Colin Dexter - Last Seen Wearing

She looked at him slyly. 'Depends what you want, don't it?' Before he could ascertain exactly what she wanted or what extramural delights the old university city could still provide, a red double-decker curved into the lay-by, its near front wheel splattering specks of dirty-brown water across his carefully polished black shoes. The automatic doors rattled noisily open, and he stepped aside for the girl to climb in first. She turned at the handrail that led to the upper deck.

'Comin' upstairs?'

The bus was empty, and when she sat down on the back seat and blinked at him invitingly, he had little option or inclination to do otherwise than to sit beside her. 'Got any cigarettes?'

'No, I'm sorry. I don't smoke.'

Was she just a common slut? She almost acted like one. He must look a real city gent to her: immaculate dark suit, new white shirt, a Cambridge tie, well-cut heavy overcoat, and a leather briefcase. She would probably expect a few expensive drinks in a plush four-star lounge. Well, if she did, she was in for a big disappointment. Just a few miles on the top of a Number 2 bus. And yet he felt a subdued, magnetic attraction towards her. She took off her transparent plastic hat and shook out her long dark-brown hair. Soft, and newly washed.

A weary-footed conductor slowly mounted the circular staircase and stood before them.

'Two to Oxford, please.'

'Whereabouts?' The man sounded surly.

'Er, I'm going to the station. .'

She said it for him. 'Two to the station, please.' The conductor wound the tickets mechanically, and disappeared dejectedly below.

It was completely unexpected, and he was taken by surprise. She put her arm through his, and squeezed his elbow gently against her soft body. 'I 'spect he thinks we're just off to the pictures.' She giggled happily. 'Anyway, thanks for buying the ticket.' She turned towards him and gently kissed his cheek with her soft, dry lips.

'You didn't tell me you were going to the station.'

'I'm not really.'

'Where are you going then?'

She moved a little closer. 'Dunno.'

For a frightening moment the thought flashed across his mind that she might be simple-minded. But no. He felt quite sure that for the present time at least she had an infinitely saner appreciation of what was going on than he. Yet he was almost glad when they reached the railway station. 8.17. Just over a quarter of an hour before the train was due.

They alighted and momentarily stood together in silence beneath the Tickets: Buffet sign. The drizzle persisted.

'Like a drink?' He said it lightly.

'Wouldn't mind a Coke.'

He felt surprised. If she was on the look-out for a man, it seemed an odd request. Most women of her type would surely go for gin or vodka or something with a bigger kick than Coke. Who was she? What did she want?

'You sure?'

'Yes thanks. I don't go drinkin' much.'

They walked into the buffet, where he ordered a double whisky for himself, and for her a Coke and a packet of twenty Benson & Hedges. 'Here we are.'

She seemed genuinely grateful. She quickly lit herself a cigarette and quietly sipped her drink. The time ticked on, the minute hand of the railway clock dropping inexorably to the half hour. 'Well, I'd better get on to the platform.' He hesitated a moment, and then reached beneath the seat for his brief-case. He turned towards her and once again their eyes met. I enjoyed meeting you. Perhaps we'll meet again one day.' He stood up, and looked down at her. She seemed more attractive to him each time he looked at her.

She said: 'I wish we could be naughty together, don't you?'

God, yes. Of course he did. He was breathing quickly and suddenly the back of his mouth was very dry. The loudspeaker announced that the 8.35 shortly arriving at Platform One was for Reading and Paddington only; passengers for. . But he wasn't listening. All he had to do was to admit how nice it would have been, smile a sweet smile and walk through the buffet door, only some three or four yards away, and out on to Platform One. That was all. And again and again in later months and years he was bitterly to reproach himself for not having done precisely that.

'But where could we go?' He said it almost involuntarily. The pass at Thermopylae was abandoned and the Persian army was already streaming through.

CHAPTER ONE

Beauty's ensign yet

Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,

And death's pale flag is not advanced there.

(Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act V)

THREE AND A HALF years later two men were seated together in an office.

'You've got the files. Quite a lot of stuff to go on there.'

'But he didn't get very far, did he?' Morse sounded cynical about the whole proposition.

'Perhaps there wasn't very far to go.'

'You mean she just hopped it and — that was that'

'Perhaps.'

'But what do you want me to do? Ainley couldn't find her, could he?'

Chief Superintendent Strange made no immediate answer. He looked past Morse to the neatly docketed rows of red and green box-files packed tighdy along the shelves.

'No,' he said finally. 'No, he didn't find her.'

'And he was on the case right from the start.'

'Right from the start,' repeated Strange.

'And he got nowhere.' Strange said nothing. 'He wasn't a fool, was he?' persisted Morse. What the hell did it matter anyway? A girl leaves home and she's never seen again. So what? Hundreds of girls leave home. Most of them write back to their parents before long — at least as soon as the glamour rubs off and the money has trickled away. Some of them don't come home. Agreed. Some of them never do; and for the lonely waiters the nagging heartache returns with the coming of each new day. No. A few of them never come home. . Never.

Strange interrupted his gloomy thoughts. 'You'll take it on?'

'Look, if Ainley. .'

'No. You look!' snapped Strange. 'Ainley was a bloody sight better policeman than you'll ever be. In fact I'm asking you to take on this case precisely because you're not a very good policeman. You're too airy-fairy. You're too. . I don't know.'

But Morse knew what he meant. In a way he ought to have been pleased. Perhaps he was pleased. But two years ago. Two whole years! 'The case is cold now, sir — you must know that. People forget. Some people need to forget. Two years is a long time.'

'Two years, three months and two days,' corrected Strange. Morse rested his chin on his left hand and rubbed the index finger slowly along the side of his nose. His grey eyes stared through the open window and on to the concrete surface of the enclosed yard. Small tufts of grass were sprouting here and there. Amazing. Grass growing through concrete. How on earth? Good place to hide a body — under concrete. All you'd need to do. . 'She's dead,' said Morse abruptly.

Strange looked up at him. 'What on earth makes you say that?'

'I don't know. But if you don't find a girl after all that time — well, I should guess she's dead. It's hard enough hiding a dead body, but it's a hell of a sight harder hiding a living one. I mean, a living one gets up and walks around and meets other people, doesn't it? No. My guess is she's dead.'

'That's what Ainley thought.'

'And you agreed with him?'

Strange hesitated a moment, then nodded. 'Yes, I agreed with him.'

'He was really treating this as a murder inquiry, then?'

'Not officially, no. He was treating it for what it was — a missing-person inquiry.'

'And unofficially?'

Again Strange hesitated. 'Ainley came to see me about this case several times. He was, let's say, uneasy about it. There were certain aspects of it that made him very. . very worried.'

Surreptitiously Morse looked at his watch. Ten past five. He had a ticket for the visiting English National Opera performance of Die Walküre starting at half-past six at the New Theatre.