Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

‘Pater Street, Lewis — that’s where she lives. Named after Walter Pater, you know, the fellow who described the Mona Lisa as a woman who’d learned the secrets of the grave.’

‘Pater Street? That’s out in Cowley, isn’t it?’

Morse nodded. ‘McClure mentions Cowley in something he wrote here.’ Morse tapped Catullus. ‘And then there’s this.’

He handed across the postcard he’d found marking the relevant page of notes at the back of the volume — notes including a chicken-hearted comment on Glubit : ‘ sensus obscenus ’.

Lewis took the card; and after glancing at the coloured photograph, ‘Bluebells in Wytham Woods’, turned to the back where, to the left of McClure’s address, he read the brief message, written boldly in black Biro:

P St out this Sat -

either DC or wherever    K

The unsmudged postmark gave the date as 10 August 1994.

‘Ye-es. I see what you mean, sir. They’d arranged to meet at her place, perhaps, P-something Street, on the Saturday; then on the Wednesday something cropped up…’

‘She may have had the decorators in.’

‘… so it had to be “DC”, Daventry Court, or “wherever”.’

‘Probably some hotel room.’

‘Cost him, though. Double room’d be — what? — £70, £80, £90?’

‘Or a B&B.’

‘Even so. Still about £40, £50.’

‘Then he’s got to pay her for her services, don’t forget that.’

‘How much do you think, sir?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Maybe she was worth every penny of it,’ Lewis suggested quietly.

‘Do you know, I very much doubt that,’ asserted Morse with surprising vehemence, now walking over to the phone, consulting the black index, and dialling a number.

‘Could be Princess Street, sir? That’s just off the Cowley Road.’

Morse put his palm over the receiver and shook his head. ‘No, Lewis. It’s Pater Street. Hullo?’

‘Yeah? Wha’ d’ya wan’?’

‘Have I got the right number for “K”, please?’

‘You ’ave. Bu’ she ain’t ’ere, is she?’

‘That’s what I hoped you’d be able to tell me.’

‘You another dur’y ol’ man or somethin’?’

‘If I am, I’m a dirty old police inspector,’ replied Morse, in what he trusted was a cultured, authoritative tone.

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘You say she’s not there?’

‘She’s bin away for a week in Spain. Sent me a topless photo of ’erself from Torremolinos, didn’t she? Only this mornin’.’

‘A week, you say?’

‘Yeah. Went las’ Sa’dy — back this Sa’dy.’

‘Does she have a… a client in North Oxford?’

‘An’ if she does?’

‘You know his name?’

‘Nah.’

‘What about her name?’

‘She in some sort of trouble?’ Suddenly the voice sounded anxious, softer now — with a final ‘t’ voiced upon that ‘sort’.

‘I could get all this information from Kidlington Police HQ — you know that, surely? I just thought it would save a bit of time and trouble if you answered me over the phone. Then when we’ve finished I can thank you for your kind co-operation with the police in their enquiries.’

Hesitation now at the other end of the line.

Then an answer: ‘Kay Blaxendale. That’s “Kay”, K-A-Y. She jus’ signs herself “K” — the letter “K”.’

‘Is that her real name? It sounds a bit posh?’

‘It’s her professional name. Her real name’s Ellie Smith.’

‘What about your name?’

‘Do you have to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friday Banks — that’s me.’

‘Have you got another name?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve got another accent though, haven’t you?’

‘Pardon?’

‘When you want to, you can speak very nicely. You’ve got a pleasant voice. I just wonder why you try to sound so cheap and common, that’s all.’

‘Heh! Come off it. I may be common, mista, but I ain’t cheap — I can tell yer tha’.’

‘All right.’

‘Tha’ all?’

‘Er, do you like bluebells, Miss Banks?’

‘Bluebells, you say? Bloody blue bells?’ She snorted her derision. ‘She does, though — Kay does. But me, I’m a red-rose girl, Inspector — if you’re thinkin’ of sendin’ me a bunch of flowers.’

‘You never know,’ said Morse, as he winked across at Lewis.

‘Tha’ all?’ she repeated.

‘Just your address, please.’ ‘Do you have to know?’ (An aspirated ‘have’.) ‘Yes.’

‘It’s 35 Princess Street.’

And now it was Lewis’s turn, as he winked across at Morse.

Morse’s face, after he had cradled the phone, betrayed a suggestion of satisfaction; but after a short while a stronger suggestion of dis satisfaction.

‘Ever heard of a girl called Friday, Lewis?’

‘I’ve heard of that story — The Man Who Was Thursday .’

‘It’s a diminutive of Frideswide.’

‘Right. Yes. We learnt about her at school — St Frideswide. Patron saint of Oxford. She cured somebody who was blind, I think.’

‘Somebody, Lewis, she’d already herself struck blind in the first place.’

‘Not a very nice girl, then.’

‘Just like our girl.’

‘Anyway, you can cross her off the list of suspects.’

‘How do you make that out, Lewis?’

‘Unless you still think that girl on the phone’s a phoney too.’

‘No. I don’t think that. Not now.’

‘Well, she said McClure’s girlfriend was in Spain when he was murdered, didn’t she?’

‘It’s impolite to eavesdrop on telephone conversations.’

Lewis nodded. ‘Interesting, too. I felt sure you were going to ask her to send you the photo — you know, the topless photo from Torremolinos.’

‘Do you know,’ said Morse quietly, ‘I think, looking back on it, I should have done exactly that. I must be getting senile.’

‘You can still cross her off your list,’ maintained an unsympathetic Lewis.

‘Perhaps she was never on it in the first place. You see, I don’t think it was a woman who murdered McClure.’

‘We shall still have to see her, though.’

‘Oh yes. But the big thing we’ve got to do is learn more about McClure. The more we learn about the murdered man, the more we learn about the murderer.’

Music to Lewis’s ears. ‘But no firm ideas yet, sir?’

‘What?’ Morse walked over to the front window, but his eyes seemed not so much to be looking out as looking in. ‘I once went to hear a panel of writers, Lewis, and I remember they had to answer an interesting question about titles — you know, how important a title is for a book.’

‘ The Wind in the Willows — that’s my favourite.’

‘Anyway, the other panellists said it was the most difficult thing of the lot, finding a good title. Then this last woman, she said it was no problem for her at all. Said she’d got half a dozen absolutely dazzling titles — but she just hadn’t got any books to go with them. And it’s the same with me, Lewis, that’s all. I’ve got plenty of ideas already, but nothing to pin ’em to.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet,’ echoed Morse.

‘Do you think Phillotson had any ideas — ideas he didn’t tell us about?’

‘For Christ’s sake, forget Phillotson! He wouldn’t know what to do if some fellow walked into his nearest nick with a knife dripping with blood and said he’d just murdered his missus.’