The Way Through the Woods

by Colin Dexter

  “They’ve found a body.”

  “Who?”

  “George Daley. Shot. Shot through the heart.”

  “Where?”

  “Blenheim. Blenheim Park.”

  “Whew! That’s where Johnson—”

  “It was Johnson who found him.”

  Suddenly Lewis felt the need for a pint of beer almost as much as Morse; but as the car sped nearer and nearer to Oxford, Morse himself said nothing more at all.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Thanatophobia (n): a morbid dread of death, or (sometimes) of the sight of death: a poignant sense of human mortality, almost universal except amongst those living on Olympus

  (Small’s English Dictionary)

  Dr. Laura Hobson knelt again beside the body, this time her bright hazel eyes looking up at a different chief inspector: not at Johnson—but at Morse.

  “You reckon he was killed instantly?” asked the latter.

  She nodded. “I’m no expert on ballistics but it was possibly one of those seven-millimetre bullets—the sort that expand on contact.”

  “The sort they kill deer with,” added Morse quietly.

  “It’s”—she fingered the corpse—“er, sometimes difficult to find the entry-hole. Not in this case, though. Look!”

  She pointed a slim finger to a small, blood-encrusted hole, of little more than the diameter of a pencil, just below the left shoulder blade of the man who lay prone on the ground between them. “But you’ll see there’s never much of a problem with the exit hole.” Gently she eased the body over and away from her, pushing it on to its right side, and pointing to a larger hole that had been blasted just below the heart, a hole almost the size of a mandarin orange.

  This time, however, Morse was not looking. He was used to death of course; but accident, and terrible injury, and the sight of much blood—such things he could never stomach. So he turned his eyes away, and for a few moments stood staring around him in that quiet woodland glade, where so very recently someone had shot George Daley in the back, and no doubt watched him fall and lie quite still beneath the giant oak tree there. And the owners of seven-millimetre rifles? Morse knew two of them: David Michaels and George Daley. And whatever else might be in doubt, George Daley would have found it utterly impossible to have shot himself with the rifle that was his.

  “Any ideas how long?” asked Morse.

  Dr. Hobson smiled. “That’s the very first question you always asked Max.”

  “He told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he never told me the answer—never told me how long, I mean.”

  “Shall I tell you?”

  “Please do!” Morse smiled back at her, and for a moment or two he found her very attractive.

  “Ten, twelve hours. No longer than twelve, I don’t think. I’ll plump for ten.”

  Morse, oblivious of the time for most of the day, now looked at his wrist-watch: 8:25 P.M. That would put the murder at about 10 A.M., say? 10:30 A.M.? Yes … that sort of time would figure reasonably well if Morse’s thinking was correct. Perhaps he wasn’t right, though! He’d been so bloody certain in his own mind that the case was drawing gently if sombrely towards a conclusion: no more murder, no more deaths. Huh! That’s exactly what he’d told Lewis, wasn’t it? Just wait!—that’s what he’d said. Things’ll work out if only we’re prepared to wait. Why, only that day he’d waited, before driving off to Wales, without the slightest premonition of impending tragedy.

  And he’d been wrong.

  There would be greater tragedies in life, of course, than the murder of the mean and unattractive Daley. No one was going to miss the man dramatically much … except of course for Mrs. Daley, Margaret Daley—of whom for some reason Morse had so recently dreamed. But perhaps even she might not miss him all that much, as time gradually cured her heart of any residual tenderness. After a decent burial. After a few months. After a few years.

  Yet there was always the possibility that Morse was wrong again.

  Lewis was suddenly at his side, bending down and picking up the khaki-green pork-pie hat Daley invariably wore on freezing winter mornings and sweltering summer days alike.

  “There’s not much shooting here, it seems, sir—not like Wytham—not at this time of year, anyway. Some of the tenants have got shot-gun rights—for a bit of pigeon-shooting, or rabbits, and pheasants a bit later on. Not much, though. That’s why Mr. Williams, the keeper there”—Lewis pointed back in the direction of Combe Lodge—“says he thinks he may remember a bit of a pop some time this morning. He can’t pin it down much closer than that.”

