by Colin Dexter
Inside the station, McPherson debated for a second or two. Should he report to Lewis? Or should he report his intelligence direct to the Inspector? The latter course seemed on reflection the more appropriate, and he made his way along the corridors to Morse’s door, knocked and just caught the muffled ‘come in’ from the other side.
‘And what can I do for you, Constable?’
McPherson made his report with an accuracy and incisiveness that was impressive, and Morse congratulated him upon the prompt and efficient discharge of his duty. McPherson, though mightily gratified with the compliment, was a little surprised that Morse himself seemed not immediately anxious to summon the cohorts of the law. But he’d done his own job – done it well.
‘Excuse me if I don’t stand up – gout, you know – but . . .’ He shook McPherson’s hand warmly. ‘It won’t go unnoticed, believe me.’
After McPherson’s departure, Morse sat silently and thoughtfully for a few minutes. But so he had been sitting when the constable had entered. It would have been so disappointing for McPherson to have known, and anyway McPherson had been the immediate cause. No, he could never have had the heart to confess that Mr Bernard Crowther had telephoned in at 11.45 a.m. wishing, he said, to make a statement.
Crowther had insisted that he should present himself, that on no account were the police to collect him, that he expected the authorities at least to allow to a witness, coming forward voluntarily with what might be valuable information, the normal courtesy of not being picked up like a common felon. Morse had agreed, and Bernard promised to be with him at 2.30 p.m.
Morse found himself apologizing for his immobility and his first impression of Crowther was surprisingly agreeable. The man was nervous – that was plain for all to see; but there was an odd charm and dignity about the fellow; that sort of middle-aged schoolmaster-type that some of the girls might have a crush on.
‘Look, Inspector – you are a Chief Inspector, I think – I have never in my life been inside a police station until this moment. I am not conversant with normal police practice and procedure. So I have taken the precaution of writing out, very rushed, I’m afraid, the statement I wish to make.’
* * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
Saturday, 9 October
On the evening of Wednesday, September 29th, I left my house in Southdown Road at 6.45 p.m. I drove my car to the roundabout at the north end of the Banbury Road, where I turned left and travelled for four hundred yards or so along Sutherland Avenue to the roundabout at the northern end of the Woodstock Road. Here I turned off the A40 and took the road north to Woodstock. Night was already drawing in and I switched the side-lights on, in common, I noticed, with the majority of the other motorists. Yet although it was that awkward half light in which it is most difficult to drive, it was not dark enough for full head-lights; it was certainly not dark enough for me to miss two young girls standing a little way beyond the roundabout on the grass verge alongside the self-service filling-station. The girl nearer to the road I saw clearly. She was an attractive girl with long fair hair, white blouse, short skirt and a coat over her arm. The other girl had walked on a few yards and had her back towards me; she seemed to be quite happy to leave the business of getting a lift to her companion. But she had darkish hair, I think, and if I remember correctly was a few inches taller than her friend.
I must now try to be completely honest with you. I have often been guilty of romantic day-dreams, even vaguely erotic day-dreams, about picking up some wildly attractive woman and finding her a rare and disturbing combination of brains and beauty. In my silly imaginings the preliminary and diffident skirmishing would lead gradually but inevitably to the most wanton delights. But this, remember, has always been a day-dream and I mention it simply to excuse myself for having stopped at all. I shouldn’t feel guilty and apologetic about such things; yet in all honesty I do feel so, and have always felt so.
But that is by the way. I leaned over and opened the nearside front door and said that I was going to Woodstock, if that would help. The blonde girl said something like ‘Oh, super’. She turned round to her companion and said (I think), ‘What did I tell you?’ and got into the front seat beside me. The other girl opened the rear door and got in also. What conversation there was was desultory and disappointing. The girl beside me reiterated at intervals that this was ‘a real bi’ of luck’ (she had a typical Oxford manner of speech) because she had missed the bus; I think the girl sitting in the back spoke only once and that was to ask the time. I mentioned as we passed the gates of Blenheim Palace that this was about it, and I understood that it would do them fine. I dropped them as soon as we reached the main street, but I didn’t notice where they went. It was natural for me to believe, as I did, that they were going to meet their boy friends.
