Last Bus To Woodstock im-1

by Colin Dexter

  'You're right. It's a problem that caused me a great deal of anxiety.'

  'But it's not a problem now, sir?'

  'Oh no. If that were our only problem we'd have some plain sailing ahead of us.'

  'And you don't think we have?'

  'I'm afraid we've got some very stormy seas to face.' Morse's face was drawn and grey, and his voice was strained as he continued. 'There's one more thing I should have told you, Lewis. After I left the Radcliffe this morning, I called to see Newlove. He'd been to see Bernard yesterday afternoon and was quite willing to talk about him.'

  'Anything new, sir?'

  'Yes, I suppose you can say there is, in a way. Newlove didn't want to talk about the personal side of things, but he told me that Crowther had spoken to him about the night of the murder. Very much what we already knew or what we've pieced together. Except one thing, Lewis. Crowther said he thought there was someone else in the yard that night.'

  'Well we knew that, didn't we, sir?'

  'Just a minute, Lewis. Let's just picture the scene, if we can. Crowther gets out of the front seat and into the back, right? Sylvia Kaye does the same. Now there was precious little room where the car was, and this was certainly not the place or the occasion for old-world gallantry; and I reckon it's odds-on that she got out the front nearside and into the back nearside and that he did the same on his side. In other words they sat on the same sides in the back of the car as they did in the front — he on the right, she on the left. Now whatever peculiar posture Crowther got himself into, I think that for most of the time he had his back to where his wife was standing — in other words she was almost directly behind him. But Bernard hadn't got eyes in the back of his head, and Margaret, as we've said, was probably scared stiff of being seen. And it tends to lead to one conclusion, as I see it, and one conclusion only: Crowther did not see his wife that night. I'm sure she was there, but I don't think he saw her. But he did see somebody else. In other words there was yet another person in the yard that night, another person much nearer to him than Margaret ever got; someone standing very near to the tool-kit, and someone Crowther caught a shadowy glimpse of, as he sat in the back of his car. And I think it may have been that person, Lewis, who murdered Sylvia Kaye.'

  'You don't think it was Bernard either, then?'

  For the first time Morse seemed oddly hesitant. 'He could have done it, of course.'

  'But I just don't see a motive, do you sir?'

  'No,' said Morse flatly, 'I don't.' He looked around the room dejectedly.

  'Did you get anything else from Mr. Newlove, sir?'

  'Yes. Crowther told him he'd used his typewriter.'

  'Newlove's typewriter, you mean?'

  'You sound surprised.'

  'You mean Crowther did write that letter after all?'

  Morse gave him a look of pained disappointment. 'You've never doubted that, surely?'

  He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a sealed white envelope which he handed across to Lewis. It was addressed to Jennifer Coleby. 'I want you to go to see her, Lewis, and give her this, and stay with her while she opens it. Inside there's one sheet of paper and a return envelope addressed to me. Tell her to answer the question I've asked and then to seal up her answer in the return envelope. Is that clear?'

  'Wouldn't it be easier to ring her up, sir?'

  Morse's eyes suddenly blazed with anger, although when he spoke his words were quiet and controlled. 'As I was saying, Lewis, you will stay with her and when she has written her answer you will make sure that the envelope is sealed tight. You see, I don't want you to see the question I've asked, nor the answer that she gives.' The voice was icy now, and Lewis quickly nodded his understanding. He had never realized quite how frightening the Inspector could be, and he was glad to get away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Friday, 22 October, p.m.

  AFTER LEWIS HAD gone, Morse sat and thought of Sue. So much had happened since Monday, but Sue had remained uppermost in his thoughts for almost all the time. He had to see her again. He looked at his watch. Midday. He wondered what she was doing, and suddenly spurred himself into action.

  'Is that the Radcliffe?'

  'Yes.'

  'Accident department, please.'

  'I'm putting you through, sir.'

  'Hallo. Accident department.' It wasn't Sue.

  'I want to have a quick word with Miss Widdowson, please.'

  'You mean Staff Nurse Widdowson.' He hadn't known that.

  'Susan, I think her Christian name is.'

  'I'm sorry, sir. We're not allowed to take outside telephone calls except. .'

  'It might be an emergency,' interrupted Morse hopefully.

  'Is it an emergency, sir?'

  'Not really, no.'

  I'm sorry, sir.'

  'Look, this is the police.'

  'I'm sorry, sir.' Obviously she had heard that one before.

  Slowly Morse was getting angry again. 'Is the Matron there?'

  'You want me to put you through to Matron?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  He had to wait a good two minutes. 'Hullo. Matron here.'

  'Matron, I'm speaking from Thames Valley Police Station. Chief Inspector Morse. I want to speak to Staff Nurse Widdowson. I understand you have your rules about this, and of course I wouldn't in the normal way wish to break them. .'

  'Is it urgent?' Vox auctaritatis.

  'Well, let's say it's important.'

