Colin Dexter - Last Bus To Woodstock

That I am genuinely sorry for the inconvenience and needless extra work which I have caused, will, I trust, be obvious from what I have said here. If it is not, let me hasten to state now my profound apologies for my selfish and cowardly course of action.

I am,

Your humble servant,

Bernard Michael Crowther.

Morse read the statement slowly. When he had finished he looked across the table at Crowther, then looked down again at the statement and re-read it with even greater concentration. When he had finished, he leaned back in his black leather chair, carefully picked up his injured right foot, put it across his left knee and rubbed it lovingly.

'I've hurt my foot, Mr. Crowther.'

'Have you? I'm sorry to hear that. My medical friends say that feet and hands are about the worst things to knock about — something to do with the multiplicity of nerve endings.'

He had a pleasant voice and manner. Morse looked him fully in the eyes. For several seconds neither man flinched, and Morse thought he saw a basic honesty in the man. But he could not conceal from himself a draining sense of disappointment and anticlimax; like Constable McPherson he had thought of a big pools win, only to find that instead of 'telegrams required' the forecast was very low. 'Yes.' He picked up the conversation. 'I shan't be walking round Blenheim Park tonight, sir.'

'Nor shall I,' said Bernard.

'Very romantic, I should think, having a bit on the side like that.'

'You make it sound very crude.'

'Wasn't it?'

'Perhaps so.'

'Are you still seeing her?'

'No. My philandering days are over now, I hope.'

'Have you seen her since that night?'

'No. It's all off. It seemed better.'

'Does she know that you picked the two girls up?'

'Yes.'

'Is she upset — that it's all over, I mean?'

'I suppose so, a bit.'

'What about you?'

'To be truthful, it's a great relief. I'm not a very accomplished Casanova and I hated all the lying.'

'You realize, of course, that it would help a great deal if this young lady — is she young, by the way?'

For the first time Bernard hesitated. 'Fairly young.'

'If this young lady,' continued Morse, "would come forward and corroborate your evidence?'

'Yes. I know it would.'

'But you don't want that.'

'I'd rather you disbelieved my story than dragged her into it.'

'You're not going to tell me who she is? I can promise you that I will handle the business myself.'

Bernard shook his head. 'I'm sorry. I can't do that.'

'I could try to find her, you know,' said Morse.

'I couldn't stop that.'

'No, you couldn't.' Morse moved his foot carefully back to the cushion strategically placed under his desk. 'You could be withholding vital evidence, Mr. Crowther.' Bernard said nothing. 'Is she married?' persisted Morse.

'I'm not going to talk about her,' he said quietly, and Morse sensed a steely resolve in the man.

'Do you think I could find her?' His foot shot with pain, and he picked it up again. Oh, what the hell, he thought; if this bit of stuff likes him to tickle her tits under the trees, what's that got to do with me? Bernard had not answered and Morse changed his tack. 'You realize, I'm sure, that this other girl, the one who sat in the back seat, she's the one who might be able to give us a line?' Crowther nodded. 'Why do you think we haven't heard from her?

'I don't know.'

'Can't you think of any reason?'

Bernard could, that was clear, but he did not put his thoughts into words.

'You can, can't you, Mr. Crowther? Because it could be exactly the same reason which accounted for your reluctance to come forward.' Bernard nodded again. 'She could tell us, perhaps, who Sylvia Kaye's boyfriend was, where she was going to meet him, what they were going to do — she might be able to tell us such a lot, don't you think?'

'I didn't get the idea they knew each other very well.'

'Why do you say that?' asked Morse sharply.

'Well, they didn't chatter much together. You know how young girls do: pop music, dances, discos, boy friends — they just didn't talk much — that's all.'

'You didn't catch her name?'

'No.'

'Have you tried to think if Sylvia used her name?'

'I've tried to tell you all I can remember. I can't do any more.'

'Betty, Carole, Diana, Evelyn. . no?' Bernard remained impassive. 'Gaye, Heather, Iris, Jennifer. .' Morse could not make out the mildest nicker of response in Bernard's eyes. 'Had she got nice legs?'

'Not so nice as the other's, I don't think.'

'You noticed those?'

'What do you think? She was sitting next to me.' '

'Any erotic day-dreams?'

'Yes,' said Crowther, with a fierce burst of honesty.

'It's a good job it's not a criminal offence,' sighed Morse, 'otherwise we'd all be inside.' He noticed a light smile play for a brief second on Crowther's worried face. I can see him being attractive to some women, thought Morse. 'What time did you get home that night?'

'About a quarter to nine.'

'Was that the usual time, you know, because of er your er wife and so on?'

'Yes.'

'An hour a week, was that it?'

'Not much longer.'

'Was it worth it?'

'It seemed so — at the time.'

'You didn't call at The Black Prince that evening?"

'I've never been in The Black Prince.' It sounded very definite. Morse looked down at the statement again and noticed the beautifully formed handwriting; it seemed a pity to type it out. He questioned Crowther for a further half an hour, and gave it up soon after 4.00 p.m.

'We shall have to keep your car here a while, I'm afraid.'

'You will?' Crowther sounded disappointed.

'Yes, we might just find something, you know — hair, that sort of thing. They can do wonderful things these days, our forensic boys.' He got up from his chair and asked Crowther for his crutches. 'Ill promise you one thing,' said Morse. "We'll keep your wife out of it. I'm sure you can make up something to tell her. After all, you're used to that sort of thing, aren't you, sir?'

Morse limped out behind Crowther and ordered the desk sergeant to get some transport. 'Leave your car keys with me please, sir,' said Morse. 'You should have the car back early next week.' The two men shook hands and Crowther was to wait only a few minutes before he was ushered into a police car. Morse watched him go with mixed feelings. He felt he'd handled things satisfactorily. He needed to think now, not to talk. Funny, though, that about the other girl's legs; Mrs. Jarman said she was almost to himself.

He summoned assistance and was helped across to Crowther's car. The doors were open. He struggled his way into the nearside front seat and sat back, manoeuvring his foot as carefully as he could, and stretching his legs as far as possible in front of him. He closed his eyes and pictured the legs of Sylvia Kaye, long, tanned, finely formed, rising up to her brief skirt. He thought she might have leaned back, too. 'Hot pants!' he said, almost to himself.

'Pardon, sir?' said the sergeant who had helped him into the car.

By an odd coincidence (or was it?) Studio 2 in Walton Street was presenting a double sexploitation bill whose titles were calculated to titillate even the most jaded appetite. The first, 2.00-3.05 p.m., was Danish Blue (not, judging from the mounds of female flesh that burst their bounds in the stills outside, a film about the manufacturing of cheese) and from 3.20-5.00 p.m. the main attraction of the week, entitled Hot Pants .

At 5.00 p.m. the earlier addicts were leaving, and a small group of men stood inside the foyer waiting for admission. One of these would normally have joined the early brigade, for this was for him a weekly occurrence. But he had been needed by Messrs Chalkley and Sons for two hours' overtime in the formica shop. He would not, this week, be able to stay round and see the programme twice; but the films seldom met his inflated expectations or the infinite promise of the coming-shortly trailers. On these occasions he seldom looked about him, and it was just as well in the late afternoon of Saturday, 9 October, that once again he averted his eyes from his fellow voyeurs. For standing no more than four feet away from him, ostensibly checking the times of the next programme, but keeping himself carefully and unobtrusively out of the limelight, was the sergeant seconded to Detective Chief Inspector Morse for the inquiry into the murder of Sylvia Kaye. Lewis thought that this was one of Morse's more rewarding assignments, and he suspected that, but for his accident, his chief might well have undertaken it himself.