There is little more to say. What I have written above is a true record of the events which, as I now realize, later in the evening led up to the murder of one of the girls I had driven.
I have just reread what I have written and am conscious that it perhaps says little which can help your investigation. I am also aware that my statement will give rise to two questions: first, why was I myself going to Woodstock on the night of 29 September, and second, why did I not come forward earlier with my evidence? The two questions are really one, and I shall feel a great weight off my shoulders to be able to answer it; nevertheless, it is my earnest hope that what I have to say can be treated by the police with the strictest confidentiality, since other people, themselves completely innocent, would be hurt beyond telling if it were to become generally known.
For the last six months or so I have been having an affair with another woman. We have been able to meet regularly once a week, almost always on Wednesday evenings, when my wife and children are away from home and when no awkward questions are likely to arise. On Wednesday, 29th, I was on my way to meet this woman by the side gates of Blenheim Palace at 7.15 p.m. I parked my car outside the Bear Hotel and walked there. She was waiting. We walked into Blenheim gardens, beside the lake, and through the trees – it is a most beautiful spot. It was, of course, dangerous for us, since so many people from Oxford go out for a meal in Woodstock. But we were always careful, and the element of risk was itself perhaps part of the excitement.
I need say no more. I read the account of the murder and later watched Detective Chief Inspector Morse make his appeal on television. I wish you to know that I almost telephoned there and then; in fact I waited outside a telephone box in Southdown Road for several minutes that same evening with a firm resolve to come forward immediately. But this is making excuses, and I have none to offer. I fully understand, as you will, that I have not, even at this late stage, come forward of my own volition. When a police constable called at my home this morning, I realized that you were on to me, and thought it best to offer this statement straight away. I perpetuated to my wife the rigmarole which the constable had given me about stolen cars, and I told her that I would be coming here. I would do anything in the world to avoid hurting her (yet, it is probable, I know, that I have hurt her already), and I should be most grateful if any part of my statement not relevant to the strict terms of the inquiries you are conducting can be kept secret.
That I am genuinely sorry for the inconvenience and needless extra work which I have caused, will, I trust, be obvious from what I have said here. If it is not, let me hasten to state now my profound apologies for my selfish and cowardly course of action. I am,
Your humble servant,
Bernard Michael Crowther.
Morse read the statement slowly. When he had finished he looked across the table at Crowther, then looked down again at the statement and re-read it with even greater concentration. When he had finished, he leaned back in his black leather chair, carefully picked up his injured right foot, put it across his left knee and rubbed it lovingly.
‘I’ve hurt my foot, Mr Crowther.’
‘Have you? I’m sorry to hear that.
My medical friends say that feet and hands are about the worst things to knock about – something to do with the multiplicity of nerve endings.’
He had a pleasant voice and manner. Morse looked him fully in the eyes. For several seconds neither man flinched, and Morse thought he saw a basic honesty in the man. But he could not conceal from himself a draining sense of disappointment and anticlimax; like Constable McPherson he had thought of a big pools win, only to find that instead of ‘telegrams required’ the forecast was very low. ‘Yes.’ He picked up the conversation. ‘I shan’t be walking round Blenheim Park tonight, sir.’
‘Nor shall I,’ said Bernard.
‘Very romantic, I should think, having a bit on the side like that.’
‘You make it sound very crude.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Perhaps so.’
‘Are you still seeing her?’
‘No. My philandering days are over now, I hope.’
‘Have you seen her since that night?’
‘No. It’s all off. It seemed better.’
‘Does she know that you picked the two girls up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she upset – that it’s all over, I mean?’
‘I suppose so, a bit.’
‘What about you?’
‘To be truthful, it’s a great relief. I’m not a very accomplished Casanova and I hated all the lying.’
‘You realize, of course, that it would help a great deal if this young lady – is she young, by the way?’
