Last Bus To Woodstock im-1

by Colin Dexter

  'I suppose you're right, sir.'

  'But it looked odd. A young, leggy blonde murdered and raped or raped and murdered. Whichever way round it was, it all pointed in the same way. We've got a sex-killer to find. But I wasn't sure. Raping isn't easy they tell me if the young lady isn't too willing, and, as I say, I discounted the likelihood of Sylvia being raped in the yard. She could have screamed and yelled — unless of course she was dead already. But I'm a bit squeamish about that sort of thing, and I thought the chances of us having to deal with a Christie-like necrophiliac were a bit remote. Where does that leave us, then?' Lewis hoped it was a rhetorical question, and so it was. 'Well, let us concentrate our attention separately upon each of the two components — rape and murder. Let us assume two distinct actions — not one. Let us assume that she has intercourse with a man — after all, there was no doubt about the fact of intercourse. Let us assume further that this took place entirely with her consent. Now there was one shred of evidence to support this. Sylvia wasn't a member of women's lib, but she wasn't wearing a bra, and it seemed to me, if not unusual, well — a little suggestive. We discovered that Sylvia had several white blouses, but no white bras. Why not? No one as conscious of her figure and her appearance as Sylvia Kaye is going to wear a black bra under a thin, white blouse, is she? I could draw only one conclusion — that Sylvia not infrequently went out without a bra; and if she did wear a bra, it would be a black one, because all the girls believe that black underwear is terribly sexy. Now all this suggested that perhaps she was a young lady of somewhat easy virtue, and I think it's pretty clear she was.'

  'She wasn't wearing pants either, sir.'

  'No. But the pathologist's report suggests that she had been — there were the marks of elastic round her waist. Yes, I'm pretty sure that she had been wearing pants and that they got stuck in someone's pocket and later got thrown away or burned. Anyway, it's not important. To get back to the separate components of the crime. First, a man had intercourse with Sylvia — pretty certainly without too much opposition. Second, someone murdered her. It could have been the same man, but it's not easy to see the motive. The evidence we got at a very early stage seemed to suggest that this was a completely casual acquaintanceship, a chance pick-up on the road to Woodstock. All right. But since it was established that Bernard Crowther was the man who had stopped at the Woodstock roundabout, certain aspects of the case seemed to get more puzzling rather than less. I could well imagine that Crowther was the sort of man who might now and then be unfaithful to his wife; from what we now know, his relationship with his wife seems to have drifted over the last few years from idyllic bliss to idiotic bickering. But if we were looking for a sex-crazed maniac, I felt fairly sure Crowther wasn't the man we were looking for. He seemed to me an essentially civilized man. You remember when you looked at those photographs of Sylvia, Lewis? You remember you said you'd like to get the bastard who did it? But you had a composite picture of the crime in your mind, I think: you were putting together the rape and the murder and something else — the obvious interference with Sylvia's scanty clothing. Now I couldn't fit Crowther into that picture; and if Mrs. Crowther's evidence was right in any respect, it was surely right at the point where she described what she saw in the car. You made that point yourself, Lewis. What have we got then? First, he makes love to the girl in the back of the car. Second, he may have had a quarrel with her about something. Let's say she's a mercenary young tart and she agreed to make love with him on the sort of terms a common prostitute would ask. Let's say he couldn't or wouldn't pay her. Let's say they quarrel and he kills her. It's a possibility. But I just couldn't believe that if this had been the sequence of events that we should have found Sylvia in the condition we did — with her blouse torn and ripped away from her. Or at least not if we were right in thinking of Crowther as the guilty party.'

  Lewis interrupted him quietly. 'You said that you knew who did that.'

  'I think you do, too,' replied Morse. 'As the case progressed there seemed to be only one person who had a mind sufficiently warped and perverted to interfere with the body of a murdered girl. A man who had been waiting to see her anyway; a man we know who perpetually tantalized and tortured himself by thoughts of sex; a man who feasted on a weekly diet of blue films and pornography. You know all about him, Lewis. And I went to see him a week ago. His bedroom is cluttered with the whole paraphernalia of dirty postcards, Danish magazines, hard pornography and all the rest. He's sick, Lewis, and he knows he's sick, and his mother knows he's sick. But he's not a vicious type of chap. In fact he's not unlikeable in a nasty sort of way. He told me that he'd often had a dream about undressing the body of a dead girl.'

  'My God!' said Lewis.

  'You shouldn't feel too surprised about it, you know,' said Morse. 'I'm told that Freud mentions that sort of dream as being quite a common form of sexual fantasy among frustrated voyeurs.' Lewis remembered the film. He'd found it a bit erotic himself, hadn't he? But he hadn't wanted to admit it — even to himself.

  'He'd met Sylvia several times before. They usually met in the cocktail lounge of The Black Prince, had some booze and then went back to his house — to his bedroom. He paid for it. He told me so.'

  'He had quite a lot of expense one way or another, sir.'

