Last Seen Wearing im-2

by Colin Dexter

  Last Seen Wearing

  ( Inspector Morse - 2 )

  Colin Dexter

  The statements before Inspector Morse appeared to confirm the bald, simple truth. After leaving home to return to school, teenager Valerie Taylor had completely vanished, and the trail had gone cold. Until two years, three months and two days after Valerie’s disappearance, somebody decides to supply some surprising new evidence for the case. .

  Colin Dexter

  Last Seen Wearing

  For J.C.F.P. and J.G.F.P.

  PRELUDE

  The Train Now Standing at Platform One

  HE FELT QUITE pleased with himself. Difficult to tell for certain, of course; but yes, quite pleased with himself really. As accurately as it could his mind retraced the stages of the day's events: the questions of the interviewing committee — wise and foolish; and his own answers — carefully considered and, he knew, well phrased. Two or three exchanges had been particularly satisfactory and, as he stood there waiting, a half-smile played across his firm, good-humoured lips. One he could recall almost verbatim.

  'You don't think you may perhaps be a bit young for the job?'

  'Well, yes. It will be a big job and I'm sure that there will be times — that is if you should appoint me — when I should need the experience and advice of older and wiser heads.' (Several of the older and wiser heads were nodding sagely.) 'But if my age is against me, there isn't much I can do about it, I'm afraid. I can only say that it's a fault I shall gradually grow out of.'

  It wasn't even original. One of his former colleagues had recounted it to him and claimed it for his own. But it was a good story: and judging from the quietly controlled mirth and the muted murmurs of appreciation, apparently none of the thirteen members of the selection committee had heard it before.

  Mm.

  Again the quiet smile played about his mouth. He looked at his watch. 7.30 p.m. Almost certainly he would be able to catch the 8.35 from Oxford, reaching London at 9.42; then over to Waterloo; and home by midnight perhaps. He'd be a bit lucky if he managed it, but who cared? It was probably those two double whiskies that were giving him such a glowing sense of elation, of expectancy, of being temporarily so much in tune with the music of the spheres. He would be offered the job, he felt — that was the long and the short of it.

  February now. Six months' notice, and he counted off the months on his fingers: March, April, May, June, July, August. That would be all right: plenty of time.

  His eyes swept leisurely along the rather superior detached houses that lined the opposite side of the road. Four bedrooms; biggish gardens. He would buy one of those prefabricated greenhouses, and grow tomatoes or cucumbers, like Diocletian. . or was it Hercule Poirot?

  He stepped back into the wooden shelter and out of the raw wind. It had begun to drizzle again. Cars swished intermittently by, and the surface of the road gleamed under the orange streetlights. . Not quite so good, though, when they had asked him about his short time in the army.

  'You didn't get a commission, did you?'

  'No.'

  'Why not, do you think?'

  'I don't think that I was good enough. Not at the time. You need special qualities for that sort of thing.' (He was getting lost: waffle on, keep talking.) 'And I was er. . well I just hadn't got them. There were some extremely able men joining the army at that time — far more confident and competent than me.' Leave it there. Modest.

  An ex-colonel and an ex-major nodded appreciatively. Two more votes, likely as not.

  It was always the same at these interviews. One had to be as honest as possible, but in a dishonest kind of way. Most of his army friends had been ex-public schoolboys, buoyed up with self-confidence, and with matching accents. Second lieutenants, lieutenants, captains. They had claimed their natural birthright and they had been duly honoured in their season. Envy had nagged at him vaguely over the years. He, too, had been a public schoolboy. .

  Buses didn't seem very frequent, and he wondered if he would make the 8.35 after all. He looked out along the well-lit street, before retreating once more into the bus shelter, its wooden walls predictably covered with scrawls and scorings of varying degrees of indecency. Kilroy, inevitably, had visited this shrine in the course of his infinite peregrinations, and several local tarts proclaimed to prospective clients their nymphomaniac inclinations. Enid loved Gary and Dave loved Monica. Variant readings concerning Oxford United betrayed the impassioned frustrations of the local football fans: eulogy and urination. All Fascists should go home immediately and freedom should be granted forthwith to Angola, Chile and Northern Ireland. A window had been smashed and slivers of glass sparkled sporadically amid the orange peel, crisp packets and Cola tins. Litter! How it appalled him. He was far more angered by obscene litter than by obscene literature. He would pass some swingeing litter laws if they ever made him the supremo. Even in this job he could do something about it. Well, if he got it. .

  Come on, bus. 7.45. Perhaps he should stay in Oxford for the night? It wouldn't matter. If freedom should be granted to Angola and the rest, why not to him? It had been a long time since he had spent so long away from home. But he was losing nothing — gaining in fact; for the expenses were extremely generous. The whole thing must have cost the Local Authority a real packet. Six of them short-listed — one from Inverness! Not that he would get the job, surely. Quite a strange experience, though, meeting people like that. One couldn't get too friendly. Like the contestants in a beauty competition. Smile and scratch their eyes out.

