by Colin Dexter
'Come and dance with me,' she whispered.
The floor was crowded and they did little more than sway slowly to the sweet, low rhythm of the band. Sue leaned her head lightly against his cheek and Morse felt with a wonderful joy the moisture of her eyes. He wished the world would stop and that this heavenly moment could be launched on the eternal seas. He kissed her ear and said some awkward, loving things, and Sue nuzzled deeper and deeper into his arms and pulled him even more closely to her. They stood together as the music ended, and Sue looked up at him. 'Can we go now, please. Somewhere on our own?'
Morse remembered little of the next few minutes. He had waited in a dream-like state beside the revolving doors and arm-in-arm the two had slowly walked along St. Giles' towards the car.
'I want to talk to you,' said Sue when they were sitting in the car.
'I'm listening.'
'You know when you said that you might not have meant. . might not have meant what you said. Oh, I'm getting all muddled. What I mean is — you did want to ask me something, didn't you?'
'Did I?' asked Morse.
'You know you did. About Jennifer. That's where we both came in, wasn't it? You thought she'd got something to do with the Woodstock murder. .' Morse nodded. 'And you wanted to ask me about her boyfriends and that sort of thing.'
Morse sat silently in the darkness of his car. 'I'm not going to ask you now, Sue. Don't worry.' He put his arm around her and drew her towards him and tenderly kissed the softest, heavenliest lips that ever the Almighty made. 'When can we meet again, Sue?' As soon as he had spoken he knew that something was wrong. He felt her body tauten; she moved away from him, felt for her handkerchief and blew her nose. She was on the verge of tears. 'No,' she said, 'we can't.'
Morse felt a hurt that he had never known before, and his voice was strained and unbelieving. 'But why? Why? Of course we can meet again, Sue.'
'We can't.' Her voice for the moment seemed matter-of-fact and final. 'We can't meet again, Inspector, because. . because I'm engaged to be married.' She just managed to blurt out the last word before burying her head on Morse's shoulder and bursting into anguished tears. Morse kept his arm tightly around her and listened with unfathomable sadness to her convulsive sobs. The front window had steamed over with their breath and Morse perfunctorily wiped away the moisture with the back of his right hand. Outside he saw the massive outer wall of St John's College. It was only 10.00 p.m. and a group of undergraduates were laughing gaily outside the Porter's Lodge. Morse knew it well. He'd been an undergraduate there himself; but that was twenty years ago and life since then had somehow passed him by.
They drove in silence up to North Oxford and Morse pulled up the Lancia directly in front of Sue's front door. As he did so the door opened and Jennifer Coleby came out with her car-keys in her hand, and walked towards them.
'Hello, Sue. You're home early, aren't you?'
Sue wound the window down. 'We didn't want to get stopped for drinking and driving.'
'Are you coming in for a coffee?' asked Jennifer. The question was directed obliquely through the car window to Morse.
'No. I think I'd better get home.'
'See you in a minute then,' said Jennifer to Sue. 'Just going to put the car away.' She climbed into a smart little Fiat and drove smoothly off to her rented garage in the next street.
'Good little cars, Fiats,' said Morse.
'No better than English cars, are they?' asked Sue. She was bravely trying not to make a fool of herself again.
'Very reliable, I'm told. And even if something does go wrong, there's a good agent pretty near, isn't there?' Morse hoped he sounded casual enough, but he didn't really care.
'Yes, right on the doorstep, really.'
'I've always found Barkers pretty good myself.'
'She does, too,' said Sue.
'Well, I suppose I'd better go.'
'Are you sure you won't come in for some coffee?'
'Yes. I'm quite sure.'
Sue took his hand and held it lightly in her own. "You know I shall cry myself to sleep, don't you?'
'Don't say that.' He didn't want to be hurt any more.
'I wish you were going to sleep with me,' she whispered.
'I wish you were going to sleep with me for ever, Sue.'
They said no more. Sue got out of the car, waved as the Lancia slowly moved off, and turned towards the front door, her face blinded with tears.
Morse drove to Kidlington with a heavy heart. He thought of the first time he had seen Miss Dark-eyes and now he thought of the last. Would things had been otherwise! He thought of the saddest line of poetry he had ever read:
Not a line of her writing have I, not a thread of her hair.
And felt no better for the thought. He didn't want to go home; he had never realized before how lonely he had become. He stopped at The White Horse, ordered a double whisky and sat down in an empty corner. She hadn't even asked his name. . He thought of Doctor Eyres and his dark-eyed Sandra and supposed, without a hint of envy, that they were probably getting into bed by now. He thought of Bernard Crowther and doubted if his illicit liaisons with his girl in Blenheim Park were tinged with half the sadness that he himself now felt. He thought of Sue and her fiancé and hoped he was a good fellow. He bought another double whisky and, maudlin and fuddled, left soon after the landlord shouted time.
