? He didn't write that letter. CROWTHER DID! And if you don't see that you must be blind as a bloody bat!'
'But don't you think. .'
'Oh, bugger off, Lewis. You're boring me.'
'Does that mean I'm off the case, sir?'
'I don't know. I don't care. Just bugger off and leave me
alone.' Lewis went out and left him alone.
The phone rang a few minutes later. Morse picked the receiver up and closed his mind to everything. 'I'm not here,' he snapped, 'I've gone home.' He slammed down the receiver and sat brooding savagely within himself. He even forgot Sue. The last castle had finally collapsed. Having stood the flood so long, it was now a flattened heap of formless sand. But even as it fell a curious clarification was dawning across his mind. He got up from his leather chair, opened the cabinet and took out the file on Sylvia Kaye. He opened it at the beginning and was still reading it late into the afternoon, when the shadows crept across the room and he found it difficult to read, and a new and horrifying thought was taking birth in the depths of his tortured mind.