  Another memory glided slowly back across his mind. 'If you were appointed, what do you think would be your biggest headache?'

  'The caretaker, I shouldn't wonder.'

  He had been amazed at the uproariously delighted reception given to this innocent remark, and only afterwards had he discovered that the current holder of the sinecure was an ogre of quite stupendous obstinacy — an extraordinarily ill-dispositioned man, secretly and profoundly feared by all.

  Yes, he would get the job. And his first tactical triumph would be the ceremonial firing of the wicked caretaker, with the unanimous approbation of governors, staff and pupils alike. And then the litter. And then. .

  'Waitin' for a bus?'

  He hadn't seen her come in from the far side of the shelter. Below her plastic hat tiny droplets of drizzle winked from the carefully plucked eyebrows. He nodded. 'Don't seem very frequent, do they?' She walked towards him. Nice-looking girl. Nice lips. Difficult to say how old she was. Eighteen? Even younger, perhaps.

  'There's one due about now.'

  'That's good news.'

  'Not a very nice night.'

  'No.' It seemed a dismissive reply, and feeling a desire to keep the conversation going, he wondered what to say. He might just as well stand and talk as stand and be silent. His companion was clearly thinking along similar lines and showed herself the slicker practitioner.

  'Goin' to Oxford?'

  'Yes. I'm hoping to catch the 8.35 train to London.'

  'You'll be all right.'

  She unfastened her gleaming plastic mac and shook the raindrops to the floor. Her legs were thin, angular almost, but well proportioned; and the gentlest, mildest of erotic notions fluttered into his mind. It was the whisky.

  'You live in London?'

  'No, thank goodness. I live down in Surrey.'

  'You goin' all that way tonight?'

  Was he? 'It's not far really, once you've got across London.' She lapsed into silence. 'What about you? You going to Oxford?'

  'Yeah. Nothing to do 'ere.'

  She must be young, surely. Their eyes met and held momentarily. She had a lovely mouth. Just a brief encounter, though, in a bus shelter, and pleasant — just a fraction m
ore pleasant than it should have been. Yet that was all. He smiled at her, openly and guilelessly. 'I suppose there's plenty to do in the big wicked city of Oxford?'

  She looked at him slyly. 'Depends what you want, don't it?' Before he could ascertain exactly what she wanted or what extramural delights the old university city could still provide, a red double-decker curved into the lay-by, its near front wheel splattering specks of dirty-brown water across his carefully polished black shoes. The automatic doors rattled noisily open, and he stepped aside for the girl to climb in first. She turned at the handrail that led to the upper deck.

  'Comin' upstairs?'

  The bus was empty, and when she sat down on the back seat and blinked at him invitingly, he had little option or inclination to do otherwise than to sit beside her. 'Got any cigarettes?'

  'No, I'm sorry. I don't smoke.'

  Was she just a common slut? She almost acted like one. He must look a real city gent to her: immaculate dark suit, new white shirt, a Cambridge tie, well-cut heavy overcoat, and a leather briefcase. She would probably expect a few expensive drinks in a plush four-star lounge. Well, if she did, she was in for a big disappointment. Just a few miles on the top of a Number 2 bus. And yet he felt a subdued, magnetic attraction towards her. She took off her transparent plastic hat and shook out her long dark-brown hair. Soft, and newly washed.

  A weary-footed conductor slowly mounted the circular staircase and stood before them.

  'Two to Oxford, please.'

  'Whereabouts?' The man sounded surly.

  'Er, I'm going to the station. .'

  She said it for him. 'Two to the station, please.' The conductor wound the tickets mechanically, and disappeared dejectedly below.

  It was completely unexpected, and he was taken by surprise. She put her arm through his, and squeezed his elbow gently against her soft body. 'I 'spect he thinks we're just off to the pictures.' She giggled happily. 'Anyway, thanks for buying the ticket.' She turned towards him and gently kissed his cheek with her soft, dry lips.

  'You didn't tell me you were going to the station.'

  'I'm not really.'

  'Where are you going then?'

  She moved a little closer. 'Dunno.'

  For a frightening moment the thought flashed across his mind that she might be simple-minded. But no. He felt quite sure that for the present time at least she had an infinitely saner appreciation of what was going on than he. Yet he was almost glad when they reached the railway station. 8.17. Just over a quarter of an hour before the train was due.

  They alighted and momentarily stood together in silence beneath the Tickets: Buffet sign. The drizzle persisted.

  'Like a drink?' He said it lightly.

  'Wouldn't mind a Coke.'

  He felt surprised. If she was on the look-out for a man, it seemed an odd request. Most women of her type would surely go for gin or vodka or something with a bigger kick than Coke. Who was she? What did she want?

  'You sure?'

  'Yes thanks. I don't go drinkin' much.'