  'He did indeed. Anyway, on the night when Sylvia was murdered he'd been waiting since about a quarter to eight. He drank more and more and felt more and more desperate as the time ticked by and Sylvia didn't appear. He went out several times to look for her. But he saw nothing. When he did find her he was sick in mind and body: sick from pent-up sexual frustration and sick from too much drink. He found her quite by chance — so he says — and I believe him.'

  'And then. . you mean he. . he fiddled about with her?'

  Morse nodded. "Yes. He did.'

  'He needs treatment, sir.'

  'He's promised me to see a psychiatrist — but I'm not very optimistic about that. I only ever knew one psychiatrist. Funny chap. If ever a man was in need of psychiatric treatment it was him.' Morse smiled ruefully, and Lewis felt his chief was becoming more like his normal self.

  'So that's cleared that bit up, sir.'

  'Yes. But it didn't help all that much, did it? I was as sure as I could be that Sylvia Kaye was not murdered by Mr. John Sanders. She was murdered, so the pathology report says, between 7 and 8 p.m. or thereabouts. Now we know all that stuff about the murderer going back to the scene of the crime, but I just couldn't believe that Sanders had stood for about two and a half to three hours drinking whisky no more than fifty-odd yards away from where his victim lay murdered. He'd have hopped it, that's for sure. What seemed so odd to me was why she wasn't found earlier. But you cleared that up.'

  Lewis was glad to know that he had been of value somewhere along the line, and he knew what Morse was referring to, for he had himself interviewed all the drivers of vehicles parked in the yard that night. The driver of the car beside which Sylvia had been found had earlier parked in an awkward position just outside the yard of The Black Prince; but he had been anxious about blocking other cars and he had immediately taken the opportunity, on seeing a car drive out from the yard, of backing his own car into the space left vacant. His light of course could not possibly have picked up Sylvia's body, and when he got out of the driving seat the body was against the wall on the other side of the car.

  'Well,' continued Morse, 'by this time, for one reason or another we managed to get on to Crowther. Or rather the Crowthers. Perhaps we shall never know the exact part each of them played that night. But one thing I think we can confidently suggest — that as a result of what happened Margaret thought that Bernard had murdered Sylvia. Whether she killed herself just because of what she suspected, I don't know, though it was surely one of the factors that drove her to it. But that's only half the matter. I think, too, that Bernard thought that Margaret had murdered Sylvia. If I'm right about this, it seems to me to explain a lot of things. Bernard had two overwhelming reasons for
keeping quiet. First, his love affair would almost certainly be brought out into the open, with all the consequences that would entail. But second, and even more important, his evidence might well help us find the murderer who, as Bernard saw things, was probably his own wife, Margaret. Oh dear, Lewis, if only they had spoken to each other about it! You don't suspect someone else of a crime if you've done it yourself. And I think each of them was quite genuine in suspecting the other. So we can say with every confidence that neither of them did it. And if Bernard had shown any intelligence he would have known how improbable it was that Margaret was actually involved in the murder. He passed his wife on the way back to Oxford! Now we know from Margaret's evidence that she's a slowish driver and perhaps most cars would pass her anyway. But if he left for Oxford before her, it is a physical impossibility for him to have overtaken her. Agreed?'

  'Unless he called for a drink or something, sir.'

  'I hadn't thought of that,' said Morse slowly. 'But it isn't a vital point. Let's go on. Now the key person in the case from the beginning has been Miss X — the Miss X who was with Sylvia in Bernard Crowther's car. What did we learn about her? The most vital fact we learned was something Mrs. Jarman heard; and she's utterly convinced that she did hear it — I saw her again last night. She heard Sylvia say, "We'll have a giggle about it in the morning." So. We find the field narrowed very considerably, do we not? We investigate the Town and Gown Assurance Co. and we discover some interesting facts. And the most interesting fact of all is that someone tells Miss Jennifer Coleby to keep her mouth shut.' Lewis opened his own mouth, but got no further. 'I know you think I've been anti that young lady from the beginning, but I am now convinced — more than ever convinced — that the letter we found addressed to Jennifer Coleby was written to her by Bernard Crowther. If you want chapter and verse, it was written on the afternoon of Friday, 1 October in the rooms of Mr. Peter Newlove in Lonsdale College on the same Mr. Peter Newlove's typewriter. That, Lewis, is a fact.'

  Again Lewis made an effort to protest, and again Morse waved the protest aside. 'Hear me out, Lewis. Jennifer Coleby lied from the word go. In fact of all the people in this case, it's Jennifer Coleby who had the monopoly of the lies. Lies, lies and more lies. But why should she lie? Why should anyone be so anxious to mislead us to the extent that she did? I felt sure, fairly early on, that the reason was pretty simple really. The young lady who sat in the back of Bernard's car was his mistress, and everything we learned from Margaret confirmed the truth of his own admission that he did in fact have a mistress. Now I needn't go over all the lies we got from Jennifer; but there was some truth amid the tangled web of all the lies. And the one thing she told us that seemed the biggest whopper of the lot was just about the one thing that was true. She said she'd got a car.'

  Lewis could restrain himself no longer. 'But she had a puncture, sir. We know all about that.'