  “Bloody marvellous!” said Morse.

  “He says there were quite a lot he let through the gate—there’s always quite a lot on Mondays. He thinks he remembers Daley going through some time in the morning, but there’s always quite a few estate vans.”

  “He thinks a lot, your keeper, doesn’t he?”

  “And one or two joggers, he says.”

  “Literally one or two?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Promise me you’ll never take up jogging, Lewis!”

  “Can we move him?” asked Dr. Hobson.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Morse.

  “Anything else, Inspector?”

  “Yes. I’d like to ask you along to the Bear and have a few quiet drinks together—a few noisy drinks, if you’d prefer it. But we shall have to go and look round Daley’s house, I’m afraid. Shan’t we, Lewis?”

  Behind the spectacles her eyes twinkled with humour and potential interest: “Anuther tame, mebby?”

  She left.

  “Anuther tame, please, Dr. Hobson!” said Chief Inspector Morse, but to himself.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace To gain the timely inn

  (Shakespeare, Macbeth)

  The house in which the Daleys had lived for the past eighteen years was deserted. Margaret Daley, so the neighbours said, had been away since the previous Thursday, visiting her sister in Beaconsfield; whilst the boy, Philip, had scarcely been seen since being brought back home by the St. Aldate’s police. But no forcible entry was needed, for the immediate neighbour held a spare front-door key, and a preliminary search of the murdered man’s house was begun at 9:15 P.M.

  Two important pieces of evidence were found immediately, both on the red formica-topped kitchen table. The first was a letter from the Oxford Magistrates’ Court dated 31 July—most probably received on Saturday, 1 August?—informing Mr. G. Daley of the charges to be preferred against his son, Philip, and of the various legal liabilities which he, the father, would now incur under the new Aggravated Vehicle Theft Act. The letter went on to specify the provisions of legal aid, and to request Daley senior’s attendance at the Oxford Crown Court on the following Thursday when the hearing of his son’s case would be held. The second piece of evidence was half a page of writing from a temporarily departed son (as it appeared) to a now permanently departed father, conveying only the simple message that he was “off to try and sort something out”: a curiously flat, impersonal note, except for the one post-scriptum plea: “Tell Mum she needn’t wurry”.

  A copy of The Oxford Mail for Friday, 31 July, lay on top of the microwave, and a preoccupied Morse scanned its front page briefly:

  JOY-RIDERS GET NEW WARNING

  The driver and co-passenger of a stolen car which had rammed a newsagent’s shop on the Broadmoor Lea estate were both jailed for six months and each fined £1,500 at Oxford Crown Court yesterday. Sentencing father-of-three Paul Curtis, 25, and John Terence Bowden, 19, Judge Geoffrey Stephens warned: “Those who drive recklessly and dangerously and criminally around estates in Oxford can now normally expect custodial sentences—and not short ones. Heavier fines too will be imposed as everything in our power is done to end this spate of criminal vandalism.”

  (Continued: page 3)

  But Morse read no further, now wanderin
g rather aimlessly around the ground-floor rooms. In the lounge, Lewis pointed to the row of black video-cassettes.

  “I should think we know what’s on some of them, sir.”

  Morse nodded. “Yes. I’d pinch one or two for the night if I had a video.” But his voice lacked any enthusiasm.

  “Upstairs, sir? The boy’s room …?”

  “No. I think we’ve done enough for one night. And I’d like a warrant really for the boy’s room. I think Mrs. Daley would appreciate that.”

  “But we don’t really need—”

  “C’mon, Lewis! We’ll leave a couple of PCs here overnight.” Morse had reached another of his impulsive decisions, and Lewis made no further comment. As they left the house, both detectives noticed again—for it was the first thing they’d noticed as they’d entered—that the seven-millimetre rifle which had earlier stood on its butt by the entrance had now disappeared.