He put away the car with exaggerated care and heard the phone ringing before he could open the door. His heart raced. He rushed into the hall just as the phone stopped. Was it her? Was it Sue? He could always ring back. What was the number? He didn't know. It was in his files at Police HQ. He could ring there. He picked up the phone — and put it down. It wouldn't be Sue. If it was, she could ring back. She'd probably been ringing all the time he'd been sitting in The White Horse. Blast it. Ring again, Sue. Just to let me hear you speak. Ring again, Sue. But the telephone rang no more that night
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thursday, 14 October
BERNARD CROWTHER HAD a hangover on Thursday morning. He would be lecturing in the Schools at 11.00 a.m. and he contemplated his notes on 'Influences on Milton's Poetical Style' with a growing sense of apprehension. Margaret had brought him a cup of hot black coffee at a quarter to nine; she always knew — and usually said so. She had been up since half-past six, cooked the children's breakfast, washed some shirts and blouses, made the beds, hoovered the bedrooms and she was now putting on her coat in the hall. She put her head round the door. "You all right?' How Bernard hated the reminder!
'Fine.'
'Do you want anything from town — Milk of Magnesia tablets?' They seemed perpetually in a state of eruptive belligerence, staring at each other over a long-disputed frontier. Margaret! Margaret! He wished he could talk to her.
'No. No thanks. Look, Margaret, I've got to go down myself pretty soon. Can you wait a few minutes?'
'No. Must be off. You home for lunch?'
What was the point? 'No. I'll have a bite to eat in college.' He heard the front door bang and watched her as she walked quickly to the end of the road and round the corner and out of sight. He went to the kitchen, filled a glass with cold water and dropped in two tablets of soluble Disprin.
Morse and Lewis conferred from nine to ten that morning. There were several loose ends to tie up and several interesting trails to follow. At least, that's how Morse explained things to Lewis. After Lewis had left him, he had a call from a young reporter on The Oxford Mail, as a result of which a brief paragraph would appear in the evening edition. Routine answers. He couldn't tell anyone much, but he tried to sound as confident as he could. It was good for morale.
He got the Kaye file and spent the next hour rereading the documents in the case. At 11.00 a.m. he put the file away, reached for the Oxford and District telephone directory, looked under the Cs for the number he wanted, and rang the manager of Chalkley and Sons, Botley Road. He was unlucky. John Sanders had not come in that morning; his mother had phoned — bad cold or so
mething.
'What's your opinion of him?' asked Morse.
'He's all right. Quiet, little bit surly, perhaps. But most of them are these days. Works well enough, I think.'
'Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you. I wanted a quick word with him, that's all.'
'About this murder at Woodstock?'
'Yes. He found the girl, you know.'
'Yes. I read about it and of course everyone tried to talk to him about it.'
'Did he have much to say?'
'Not really. Didn't seem to want to talk. Understandable, I suppose.'
'Yes. Well, thanks once again.'
'You're very welcome. Do you want his home address?'
'No thanks. I've got it here.'
Lewis was rather more fortunate. Mrs. Jarman was at home, dusting the stairs.
'But I don't understand, Sergeant. I'm sure they were both girls.'
Lewis nodded. 'Just checking up on one or two things.'
'But I spoke to one of them, as you know, and the other poor girl — well, you know. . And I thought they were about the same height; but it's ever so difficult to remember you know. .' Yes, Lewis knew. He left her to dust the stairs.
He found the bus conductor drinking coffee in the canteen at Gloucester Green.
'One girl getting on the bus? But you said two before.'
'Yes, I know. But we've got an idea that perhaps only one got on.'
'Sorry. I can't remember. I am sorry, honest — but it's a long time ago now.'
'Yes. Don't worry. As I said — just an idea. If you do happen to think of anything. .'
'Of course.'
George Baker was digging his garden.' 'Allo mate. I seen you before.'
'Sergeant Lewis Thames Valley Police.'
'Ah. Course. Wha' can a do forya?'
Lewis explained his visit but George's answer was only marginally less discouraging than those of the others.
'We-ell, I s'pose it could a been a fella, bu' swipe me mate, I could a swore as both of 'em was women.'
Memories were fading and the case was growing stale. Lewis went home for lunch.
At 2.00 p.m. he was ushered into the office of the car service manager of Barkers Garage on the Banbury Road, where he spent more than an hour working his way methodically through hundreds of carbon copies of work-sheets, customers' invoices, booking-ledgers and other sundry records of car repairs for the weeks beginning September 22 and 27. He found nothing. He spent a further hour going back to the beginning of September, increasingly conscious that his task was futile. Miss Jennifer Coleby, although she had an account with Barkers, had not brought in her car for any repairs or service since July. She had bought the car new from the garage over three years ago; HP nearly finished; no trouble with payments; no serious mechanical faults. 6,000 service on 14 July, with a few oddments put right. £13.55. Bill paid July 30.