  For the next few minutes Matron coolly and lucidly explained the regulations governing the delivery of personal mail to, and the acceptance of incoming telephone calls by, members of 'my' nursing staff. She spelled out the rules and the reasons for the rules, and Morse fidgeted at his table, the fingers of his left hand drumming the top of his desk in characteristic fashion.

  'You see, you have no idea of the volume of official letters and telephone calls that all my departments receive every day. And if we had the additional complication of all personal letters and calls, where would it all end? I have tried and I think I have succeeded. .'

  Morse heard her out. As she had been talking a wildly improbable thought had taken root in his mind. He almost wanted to hear her repeat the tedious catalogue of constraints. 'I'm most grateful to you, Matron. I do want to apologize. .'

  'Oh, not at all. I've enjoyed talking to you. Now, please let me help in any way I can.' She would do anything for him now, he knew that. But the situation had changed. There was just the wildest, slimmest chance now, where before there had been none at all. He rang off as soon as he could, the Matron almost begging for the chance of doing him some favour. But he wanted none: his course was now clear.

  Sue was having lunch while Morse was finishing his lengthy call to her immediate superior. She was thinking of him, too. Would she had known him earlier! She knew with a passionate certainty that he could have changed her life. Was it too late even now? Dr Eyres sat next to her, taking every opportunity he decently could of effecting the closest physical contact with the lovely staff nurse; but Sue loathed his proximity and his insinuations and, not worrying about a sweet, she left the table as quickly as she could. Oh Morse! Why didn't I meet you before? She walked back to the outpatients' room at the casualty clinic and sat down on one of the hard benches. Absently she picked up a long-outdated copy of Punch and flicked mechanically through the faded pages. . What was she to do? He hadn't been anywhere near since that wretched night when Jennifer had come home. Jennifer! And she had been fool enough to confide in Jennifer. David? She would have to write to David. He would be so upset; but to live with someone, to sleep with someone, forty even fifty years — someone you didn't really and truly love. .

  Then she saw him. He stood there, an anxious, vulnerable look in his grey eyes. The tears started in her eyes and she felt an incredible joy. He came and sat beside her. He didn't even try to hold her hand — there was no need of that. They talked, she didn't know what about. It didn't matter.

  'I shall have to
go,' she said. Try to see me soon, won't you?' It was after half-past one.

  Morse felt desperately sick at heart. He looked at Sue long and hard, and he knew that he loved her so dearly.

  'Sue?'

  'Yes?'

  'Have you got a photograph of yourself?'

  Sue rummaged in her handbag and found something. 'Not all that good, is it, really?'

  Morse looked at the photograph. She was right. It didn't really do her justice, but it was his Sue all right. He put it carefully into his wallet, and got up to go. Patients were already waiting: patients with bulky plasters over legs and arms; patients with bandages round their heads and wrists; a road casualty with blood around the mouth, the face an ashen white. It was time to go. He touched her hand lightly and their fingers met in a tender, sweet farewell. Sue watched him go, limping slightly, through the flappy, celluloid doors.

  It was almost a quarter to two as Morse walked down from the Radcliffe Infirmary to the broad, tree-lined avenue of St. Giles'. He thought of postponing his next task; but it had to be done some time, and he was on the spot now anyway.

  Keeping to the right-hand side of St. Giles' as he made his way in the general direction of the Martyrs' Memorial, Morse stopped at the first snack-bar he came to, the Wimpy Grill, and walked inside. On his own admission the small, swarthy Italian, turning beefburgers on a hotplate, 'no speake, signor, the English so good,' and promptly summoned his slatternly young waitress into the consultation. Morse left amid a general shaking of heads and a flurry of gesticulation; it wasn't going to be easy. A few yards further down he stopped and entered The Bird and Baby where he ordered a pint of bitter and engaged in earnest, quiet conversation for several minutes with the barman, who also as it happened was the landlord and who always stood lunch-time duty behind his bar. Sorry, no. Oh yes, he'd have noticed; but no. Sorry. It was going to be a long, dispiriting business, but one which only Morse himself could do.

  He worked his way methodically along the dozen likely places in the Cornmarket below the ABC Cinema, crossed the road at Carfax, and started up the other side. It was at a little ('snacks served') cake shop nestling alongside the giant pile of Marks and Spencer that he found the person he was searching for. She was a grey-haired, plumpish woman, with a kindly face and a friendly manner. Morse spoke to her for several minutes, and this time too there was much nodding of the head and pointing. But pointing not vaguely outside, up alleys or down side-streets; this time the pointing was towards a little room, beyond the shop, wherein the establishment's snacks were served. To be precise, the pointing was towards one particular small table standing in the far corner of the room, with one chair on each side of it, both now empty, and a cruet, a dirty ashtray and a bottle of tomato sauce upon its red-and-white striped tablecloth.

  It was 3.45 p.m. Morse went over to the table and sat down. He knew that the case was nearly over now, but he could feel no elation. His feet ached, especially the right one, and he was badly in need of something to cheer him up. Again he took out the picture of Sue from his wallet and looked at the face of the girl he loved so hopelessly. The grey-haired waitress came up to him.

