Colin Dexter - The Daughters of Cain

‘Abroad somewhere.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘She sent me a postcard.’

‘Where from?’

‘The postmark was smudged — I couldn’t read it.’

‘Must have had a stamp on it?’

‘Yeah. I’m no good at them names of foreign countries, though.’

‘Some of them aren’t very difficult, you know. “France”, for instance?’

She made no reply.

‘Have you still got the postcard?’

‘No. Threw it away, didn’t I?’

‘What was the picture on it?’

‘A river, I think.’

‘Not the Thames?’

‘Not the Thames.’

‘You’re not being much help, you know.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, though.’

She produced a small pasteboard business card and handed it to Morse.

‘You were asking me about that Wednesday, weren’t you? Well, I met a fellow on the train, and he got a bit, you know, a bit friendly and flirty, like; said if I ever wanted any, you know, work or anything…’

Morse looked at the white card: ‘Mike Williamson, Modelling and Photographic Agency’, with a Reading address and telephone number.

‘He’ll remember me — for sure, Inspector. I can promise you that.’

She smiled, her eyes momentarily recapturing the sparkle that Morse could recall so well.

‘Better check, Lewis.’

But as Lewis got up and moved towards the phone, Morse held up his hand: ‘Office next door, please.’

‘Why did you want him out of the way?’

Morse ignored the question, feeling quite irrationally jealous. ‘What did this fellow offer you?’

‘Oh, Christ, come off it!’ Her eyes flashed angrily now. ‘What the ’ell d’you think? He just thought I was an intelligent, ill-educated, expensive prostitute — which I am.’

‘Which you were .’

‘Which I am , Morse. By the way, you don’t mind me calling you “Morse”, do you? I did ask you — remember? — if I could call you something more pally and civilized but…’

‘What about Mr Davies? When you’re married—’

‘To Ashley? That’s all off. He came last night and we stayed up till God knows when, talking about it — going round and round in the same old circles. But I just can’t go through with it. I like him — he’s nice. But I just… I just don’t fancy him, that’s all; and I could never love him — never. So it’s not fair, is it? Not fair on him. Not fair on me, either, really.’

‘So you won’t be needing me any more — for the wedding,’ said Morse slowly.

‘’Fraid not, no. There wouldn’t have been a wedding anyway, though, would there — not if you’re going to arrest me?’

For a brief while the two looked at each other across the desk, their eyes locked together with a curiously disturbing intimacy.

The phone rang.

It was Strange; and Ellie got to her feet.

‘Please, stay!’ whispered Morse, his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, sir. Yes… Can you just give me five minutes…? I’ll be straight along.’

‘Why d’you want me to stay?’ she asked, after Morse had put down the receiver.

He took the little black box from the drawer and handed it to her.

‘It’s not wrapped up, I’m afraid. I’m not much good at that sort of thing.’

‘Wha—?’ She held the box in her left hand and opened it with her right, taking hold of the gold chain lovingly and gently, and slowly lifting up St Anthony.

‘Wha’s this for?’

‘I bought it for you.’

‘But like I say—’

‘I want you to have it, that’s all. I’ve never bought anything like that for anybody — and, as I say, I just want you to have it.’

Ellie had been looking down at the pendant and suddenly the tears began. ‘Oh God!’ she whispered.

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s… it’s the most wonderful…’ But she could get no further. She stood up and walked round the desk, and kissed Morse fully and softly on the mouth; and Morse felt the wetness of her cheek against his own.

‘I must go,’ said Morse. ‘My boss’ll be getting impatient.’

She nodded. ‘You know what I just said — about Ashley? That I couldn’t marry him because I didn’t love him? Well, that wasn’t really the reason why I broke it off.’

In his brain Morse had become convinced that Eleanor Smith must be guilty of her step-father’s murder; but in his heart he felt grieved as he awaited her words, for he knew exactly what they would be.

Yet he was wrong.

Spectacularly wrong.

‘The real reason is I’ve… I’ve fallen in love with somebody else.’

Morse wondered if he’d heard correctly. ‘What?’

‘You gettin’ deaf or something?’

‘Not — not with that charlatan from the modelling agency, surely?’

She shook her head crossly, like some unhappy, exasperated little girl who will stamp her foot until she can get her own way, her own selfish way. Now .

‘Are you going to listen to me, or not? Can’t you guess? Can’t you see? Can’t you see ?’ She was standing beside the door, her head held high, her sludgy-green eyes closed, trying so hard to hold back the brimming tears. ‘I’ve fallen in love with you, you stupid sod!’

Always had Morse been a reluctant dactyloscopist, and throughout his police career all the arches and whorls and loops, all the peaks and the troughs and the ridges, had ever remained a deep mystery to him — like electricity, and the Wheatstone Bridge. He was therefore perfectly happy, on Friday, 30 September, to delegate the fingerprinting of Mesdames Brooks and Stevens to Sergeant Lewis — for the two overseas travellers had returned to Oxford early that afternoon. Immigration officials at Heathrow, Gatwick, and Stansted airports had been alerted about them; and the phone-call from Heathrow had been received at Thames Valley HQ just after midday: the two had boarded the Oxford City Link coach, scheduled to arrive at its Gloucester Green terminus in Oxford at 2.30 p.m.

Neither had appeared to show any undue surprise or discomfiture when Lewis, accompanied by a fingerprint officer, had taken them into the manager’s office there, and trotted out the ‘purely for elimination’ line.

After his colleague had left for the fingerprint bureau at St Aldate’s (where there was now a computerized search facility) Lewis had returned to Kidlington HQ, to find Morse dispiritedly scanning some of the documents in the case.

But the Chief Inspector perked up with the return of his sergeant.

‘No problems?’

‘No problems, sir.’

‘You’re a betting man, Lewis?’

‘Only very occasionally: Derby, Grand National…’

‘Will you have a bet with me ?’

‘50p?’

‘Can’t we be devils, and make it a quid?’

‘All right. I’ve got to be careful with the money, though — we’ve got the decorators in.’

Morse appeared surprised. ‘I thought you did all that sort of stuff yourself?’

‘I used to, sir, when I had the time and the energy. Before I started working for you.’

‘Well, take your pick!’

‘Pardon?’

‘The fingerprints. Brenda Brooks or Julia Stevens — who do you go for?’

Lewis frowned. ‘I can’t really see his wife doing it, you know that. I just don’t think she’d have the strength for one thing.’

‘Really?’ Morse seemed almost to be enjoying himself.

‘Mrs Stevens, though… Well, she’s a much stronger person, a much stronger character, isn’t she? And she’s got the brains—’