Lewis was disappointed if not surprised. Morse seemed to have a bee in his bonnet about this Coleby woman. Perhaps this would put him off for good? But he doubted it. He walked over the road to the newsagents and bought the evening newspaper. A caption near the bottom right-hand corner of the front page caught his eye:
WOODSTOCK KILLING
BREAKTHROUGH NEAR
'Following intensive activity, police are quietly confident that the killer of Sylvia Kaye, found raped and murdered at The Black Prince, Woodstock, on the night of 29 September will soon be found. Chief Inspector Morse of the Thames Valley HQ, who is heading the murder inquiry, said today that several key witnesses had already come forward and he considered that it would only be a matter of time before the guilty party was brought to justice.'
Lewis thought it must be a hoax.
The confident head of the murder inquiry, if ever invited to take his eight discs to a desert island, would have answered 'Committees' to the inevitable question about what he would be most glad to have got away from. The meeting called for this Thursday afternoon to consider pensions, promotions and appointments stretched on and on like an arid desert. His only contribution throughout was a word of commendation for Constable McPherson. It seemed a justifiable excuse for contravening his customary and caustic taciturnity. The meeting finally broke up at five minutes past five, when he yawned his way back to his office and found Lewis reading the prospects for Oxford United's visit to Blackpool the following Saturday.
'Seen this, sir?" Lewis handed him the newspaper and pointed to the caption portending judgement day for the Woodstock killer.
Morse read the item with weary composure. 'They do twist things a bit, these reporters, don't they?'
Sue Widdowson's day, too, dragged drearily by. She'd wanted desperately to talk to Morse again last night. Who knows what she might have said? Was his phone out of order? But in the cold light of morning she had realized how foolish it would have been. David was coming on Saturday for the weekend, and she would be meeting him at the station at the usual time. Dear David. She had received another letter that morning. He was so nice and she liked him so very much. But. . No! She had just got to stop thinking of Morse. It had been almost impossible. Sandra had been full of questions and Doctor Eyres had patted her bottom far too intimately, and she was lousily, hopelessly miserable.
Mrs. Amy Sanders was worried about her son. He had seemed listless and off-colour for a week or so now. In the past he had taken the odd day or two off work, and more than once she had had to lay it on a bit thick in describing to Messrs Chalkley the symptoms of some fictitious malady which had temporarily stricken her dear boy. But today she was genuinely concerned. John had been sick twice during the night and was lying shivering and sweating when she had called him at 7.00 a.m. He had eaten nothing all day and, against her son's wishes, she had rung the doctor's surgery at 5.00 p.m. No, she had not thought it urgent, but would be most grateful if the doctor could call some time.
The bell rang at 7.30 p.m. and Mrs. Sanders opened the front door to find a man she had never seen before. Still, the doctors these days were always changing around.
'Does Mr. John Sanders live here?'
'Yes. Come in, doctor. I'm ever so glad you could call.'
'I'm not a doctor, I'm afraid. I'm a Police Inspector.'
The landlord of The Bell at Chipping Norton took the booking himself at 8.30 p.m. He consulted the register and picked up the phone again.
'For tomorrow night and Saturday night, you said?'
'Yes.'
'I think we can do that all right, sir. Double room. Do you want a private bathroom?'
'That would be nice. And a double bed if you've got one. We never seem to sleep well in these twin beds.'
'Yes. We can do that.'
'I'm afraid I shan't have time to confirm it in writing.'
'Oh don't worry about that, sir. If you could just let me have your name and address.'
'Mr. and Mrs. John Brown, Hill Top, Eaglesfield (all one word), Bristol.'
'I've got that.'
'Good. My wife and I look forward to seeing you. We should be there about five.'
'We hope you'll enjoy your stay, sir.'
The landlord put down the phone and wrote the names of Mr. and Mrs. J. Brown in the booking register. His wife had once added up the number of John Browns booked into The Bell: in one month alone there were seven. But it wasn't his job to worry too much about that. Anyway, the man had sounded most polite and well educated. Nice voice, too: West Country-ish — rather like his own. And there must be one or two quite genuine John Browns somewhere.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Friday, 15 October, a.m.
MORSE WOKE UP late on Friday morning. The Times was already on the floor in the hall and one letter was protruding precariously through the letter box. It was a bill from Barkers—£9.25. He stuck it, with several of its fellows, behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
The car purred into life at the first gentle touch. He had the sticks in the back of the car and decided to run down to the Radcliffe Infirmary before going to the
office. As he joined the patiently crawling, never-ending line of traffic in the Woodstock Road, he debated his course of action. He could see her quite by chance, of course — as he had last time; or he could ask for her. But would she want that? He longed just to see her again and, dammit! she would be there. What could be more natural? He had dreamed about Sue the previous night, but in a vague, elusive sort of way which had left her standing in the forecourt of his mind. Had it been her on the phone on Wednesday night?
He turned off, across the traffic, into the yard of the Radcliffe, stopped on double yellow lines, collared the nearest porter, gave him the sticks and the promissory note of the bearer to return the same, and told him to see to it. Police!