Colin Dexter - Last Seen Wearing

'Oh, was it?'

'You did seem a bit tired, I thought, sir.'

'Tired? Nonsense. You need another pint.' He drained what was left in his own glass, picked up Lewis's and walked across to the bar.

An elegantly dressed woman with a full figure and pleasingly slim legs had just bought a double whisky and was pouring a modicum of water into it, the heavy diamond rings on the fingers of her left hand sparkling wickedly and bright.

'Oh, and Bert, twenty Embassy, please.' The landlord reached behind him, handed over the cigarettes, squinted his eyes as he calculated the tariff, gave her the change, said 'Ta, luv,' and turned his attention to Morse.

'Same again, sir?'

As the woman turned from the counter, Morse felt sure he had seen her somewhere before. He seldom forgot a face. Still, if she lived in Kidlington, he could have seen her anywhere. But he kept looking at her; so much so that Lewis began to suspect the inspector's intentions. She was all right — quite nice, in fact. Mid-thirties, perhaps, nice face. But the old boy must be hard up if. .

Two dusty-looking builders came in, bought their ale and sat down to play dominoes. As they walked to the table one of them called over to the woman: 'Hallo, Grace. All right?' Morse showed little surprise. Hell of a sight better-looking than her photograph suggested, though.

At 1.20 Morse decided it was time to go. They walked back the way they had come, past the Taylors' house and down to the main road, busy at this time with a virtually continuous stream of traffic either way. Here they turned right and came up to the Belisha crossing.

'Do you think that's our lollipop man?' asked Morse. In the middle of the road stood a white-coated attendant in a peak cap, wielding the sceptre of his authority like an arthritic bishop with a crook. Several pupils of the Roger Bacon School were crossing under the aegis of the standard-bearer, the girls in white blouses, grey skirts and red knee-length socks, the boys (it seemed to Morse) in assorted combinations of any old garments. When the attendant returned from mid-stream, Morse spoke to him in what he liked to think of as his intimate, avuncular manner.

'Been doing this long?'

'Just over a year.' He was a small, red-faced man with gnarled hands.

'Know the chap who did it before?'

'You mean old Joe. 'Course I did. 'E did it for — oh, five or six year.'

'Retired now, has he?'

'Ah. S'pose you could say so. Poor old Joe. Got knocked ower — feller on a motorbike. Mind you, old Joe were gettin' a bit slow. Seventy-two he were when he were knocked ower. Broke 'is 'ip. Poor old Joe.'

'Not still in hospital, I hope?' Morse fervently prayed that poor old Joe was still limping along somewhere in the land of the living.

'No. Not 'im. Down at the old folkses place at Cowley.'

'Well, you be careful,' said Morse, as he and Lewis crossed over with another group of schoolchildren, and stood and watched them as they dawdled past the line of shops and the public lavatories, and reluctantiy turned into the main drive leading to the school.

Back in the office Morse read aloud the relevant part of the testimony of Mr. Joseph Godberry, Oxford Road, Kidlington:

I almost always saw Valerie Taylor at dinner times, and I saw her on 10 June. She didn't cross by my Belisha because when I saw her she was on the other side of the road. She was running fairly quickly as if she was in a dickens of a hurry to meet somebody. But I remember she waved to me. I am quite sure it was Valerie. She would often stop and have a quick word with me. 'Joe' she called me, like most of them. She was a very nice girl and always cheery. I don't know what she did after I saw her. I thought she was going back to school.

Morse looked thoughtful. 'I wonder, now,' he said.

'Wonder what, sir?'

Morse was looking into the far distance, through the office window, and into the filmy blue beyond, excitement glowing in his eyes. 'I was just wondering if she was carrying a bag of some sort when old Joe Godberry saw her.'

Lewis looked as mystified as he felt, but received no further elucidation. 'You see,' said Morse, his eyes gradually refocusing on his sergeant, 'you see, if she was, I'm beginning to think that you're wrong.'

'Wrong, sir?'

'Yes, wrong. You said you thought Valerie Taylor was still alive, didn't you?'

'Well, yes. I think she is.'

'And I think, think, mind you, that you're wrong, Lewis. I think that Valerie Taylor is almost certainly dead.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

And French she spak ful faire and fetisly,

After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,

For French of Paris was to hir unknowe.

(Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales)

DONALD PHILLIPSON ARRIVED in school at 8.00 on Tuesday morning. The Michaelmas Term had been under way for one full week now and things were going well. The anti-litter campaign was proving moderately successful, the new caretaker seemed an amenable sort of fellow, and the Parent-Teacher Association had (somewhat surprisingly, he thought) backed him up to the hilt in his plea for a more rigid ruling on school uniforms. On the academic side only four members of staff had left in the summer (one quarter the previous year's total), the GCE and CSE results had been markedly better than before, and the present term saw the first full intake of thirteen-plus pupils, among whom (if junior-school headmasters could be believed) were some real high-flyers. Perhaps in a few years' time there would be one or two Open Awards at Oxbridge. . Yes, he felt more than a little pleased with himself and with life this Tuesday morning. The only thing that marred the immediate prospect was a cloud, rather larger than a man's hand, on the not-so-distant horizon. But he felt confident that he would be able to weather whatever storm might break from that quarter, although he must think things through rather more carefully than he had done hitherto.

At 8.20 the head boy and the head girl would be coming to his study, as they did each morning, and there were several matters requiring his prompt attention. He heard Mrs. Webb come in at 8.15, and Baines at 8.30. Punctuality was sharper, too. He did a small amount of teaching with the sixth form (he was an historian), but he kept Tuesdays completely free. It had been his practice since he was appointed to take off Tuesday afternoons completely and he looked forward to a fairly gentle day.

The morning's activities went off well enough — even the singing of the hymns in assembly was improving — until 11.15 when Mrs. Webb received the telephone call.

'Is the headmaster there?'

'Who shall I say is calling, please?'

'Morse. Inspector Morse.'

'Oh, just a minute, sir. I'll see if the headmaster's free.' She dialled the head's extension. 'Inspector Morse would like a word with you, sir. Shall I put him through?'

'Oh. Er. Yes, of course.'

Mrs. Webb switched the outside call to the headmaster's study, hesitated a moment, and then quickly lifted the receiver to her ear again.

'. . hear from you. Can I help?'

'I hope you can, sir. It's about the Taylor girl. There are one or two things I'd like to ask you about'

'Look, Inspector. It's not really very convenient to talk at the minute — I'm interviewing some of the new pupils this morning. Don't you think it would be. .' Mrs. Webb put the phone down quickly and quietly, and when Phillipson came out her typewriter was chattering along merrily. 'Mrs. Webb, Inspector Morse will be coming in this afternoon at three o'clock, so I shall have to be here. Can you arrange some tea and biscuits for us?'

'Of course.' She made a note in her shorthand book. 'Just the two of you?'

'No. Three. He's bringing a sergeant along — I forget his name.'