  They walked into the buffet, where he ordered a double whisky for himself, and for her a Coke and a packet of twenty Benson & Hedges. 'Here we are.'

  She seemed genuinely grateful. She quickly lit herself a cigarette and quietly sipped her drink. The time ticked on, the minute hand of the railway clock dropping inexorably to the half hour. 'Well, I'd better get on to the platform.' He hesitated a moment, and then reached beneath the seat for his brief-case. He turned towards her and once again their eyes met. I enjoyed meeting you. Perhaps we'll meet again one day.' He stood up, and looked down at her. She seemed more attractive to him each time he looked at her.

  She said: 'I wish we could be naughty together, don't you?'

  God, yes. Of course he did. He was breathing quickly and suddenly the back of his mouth was very dry. The loudspeaker announced that the 8.35 shortly arriving at Platform One was for Reading and Paddington only; passengers for. . But he wasn't listening. All he had to do was to admit how nice it would have been, smile a sweet smile and walk through the buffet door, only some three or four yards away, and out on to Platform One. That was all. And again and again in later months and years he was bitterly to reproach himself for not having done precisely that.

  'But where could we go?' He said it almost involuntarily. The pass at Thermopylae was abandoned and the Persian army was already streaming through.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Beauty's ensign yet

  Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,

  And death's pale flag is not advanced there.

  (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act V)

  THREE AND A HALF years later two men were seated together in an office.

  'You've got the files. Quite a lot of stuff to go on there.'

  'But he didn't get very far, did he?' Morse sounded cynical about the whole proposition.

  'Perhaps there wasn't very far to go.'

  'You mean she just hopped it and — that was that'

  'Perhaps.'

  'But what do you want me to do? Ainley couldn't find her, could he?'

  Chief Superintendent Strange made no immediate answer. He looked past Morse to the neatly docketed rows of red and green box-files packed tighdy along the shelves.

  'No,' he said finally. 'No, he didn't find her.'

  'And he was on the case right from the start.'

  'Right from the start,' repeated Strange.

  'And he got nowhere.' Strange said nothing. 'He wasn't a fool, was he?' persisted Morse. What the hell did it matter anyway? A girl leaves home and she's never seen again. So what? Hundreds of girls leave home. Most of them write back to their parents before long — at least as soon as the glamour rubs off and the money has trickled away. Some of them don't come home. Agreed. Some of them never do; and for the lonely waiters the nagging heartache returns with the coming of each new day. No. A few of them never come home. . Never.

  Strange interrupted his gloomy thoughts. 'You'll take it on?'

  'Look, if Ainley. .'

  'No. You look!' snapped Strange. 'Ainley was a bloody sight better policeman than you'll ever be. In fact I'm asking you to take on this case precisely because you're not a very good policeman. You're too airy-fairy. You're too. . I don't know.'

  But Morse knew what he meant. In a way he ought to have been pleased. Perhaps he was pleased. But two years ago. Two whole years! 'The case is cold now, sir — you must know that. People forget. Some people need to forget. Two years is a long time.'

  'Two years, three months and two days,' corrected Strange. Morse rested his chin on his left hand and rubbed the index finger slowly along the side of his nose. His grey eyes stared through the open window and on to the concrete surface of the enclosed yard. Small tufts of grass were sprouting here and there. Amazing. Grass growing through concrete. How on earth? Good place to hide a body — under concrete. All you'd need to do. . 'She's dead,' said Morse abruptly.

  Strange looked up at him. 'What on earth makes you say that?'

  'I don't know. But if you don't find a girl after all that time — well, I should guess she's dead. It's hard enough hiding a dead body, but it's a hell of a sight harder hiding a living one. I mean, a living one gets up and walks around and meets other people, doesn't it? No. My guess is she's dead.'

  'That's what Ainley thought.'

  'And you agreed with him?'

  Strange hesitated a moment, then nodded. 'Yes, I agreed with him.'

  'He was really treating this as a murder inquiry, then?'

  'Not officially, no. He was treating it for what it was — a missing-person inquiry.'

  'And unofficially?'

  Again Strange hesitated. 'Ainley came to see me about this case several times. He was, let's say, uneasy about it. There were certain aspects of it that made him very. . very worried.'

  Surreptitiously Morse looked at his watch. Ten past five. He had a ticket for the visiting English National Opera performance of Die Walküre starting at ha
lf-past six at the New Theatre.

  'It's ten past five,' said Strange, and Morse felt like a young schoolboy caught yawning as the teacher was talking to him. .School. Yes, Valerie Taylor had been a schoolgirl — he'd read about the case. Seventeen and a bit. Good looker, by all accounts. Eyes on the big city, like as not. Excitement, sex, drugs, prostitution, crime, and then the gutter. And finally remorse. We all felt remorse in the end. And then? For the first time since he had been sitting in Strange's office Morse felt his brain becoming engaged. What had happened to Valerie Taylor?

  He heard Strange speaking again, as if in answer to his thoughts.