  'Can I get you anything, sir? I'm sorry I didn't realize you might. .'

  'I'll have a cup of tea, luv,' said Morse. It was better than nothing.

  He was not back in his office until 4.45 p.m. A note from Lewis lay on his desk. His sergeant hoped it would be all right going off a bit early. Please to ring him if he was needed. His wife had a touch of flu and the kids were a bit of a handful.

  Morse screwed up the note and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Underneath the note lay the letter that Lewis had brought from Jennifer Coleby. Making certain that it was carefully sealed, Morse placed it unopened into the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and turned the key in the lock.

  He looked up a number in the directory and heard the drumming 'purr purr, purr purr'. He looked at his watch: almost 5.00 p.m. It wouldn't matter of course if he had gone, but he wanted to get things over straight away. 'Purr purr, purr purr.' He was on the point of giving up when the call was answered.

  'Hello?' It was Palmer.

  'Ah. Glad to catch you, sir. Morse here.'

  'Oh.' The little manager sounded none too overjoyed. "You're lucky. I was just locking up, but I thought I'd better get back and answer it. You never know in this job. Could be important.'

  'It is important.'

  'Oh.'

  Palmer lived in the fashionable Observatory Street at the bottom of the Woodstock Road. Yes. He could meet Morse — of course, he could — if it was important. They arranged a meeting at The Bull and Stirrup in nearby Walton Street at 8.30 p.m. that evening.

  It was a mean-looking, ill-lighted, spit-and-sawdust type of pub; a dispiriting sort of place, with gee-gees, darts and football-pools the overriding claims upon the shabby clientele. Morse wanted to get things over and get out as quickly as he could. It was a struggle for a start, and Palmer was cagey and reluctant; but Morse knew too much for him. Grudgingly, but with apparent honesty, Palmer told his pitiable little tale.

  'I suppose you think I should have told you this before?'

  'I don't know. I'm not married myself.' Morse sounded utterly indifferent. It was 9.00 p.m. and he took his leave.

  He drove up the Woodstock Road at rather more than 30 mph; but spotting a police car up ahead he slackened off to the statutory speed limit. He swung round the Woodstock roundabout, the starting point of all this sorry mess, and headed for Woodstock. At the village of Yarnton he turned off and parked the Lancia outside the home of Mrs. Mabel Jarman, where he stayed for no more than a couple of minutes.

  On his way home he called at police HQ. The corridors were darkened, but he didn't bother to turn on the lights. In his office he unlocked the bottom left-hand drawer and took out the envelope. His hand shook slightly as he reached for his paper-knife and neatly slit open the top. He felt like a cricketer who has made a duck, checking the score-book just in case an odd run made by the other batsman had been fortuitously misattributed to his own name. But Morse had no faith in miracles, and he knew what the note had to say before he opened it. He saw the note; he did not read it. He saw it synoptically, not as the sum of its individual words and letters. Miracles do not happen.

  He turned off the light, locked his office door, and walked back along the darkened corridor. The last piece had clicked into place. The jigsaw was complete.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Saturday, 23 October

  SINCE BREAKFAST SUE had been trying to write to David. Once or twice she had written half a page before screwing up the paper and starting a fresh sheet; but mostly the elusive phraseology had failed her after nothing more than a miserably brief sentence. She tried again.

  My dear David,

  You've been so kind and so loving to me that I know this letter will come as a terrible shock to you. But I feel I must tell you — it's not fair to keep anything from you. The truth is that I've fallen in love with someone else and I. .

  What else could she say? She couldn't just leave it at that. . She screwed up the latest draft and added it to the growing collection of tight paper balls upon the table.

  A sombre-looking Morse sat in his black leather chair that same morning. Another restless, fitful night. He must have some holiday.

  'You look tired, sir," said Lewis.

  Morse nodded. 'Yes, but we've come to the end of the road, now.'

  'We have, sir?'

  Morse seemed to buoy himself up. He took a deep breath: 'I've taken one or two wrong turnings, as you know, Lewis; but by some fluke I was always heading in the right direction — even on the night of the murder. Do you remember when we stood in that yard? I remember staring up at the stars and thinking how many secrets they must know, looking down on everything. I remember trying even then to see the pattern, not just the bits that form the pattern. There was something very odd, you know Lewis, about that night. It looked like a sex murder right enough. But t
hings are not always what they seem, are they?'

  He seemed to be speaking in a dazed, sing-song sort of way, almost as if he were on drugs. 'Now you can make things look a bit odd, but I've not met any of these clever killers yet. Or things just happen like that, eh? It was odd if Sylvia had been raped where she was found, wasn't it? I know it was very dark in the yard that night, but cars with full headlights were coming in and out all the time. It's surely stretching the imagination a bit to think that anyone would be crazy enough to rape a girl in the full blaze of motorists' headlights.' He seemed to Lewis to be relaxing a little and his eyes had lost their dull stare. Well?' That was more like the chief.