For the first time Bernard hesitated. ‘Fairly young.’
‘If this young lady,’ continued Morse, ‘would come forward and corroborate your evidence?’
‘Yes. I know it would.’
‘But you don’t want that.’
‘I’d rather you disbelieved my story than dragged her into it.’
‘You’re not going to tell me who she is? I can promise you that I will handle the business myself.’
Bernard shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do that.’
‘I could try to find her, you know,’ said Morse.
‘I couldn’t stop that.’
‘No, you couldn’t.’ Morse moved his foot carefully back to the cushion strategically placed under his desk. ‘You could be withholding vital evidence, Mr Crowther.’ Bernard said nothing. ‘Is she married?’ persisted Morse.
‘I’m not going to talk about her,’ he said quietly, and Morse sensed a steely resolve in the man.
‘Do you think I could find her?’ His foot shot with pain, and he picked it up again. Oh, what the hell, he thought; if this bit of stuff likes him to tickle her tits under the trees, what’s that got to do with me? Bernard had not answered and Morse changed his tack. ‘You realize, I’m sure, that this other girl, the one who sat in the back seat, she’s the one who might be able to give us a line?’ Crowther nodded. ‘Why do you think we haven’t heard from her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can’t you think of any reason?’
Bernard could, that was clear, but he did not put his thoughts into words.
‘You can, can’t you, Mr Crowther? Because it could be exactly the same reason which accounted for your reluctance to come forward.’ Bernard nodded again. ‘She could tell us, perhaps, who Sylvia Kaye’s boy friend was, where she was going to meet him, what they were going to do – she might be able to tell us such a lot, don’t you think?’
‘I didn’t get the idea they knew each other very well.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Morse sharply.
‘Well, they didn’t chatter much together. You know how young girls do: pop music, dances, discos, boy friends – they just didn’t talk much – that’s all.’
‘You didn’t catch her name?’
‘No.’
‘Have you tried to think if Sylvia used her name?’
‘I’ve tried to tell you all I can remember. I can’t do any more.’
‘Betty, Carole, Diana, Evelyn . . . no?’ Bernard remained impassive. ‘Gaye, Heather, Iris, Jennifer . . .’ Morse could not make out the mildest flicker of response in Bernard’s eyes. ‘Had she got nice legs?’
‘Not so nice as the other’s, I don’t think.’
‘You noticed those?’
‘What do you think? She was sitting next to me.’
‘Any erotic day-dreams?’
‘Yes,’ said Crowther, with a fierce burst of honesty.
‘It’s a good job it’s not a criminal offence,’ sighed Morse, ‘otherwise we’d all be inside.’ He noticed a light smile play for a brief second on Crowther’s worried face. I can see him being attractive to some women, thought Morse. ‘What time did you get home that night?’
‘About a quarter to nine.’
‘Was that the usual time, you know, because of, er, your, er, wife and so on?’
‘Yes.’
‘An hour a week, was that it?’
‘Not much longer.’
‘Was it worth it?’
‘It seemed so – at the time.’
‘You didn’t call at the Black Prince that evening?’
‘I’ve never been in the Black Prince.’ It sounded very definite. Morse looked down at the statement again and noticed the beautifully formed handwriting; it seemed a pity to type it out. He questioned Crowther for a further half an hour, and gave it up soon after 4.00 p.m.
‘We shall have to keep your car here a while, I’m afraid.’
‘You will?’ Crowther sounded disappointed.
‘Yes, we might just find something, you know – hair, that sort of thing. They can do wonderful things these days, our forensic boys.’ He got up from his chair and asked Crowther for his crutches. ‘I’ll promise you one thing,’ said Morse. ‘We’ll keep your wife out of it. I’m sure you can make up something to tell her. After all, you’re used to that sort of thing, aren’t you, sir?’
Morse limped out behind Crowther and ordered the desk sergeant to get some transport. ‘Leave your car keys with me please, sir,’ said Morse. ‘You should have the car back early next week.’ The two men shook hands and Crowther was to wait only a few minutes before he was ushered into a police car. Morse watched him go with mixed feelings. He felt he’d handled things satisfactorily. He needed to think now, not to talk. Funny, though, that about the other girl’s legs; Mrs Jarman said she was wearing slacks . . .
