Colin Dexter - Last Seen Wearing

It was as they swept along the old Wading Street, past Wellington, that Morse in a flash conceived a possible answer to this importunate question; an answer of astonishing and devastating simplicity. And he nursed his new little discovery like a frightened mother sheltering her only child amid the ruin of an earthquake-stricken city. . The merry-go-round was slowing now. . the pubs were long shut and the chips were long cold. . his mind was getting back to normal now. . This was better! Mediodically he began to undress Miss Yvonne Baker.

Lewis had the road virtually to himself now. It was past 1.00 a.m. and the two men had not exchanged a single word. Strangely, the silence had seemed progressively to reinforce itself, and conversation now would seem as sacrilegious as a breaking of the silence before the cenotaph.

As he drove the last part of the journey his mind roved back beyond the oddly unreal events of the last few hours, and dwelt again on the early days of the Valerie Taylor case. She'd just hopped it, of course — he'd said so right at the beginning: fed up with home and school, she'd yearned for the brighter lights, the excitement and the glamour of the big city. Got shot of the unwanted baby, and finished up in a groovy, swinging set. Contented enough; even happy, perhaps. The last thing she wanted was to go back home to her moody mother and her stolid step-father. We all felt like that occasionally. We'd all like a fresh start in a new life. Like being born again. . He'd felt like running away from home when he was her age. . Concentrate, Lewis! Oxford 30 miles. He glanced at the inspector and smiled quietly to himself. The old boy was fast asleep.

They were within ten miles of Oxford when Lewis became vaguely conscious of Morse's mumbled words, muddled and indistinct; just words without coherent meaning. Yet gradually the words assumed a patterned sequence that Lewis almost understood: 'Bloody photographs — wouldn't recognize her — huh! — bloody things — huh!'

'We're here, sir.' It was the first time he had spoken for more than five hours and his voice sounded unnaturally loud.

Morse shrugged himself awake and blinked around him. 'I must have dozed off, Lewis. Not like me, is it?'

'Would you like to drop in at my place for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat?'

'No. But thanks all the same.' He eased himself out of the car like a chronic arthritic, yawned mightily, and stretched his arms. 'We'll take tomorrow off, Lewis. Agreed? We've just about deserved it, I reckon.'

Lewis said he reckoned, too. He parked the police car, backed out his own and waved a weary farewell.

Morse entered Police HQ and made his way along the dimly lit corridor to his office, where he opened his filing cabinet and riffled through the early documents in the Valerie Taylor case. He found it almost immediately, and as he looked down at the so familiar letter, once more his mind was sliding easily along the shining grooves. It must be. It must be!

He wondered if Lewis would ever forgive him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

And then there were two.

(Ten Little Nigger Boys)

'. . not generally appreciated. We all normally assume that the sex instinct is so obviously overriding, so primitively predominant that it must. .' Morse, newly woken and surprisingly refreshed, switched over to Radio Three; and thence to Radio Oxford. But none of the channels seemed anxious to inform him of the time of day, and he turned back to Radio Four. '. . and above all, of course, by Freud. Let us assume, for example, that we have been marooned on a desert island for three days without food, and ask ourselves which of the bodily instincts most craves its instant gratification.' With sudden interest Morse turned up the volume: the voice was donnish, slightly effeminate. 'Let us imagine that a beautiful blonde appears with a plate of succulent steak and chips. .' Leaning over to turn the volume higher still, Morse inadvertently nudged the tuning knob, and by the time he had recentred the station it was clear that the beautiful blonde had lost on points. '. . as we tuck into the steak and. .' Morse switched off. 'Shert erp, you poncy twit!' he said aloud, got out of bed, pulled on his clothes, walked downstairs and dialled the speaking clock. 'At the first stroke it will be eleven — twenty-eight — and forty seconds.' She sounded nice, and Morse wondered if she were a blonde. It was over twenty-four hours since he had eaten, but for the moment steak and chips was registering a poor third on the instinct index.

Without bothering to shave he walked round to the Fletchers' Arms where he surveyed with suspicion a pile of 'freshly cut' ham sandwiches beneath their plastic cover and ordered a glass of bitter. By 12.45 p.m. he had consumed four pints, and felt a pleasing lassitude pervade his limbs. He walked slowly home and fell fully clothed into his bed. This was the life.

He felt lousy when he woke again at 5.20 p.m., and wondered if he were in the old age of youth or the youth of old age.

By 6.00 p.m. he was seated in his office, clearing up the litter from his desk. There were several messages lying there, and one by one he relegated them to an in-tray which never had been clear and never would be clear. There was one further message, on the telephone pad: 'Ring 01-787 24392'. Morse flicked through the telephone book and found that 787 was the STD code for Stoke Newington. He rang the number.

'Hello?' The voice was heavy with sex.

'Ah. Morse here. I got your message. Er, can I help?'

'Oh, Inspector,' purred the voice. 'It was yesterday I tried to get you, but never mind. I'm so glad you rang.' The words were slow and evenly spaced. 'I just wondered if you wanted to see me again — you know, to make a statement or something? I wondered if you'd be coming down again. . perhaps?'

'That's very kind of you, Miss — er, Yvonne. But I think Chief Inspector Rogers will be along to see you. We shall need a statement, though — you're quite right about that.'

'Is he as nice as you are, Inspector?'

'Nowhere near,' said Morse.

'All right, whatever you say. But it would be so nice to see you again.'

'It would, indeed,' said Morse with some conviction in his voice.

'Well, I'd better say goodbye then. You didn't mind me ringing, did you?'

'No, er no, of course I didn't. It's lovely to hear your voice again.'

'Well, don't forget if you're ever this way you must call in to see me.'

'Yes, I will,' lied Morse.

'I really would love to see you again.'

'Same here.'

'You've got my address, haven't you?'

'Yes, I've got it.'

'And you'll make a note of the phone number?'

'Er, yes. Yes, I'll do that.'

'Goodbye, then, till we see each other again.' From the tone of her voice Morse guessed she must be lying there, her hands sensuously sliding along those beautiful limbs; and all he had to do was to say, yes, he'd be there! London wasn't very far away, and the night was still so young. He pictured her as she had been on the night that he had met her, the top button of the pyjama jacket already undone; and in his mind's eye his fingers gently unfastened the other buttons, one by one, and slowly drew the sides apart.

'Goodbye,' he said sadly.

He walked to the canteen and ordered black coffee.

'I thought you were taking the day off,' said a voice behind him.

'You must love this bloody place, Lewis!'

'I rang up. They said you were here.'

'Couldn't you stick it at home?'

'No. The missus says I get under her feet.'

They sat down together, and it was Lewis who put their thoughts into words. 'Where do we go from here, sir?'

Morse shook his head dubiously. 'I don't know.'

'Will you tell me one thing?'