Colin Dexter: The Daughters of Cain

Two things only of interest here, Lewis finally informed Morse. And Phillotson himself had pointed out the potential importance of the first of these, anyway: a black plastic W. H. Smith Telephone Index, with eighteen alphabetical divisions, the collocation of the less common letters, such as ‘WX’ and ‘YZ’, counting as one. The brief introductory instructions (under ‘A’) suggested that the user might find it valuable to record therein, for speed of reference, the telephone numbers of such indispensable personages as Decorator, Dentist, Doctor, Electrician, Plumber, Police…

Lewis opened the index at random: at the letter ‘M’. Six names on the card there. Three of the telephone numbers were prefixed with the Inner London code, ‘071’; the other three were Oxford numbers, five digits each, all beginning with ‘5’.

Lewis sighed audibly. Eighteen times six? That was a hundred and eight… Still it might be worthwhile ringing round (had Phillotson thought the same?) provided there were no more than half a dozen or so per page. He pressed the index to a couple of other letters. ‘P’: eight names and numbers. ‘C’: just four. What about the twinned letters? He pressed ‘KL’: seven, with six of them ‘L’; and just the one ‘K’ — and that (interestingly enough?) entered as the single capital letter ‘K’. Who was K when he was at home?

Or she?

‘What does “K” stand for, sir?’

Morse, a crossword fanatic from his early teens, knew some of the answers immediately: ‘“King”; “Kelvin” — unit of temperature, Lewis; er, “thousand”; “kilometre”, of course; “Köchel”, the man who catalogued Mozart, as you know; er…’

‘Not much help.’

‘Initial of someone’s name?’

‘Why just the initial?’

‘Girl’s name? Perhaps he’s trying to disguise his simmering passion for a married woman — what about that? Or perhaps all the girls at the local knocking-shop are known by a letter of the alphabet?’

‘Didn’t know you had one up here, sir.’

‘Lewis, we have everything in North Oxford. It’s just a question of knowing where it is, that’s the secret.’

Lewis mused aloud. ‘Karen… or Kirsty…’

‘Kylie?’

‘You’ve heard of her , sir?’

‘Only just.’

‘Kathy…’

‘Well, there’s one pretty simple way of finding out, isn’t there? Can’t you just ring the number? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing? That sort of thing?’

Lewis picked up the phone and dialled the five-digit number — and was answered immediately.

‘Yeah? Wha’ d’ya wan’?’ a woman’s voice bawled at him.

‘Hullo. Er — have I got the right number for “K”?’

‘Yeah. You ’ave. Bu’ she’s no’ ’ere, is she?’

‘No, obviously not. I’ll try again later.’

‘You a dur’y ol’ man, or sump’n?’

Lewis quickly replaced the receiver, the colour rising in his pale cheeks.

Morse, who had heard the brief exchange clearly, grinned at his discomfited sergeant. ‘You can’t win ’em all.’

‘Waste of time, if that’s anything to go by.’

‘You think so?’

‘Don’t you ?’

‘Lewis! You were only on the phone for about ten seconds but you learned she was a “she”, probably a she with the name of “Kay”.’

‘I didn’t!’

‘A she of easy virtue who old Felix here spent a few happy hours with. Or, as you’d prefer it, with whom old Felix regularly spent a few felicitous hours.’

‘You can’t just say that—’

‘Furthermore she’s a local lass, judging by her curly Oxfordshire accent and her typical habit of omitting all her “t”s.’

‘But I didn’t even get the woman!’

Morse was silent for a few seconds; then he looked up, his face more serious. ‘Are you sure, Lewis? Are you quite sure you haven’t just been speaking to the cryptic “K” herself?’

Lewis shook his head, grinned ruefully, and said nothing. He knew — knew again now — why he’d never rise to any great heights in life himself. Morse had got it wrong, of course. Morse nearly always got things hopelessly, ridiculously wrong at the start of every case. But he always seemed to have thoughts that no one else was capable of thinking. Like now.

‘Anyway, what’s this other thing you’ve found?’

But before Lewis could answer, there was a quiet tap on the door and PC Roberts stuck a reverential, unhelmeted head into the room.

‘There’s a Mrs Wynne-Wilson here, sir, from one of the other flats. Says she wants a word, like.’

Morse looked up from his Thucydides. ‘Haven’t we already got a statement from her, Lewis?’

But it was Roberts who answered. ‘She says she made a statement, sir, but when she heard someone else was in charge — well, she said Inspector Phillotson didn’t really want to know, like.’

‘Really?’

‘And she’s, well, she’s a bit deaf, like.’

‘Like what?’ asked Morse.

‘Pardon?’

‘Forget it.’

‘Shall I show her in, sir?’

‘What? In here? You know what happened here, don’t you? She’d probably faint, man.’

‘Doubt it, sir. She says she was sort of in charge of nurses at some London hospital.’

‘Ah, a matron,’ said Morse.

‘They don’t call them “matrons” any longer,’ interposed Lewis.

‘Thank you very much, Lewis! Send her in.’

Julia Stevens had returned home that same afternoon.

The flight had been on time (early, in fact); Customs had been swift and uncomplicated; the Gatwick — Heathrow — Oxford coach had been standing there, just waiting for her, it seemed, welcoming her back to England. From the bus station at Gloucester Green she had taken a taxi (no queue) out to East Oxford, the driver duly helping her with two heavyweight cases right up to the front door of her house — a house which, as the taxi turned into the street, she’d immediately observed to be still standing there, unburned, unvandalized; and, as she could see as she stood inside her own living-room — at long last! — blessedly unburgled.

How glad she was to be back. Almost always, on the first two nights of any holiday away from home, she experienced a weepy nostalgia. But usually this proved to be only a re-adjustment. Usually, too, at least for the last two days of her statutory annual fortnight abroad, she felt a similar wrench on leaving her summer surroundings; on bidding farewell to her newly made holiday friends. One or two friends in particular.

One or two men, as often as not.

But such had not been the case this time on her package tour round the Swiss and Italian lakes. She couldn’t explain why: the coach-driver had been very competent; the guide good; the scenery spectacular; the fellow-tourists pleasantly friendly. But she’d not enjoyed it at all. My god! What was happening to her?

(But she knew exactly what was happening to her.)

Not that she’d said anything, of course. And Brenda Brooks had received a cheerful postcard from a multi-starred hotel on Lake Lucerne:

Wed.

Having a splendid time here with a nice lot of people. My room looks right across the lake. Tomorrow we go over to Triebschen (hope I’ve spelt that right) where Richard Wagner spent some of his life. There was a firework display last night — tho’ nobody told us why. Off to Lugano Friday.

Love Julia