He summoned assistance and was helped across to Crowther’s car. The doors were opened. He struggled his way into the nearside front seat and sat back, manoeuvring his foot as carefully as he could, and stretching his legs as far as possible in front of him. He closed his eyes and pictured the legs of Sylvia Kaye, long, tanned, finely formed, rising up to her brief skirt. He thought she might have leaned back, too. ‘Hot pants!’ he said, almost to himself.
‘Pardon, sir?’ said the sergeant who had helped him into the car.
By an odd coincidence (or was it?) Studio 2 in Walton Street was presenting a double sexploitation bill whose titles were calculated to titillate even the most jaded appetite. The first, 2.00–3.05 p.m., was Danish Blue (not, judging from the mounds of female flesh that burst their bounds in the stills outside, a film about the manufacturing of cheese) and from 3.20–5.00 p.m. the main attraction of the week, entitled Hot Pants.
At 5.00 p.m. the earlier addicts were leaving, and a small group of men stood inside the foyer waiting for admission. One of these would normally have joined the early brigade, for this was for him a weekly occurrence. But he had been needed by Messrs Chalkley and Sons for two hours’ overtime in the formica shop. He would not, this week, be able to stay round and see the programme twice; but the films seldom met his inflated expectations or the infinite promise of the coming-shortly trailers. On these occasions he seldom looked about him, and it was just as well in the late afternoon of Saturday, 9 October, that once again he averted his eyes from his fellow voyeurs. For standing no more than four feet away from him, ostensibly checking the times of the
next programme, but keeping himself carefully and unobtrusively out of the limelight, was the sergeant seconded to Detective Chief Inspector Morse for the inquiry into the murder of Sylvia Kaye. Lewis thought that this was one of Morse’s more rewarding assignments, and he suspected that, but for his accident, his chief might well have undertaken it himself.
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
Monday, 11 October
THE WEEKEND DRIFTED by, and the leaves continued to fall. Morse was feeling more cheerful; he could now put a good deal of weight on to his foot, and on Monday morning, deciding that he could exchange his crutches for a pair of sticks, he arranged for McPherson to drive him down to the Radcliffe Infirmary Outpatients’ (Accident) Department.
He questioned McPherson closely as they drove. What impression had he formed of Crowther? What had been Crowther’s immediate reaction? What was he like at home did he think? What had he been doing when McPherson called? Morse found the young constable surprisingly intelligent and observant, and told him so. Furthermore he found a good deal in the information he had been given that interested him and aroused his curiosity.
‘What had he been reading – did you manage to see?’
‘No, sir. But books on literature, I think. You know, poetry.’ Morse let it pass.
‘He had a writing-desk, you say?’
‘Yes, sir. You know, papers all over it.’
Morse mentally resolved not to count up the ‘you knows’ he’d had so far and the ‘you knows’ he was surely going to get. ‘Was there a typewriter there?’ He said it casually enough.
‘Yes. You know, one of those portable things.’
Morse said no more. Waved through the narrow yards of the Infirmary, that seemed in conspiracy to prevent too many injured citizens from gaining immediate access to the Outpatients’ Department, the police car parked itself, with no objections from porters, orderlies or traffic wardens, on a broad stretch of concrete marked ‘Ambulances Only’. A policeman’s parking lot was sometimes not an unhappy one. Morse had foreseen the swopping of crutches for sticks as a straightforward transaction; but it was not to be. There appeared to be an unbreached egalitarianism in the world of all injured brothers, and Morse was constrained to take his proper place and wait his proper time whilst the proper formalities were completed. He sat on the same bench, skipped through the same old edition of Punch, and felt the same impatience; he heard the same Chinese doctor, his sang-froid seemingly disturbed by the inability of a little boy to sit still: ‘Youwannagetbetter, li’l boy, youbetter sidstill.’