  “I reckon it’s about time we had a quick word with Michaels,” said Morse as in the thickening light they got into the car.

  Lewis refrained from any recrimination. So easily could he have said he’d regularly been advocating exactly such a procedure that day, but he didn’t.

  At 10:30 P.M., with only half an hour’s drinking time remaining, the police car drove up to the White Hart, where Morse’s face beamed happily: “My lucky night. Look!” But Lewis had already spotted the forester’s Land-rover parked outside the front of the pub.

  David Michaels, seated on a stool in the downstairs bar, with Bobbie curled up happily at his feet, was just finishing a pint of beer as Lewis put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Could we have a word with you, sir?”

  Michaels turned on his stool and eyed them both without apparent surprise. “Only if you join me in a drink, all right?”

  “Very kind of you,” said Morse. “The Best Bitter in decent shape?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Pint for me then, and, er—orange juice is it for you, Sergeant?”

  “What do you want a word about?” asked Michaels.

  The three of them moved over to the far corner of the flag-stoned bar, with Bobbie padding along behind.

  “Just one thing, really,” replied Morse. “You’ve heard about Daley’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well … I want to take a look in your rifle-cabinet, that’s all.”

  “When we’ve finished the drinks?”

  “No! Er, I’d like Sergeant Lewis to go up and—”

  “Fine! I’d better just give Cathy a ring, though. She’ll have the place bolted.”

  Morse saw little objection, it seemed, and he and Lewis listened as Michaels used the phone by the side of the bar-counter and quickly told his wife that the police would be coming up—please let them in—they wanted to look in the rifle-cabinet—she knew where the key was—let them take what they wanted—he’d be home in half an hour—see her soon—nothing to worry about—ciao!

  “Am I a suspect?” asked Michaels with a wan smile, after Lewis had left.

  “Yes,” said Morse simply, draining his beer. “Another?”

  “Why not? I’d better make the most of things.”

  “And I want you to come up to Kidlington HQ in the morning. About—about ten o’clock, if that’s all right.”

  “I’m not dreaming, am I?” asked Michaels, as Morse picked up the two empty glasses.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Morse. “And, er, I think it’ll be better if we send a car for you, Mr. Michaels …”

  A very clean and shining Mrs. Michaels, smelling of shampoo and bath-salts, a crimson bath-robe round her body, a white towel round her head, let Sergeant Lewis in immediately, handed him the cabinet key, and stood aside as very carefully he lifted the rifle from its stand—one finger on the end of the barrel and one finger under the butt—and placed it in a transparent plastic container. On the shelf above the stand were two gun-smiths’ catalogues; but no sign whatever of any cartridges.

  Holding the rifle now by the middle of the barrel, Lewis thanked Mrs. Michaels, and left—hearing the rattle of the chain and the thud of the bolts behind him as the head forester’s wife awaited the return of her husband. For a while he wondered what she must be thinking at that moment. Puzzlement, perhaps? Or panic? It had been difficult to gauge anything from the eyes behind those black-rimmed spectacles. Not much of a communicator at all, in fact, for Lewis suddenly realized that whilst he was there she had spoken not a single word.

  It was completely dark now, and the sergeant found himself feeling nervous as he flicked the headlights to full beam along the silent lane.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  FALSTAFF: We have heard the chimes at midnight. Master Shallow.

  SHALLOW: That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith, Sir John, we have

  (Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2)

  Of the four men who had agreed to concoct (as Morse now believed) a joint statement about the murder of Karin Eriksson, only McBryde had ranged free in the city of Oxford that night. At 6:30 P.M. he had called in at the Eagle and Child, carrying his few overnight possessions in a canvas hold-all, eaten a cheese sandwich, drunk two pints of splendidly conditioned Burton Ale, and begun thinking about a bed for the night. At 7:45 P.M. he had caught a number 20 Kidlington bus outside St. Giles’ Church and gone up the Banbury Road as far as Squitchey Lane, where he tried the Cotswold House (recommended to him by Hardinge) but found the oblong, white notice fixed across the front door’s leaded glass: NO VACANCIES. Just across the way however was the Casa Villa, and here one double room was still available (the last); which McBryde took, considering as many men had done before him that the purchase of an extra two square yards of bed space was something of a waste—and something of a sadness.