  'Oh, I don't doubt she had a puncture. We know she did. She rang up the Battery and Tire people. But if they couldn't mend it, someone else could, eh? If you remember, Jennifer didn't ask the tire man to call some other time; and she didn't have it done at Barkers. But somebody mended her puncture, Lewis. Perhaps she did it herself? She's not a fool, is she? Perhaps she asked the man next door? I don't know. But you can repair & puncture in five minutes without much trouble, and Jennifer Coleby is a practical girl and she had to have a car that night.'

  'I don't follow that at all,' said the mystified Lewis.

  'You will, have no fear.' Morse looked at his watch. 'I want you to go and pick her up, Lewis.'

  'You mean Miss Coleby?'

  'Who the hell else?'

  Morse followed Lewis out, knocked at the office of Chief Superintendent Strange and went in.

  Some half an hour later the door was opened, and Strange stood on the threshold with Morse. Both men looked stern-faced, and Strange nodded his head gravely as the Chief Inspector said a few final words.

  'You look tired, you know, Morse. I think you ought to put in for a fortnight's furlough now this is over.'

  'Well, not quite over, sir.'

  Morse walked slowly back to his office.

  When Jennifer Coleby arrived Morse asked her to sit down and then walked over to Lewis. 'I want this to be private, Lewis. You understand, I know.'

  Lewis didn't understand and he felt hurt. But he left them together, and walked along to the canteen.

  'Look Inspector. I really thought that after your sergeant saw me yesterday that you'd finished. .'

  Morse interrupted her sharply. 'I've asked you here and I'll do the talking. You just sit back and shut up for a few minutes.' There was thinly veiled menace in his voice, and Jennifer Coleby, looking very much on her guard, did as Morse had bidden her.

  'Let me tell you what I suspected long ago in this case, Miss Coleby. You can interrupt me if I go wrong, but I want no more of your miserable lies.' She glanced viciously into his hard eyes, but said nothing. 'Let me tell you what I think. I think that two girls were picked up by a man one night and that one of the girls was the man's mistress. I think that this mistress usually travelled by car to see her lover, but on that particular night she couldn't get there by car, and that was why she either had to catch a bus or hitch-hike. Unfortunately, and by sheer chance, she was picked up by the very man she was going to see. Unfortunately, too, there were two girls, and he had to pick them both up, and these two girls knew each other. Now the whole thing suddenly seemed too dangerous — this is what I think, Miss Coleby, you understand — and somehow they decided to forget their date and wait until the next opportunity arose. I think that this girl, the mistress, asked to be dropped off somewhere on the way. She probably made some perfectly natural excuse — she was a good liar — and she asked him to drop her off. But she knew where the other girl was going — no doubt the other girl had told her — and she felt uncontrollably jealous that night. She'd perhaps sensed something as they'd all driven along together. You see, the girl who was sitting in the front was very attractive to men. And perhaps? Who knows? The man, the man she knew so well, had been unfaithful to his wife. He had been unfaithful with her! Why not with some other girl? So I think this is what happened. She got out of the car, but she didn't return home. No. She waited for a bus and one came almost immediately. How she must have cursed her luck. If only she'd not hitched a lift! Anyway, she caught the bus and found her way to the place where she knew she might find them. And she did find them. It was dark there and she couldn't see very much, but she saw enough. And she felt a murderous jealousy welling up inside her, not so much against her lover, but against that, cheap slut of a girl, a girl she'd got to know but never liked, a girl she now hated with unspeakable fury. I think perhaps they may have spoken to each other when the man had gone— but I can only guess, and I may be wrong. I think that the girl who had just got out of the car could sense the deadly fury in the other girl's face, and I think she tried to run away. But as she did a vicious blow crashed across her skull and she lay dead in a heap upon a cobbled yard. I think the dead girl was dragged by the arms into the darkest corner of the yard and I think the girl who murdered her walked out into the night and caught a bus that took her home.'

  Morse stopped, and there was utter silence in the room. 'Do you think that's how it happened, Miss Coleby?'

  She nodded her head.

  'We both know who murdered Sylvia, don't we?' Morse spoked so very softly that she could only just catch his words. Again she: nodded.

  Morse rang Lewis and told him to come in. Take a few notes, Sergeant. Now, Miss Coleby. A few more questions, please. Who mended your puncture for you?'

  'The man across the road. Mr. Thorogood.'

  'How long did it take him?'

  'Five, ten minutes. Not long. I helped him.'

  'How long have you been the mistress of your employer, Mr. Palmer?' Lewis lifted his eyes in amazement.

  'Nearly a year.'

  'Didn't you think it a bit dangerous — telling someone el
se?'

  'I suppose it was. But it meant we could have a room once a week.'

  'Palmer told you this morning that I knew?'

  'Yes." She had answered mildly enough thus far. But the old flash blazed in her eyes once more. 'How did you know?'

  'I had to guess. But there had to be some reason. It was accidental, really. I checked the night-school register for Wednesday, 29 September, to see whether Mrs. Crowther had been present. She wasn't. But I noticed another name on the list, and she had been present, a Mrs. Josephine Palmer. Well. .'

  'You've got a suspicious mind, Inspector.'

  'And when did this business of the letters start?'