  At about the time that McBryde was unpacking his pyjamas and sticking his toothbrush into one of the two glasses in his en suite bathroom, Philip Daley stood up and counted the coins.

  He had caught the coach from Gloucester Green at 2:30 P.M. Good value, the coach—only £4 return for adults. Disappointing though to learn that a single fare was virtually the same price as a return, and sickening that the driver refused to accept his only marginally dishonest assertion that he was still at school. At 6:30 P.M. he had been seated against the wall of an office building next to the Bonnington Hotel in Southampton Row, with a grey and orange scarf arranged in front of him to receive the coins of a stream (as he trusted) of compassionate passers-by; and with a notice, black Biro on cardboard, beside him: UNEMPLOYED HOMELESS HUNGRY. One of the Oxford boys had told him that COLD AND HUNGRY was best, but the early summer evening was balmy and warm, and anyway it didn’t matter much, not that first night. He had £45 in his pocket, and certainly had no intention of letting himself get too hungry. It was just that he wanted to see how things would work out—that was all.

  Not very well, though, seemed the answer to that experiment: for he was stiff and even (yes!) a little cold; and the coins amounted to only 83p. He must look too well dressed still, too well fed, too little in need. At nine o’clock he walked down to a pub in Holborn and ordered a pint of beer and two packets of crisps: £2.70. Bloody robbery! Nor were things made easier when a shaven-headed youth with multi-tattooed arms and multi-ringed ears moved in beside him, and asked him if he was the prick who’d been staking out his pitch in the Row; because if so he’d be well advised to fuck off smartish—if he knew what was best for him.

  Cathy Michaels repeatedly bent forwards, sideways, backwards, as the heat from the dryer penetrated her thick, raven-black hair, specially cut for The Mikado in a horizontal bob, the original blonde just beginning to show again, even if only a few millimetres or so at the roots. For a moment she felt sure she’d heard the Land-rover just outside, and she turned off the dryer. False alarm, though. Usually she experienced little or no nervousness when left alone in the cottage, even at night; and never when Bobbie was with her. But Bobbie was not with her: he was down at the pub with his master �
�� and with the policemen. Suddenly she felt fear almost palpably creeping across her skin, like some soft-footed, menacing insect.

  Midnight was chiming, and Morse was pouring himself a nightcap from the green, triangular-columned bottle of Glenfiddich—when the phone went: Dr. Hobson. She had agreed to ring him if she discovered anything further before the end of that long, long day. Not that there was anything startlingly new, and she realized it could easily wait till morning. But no, it couldn’t wait till morning, Morse had insisted.

  The bullet that had killed Daley had fairly certainly been fired from a seven-millimetre or a .243 rifle, or something very similar; the bullet had entered the back about 2 inches below the left scapula, had exited (no wince this time from Morse) about 1 inch above the heart, and (this certain now) had been instantly fatal. Time? Between 10 A.M. and 11 A.M.—with just a little leeway either side?—9:30 A.M. and 11:30 A.M., say? Most probably Daley had been shot from a distance of about 50–80 yards: ballistics might just amend this last finding, but she doubted it.

  He’d seemed pleased, and she knew she wanted to please him. There was some music playing in the background, but she failed to recognize it.

  “You’re not in bed yet?” she ventured.

  “Soon shall be.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Drinking Scotch.”

  “And listening to music.”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “You’re a very civilized copper, aren’t you?”

  “Only half the time.”

  “Well, I’d better gor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Goodnate, then.”

  “Goodnight, and thank you,” said Morse quietly.

  After putting down the phone Laura Hobson sat perfectly still and wondered what was happening to her. Why, he was twenty-five years older than she was!

  At least.

  Blast him!

  She acknowledged to herself the ludicrous truth of the matter, but she could barely bring herself to smile.