Colin Dexter - Last Bus To Woodstock

It became clear to Lewis that the topic of conversation before his arrival had been horse racing. Morse picked up a copy of Sporting Life and walked over to the corner with his assistant.

'You a betting man, Lewis?'

'I sometimes put a few bob on the Derby and the National, sir, but I'm not a regular gambler.'

"You keep it that way,' said Morse, with a note of seriousness in his voice. 'But look here, what do you think of that?" He unfolded the racing paper and pointed to one of the runners in the 3.15 at Chepstow: The Black Prince. 'Worth a quid, would you say, sergeant?'

'Certainly an odd coincidence.'

'10 to 1,' said Morse, drinking deeply on his beer.

'Are you going to back it, sir?'

'I already have,' said Morse, glancing up at the old barman.

'Isn't that illegal, sir?'

'I never studied that side of the law.' Doesn't he want to solve this murder, thought Lewis, and as if Morse read his unspoken words he was promptly asked for a report on the deceased's position with Town and Gown. Lewis did his best, and Morse did not interrupt. He seemed rather more interested in his pint of beer. When he finished, Morse told him to get back to headquarters, type his reports, then get home and have some sleep. Lewis didn't argue. He felt dog-tired, and sleep was fast becoming a barely remembered luxury.

'Nothing else, sir?'

'Not until tomorrow when you'll report to me at 7.30 a.m. sharp — unless you want to put a few bob on The Black Prince.' Lewis felt in his pocket and pulled out 50p.

'Each way, do you think?'

'You'll kick yourself if it wins,' said Morse.

'All right. 50p to win.'

Morse took the 50p, and as Lewis left he saw the barman pocket the coin, and pull a further pint for the enigmatic Chief Inspector.

CHAPTER FOUR

Friday, 1 October

PROMPT AT 7.30 next morning, Lewis tapped on the inspector's door. Receiving no answer, he cautiously tried the knob and peered round the door. No sign of life. He walked back to the front vestibule and asked the desk-sergeant if Inspector Morse was in yet.

'Not seen 'im.'

'He said he'd be here at half-seven.'

'Well, you know the Inspector.'

I wish I did, thought Lewis. He walked along to pick up the reports he had wearily typed out the previous afternoon, and read them through carefully. He'd done his best, but there was little to go on. He walked on to the canteen and ordered a cup of coffee. Constable Dickson, an officer whom Lewis knew fairly well, was enthusiastically assaulting a plate of bacon and tomatoes.

'How's the murder job going, Sarge?'

'Early days yet.'

'Old Morse in charge, eh?'

'Yep.'

'Funny bugger, isn't he?' Lewis didn't disagree. 'I know one thing,' said Dickson. 'He was here till way gone midnight. Got virtually everyone in the building jumping about for him. I reckon every phone on the premises was red hot. God, he can work, that chap, when he wants to.'

Lewis felt a little shame-faced. He himself had slept sweetly and soundly from six the previous evening until six that morning. He reckoned that Morse deserved his sleep, and sat down to drink a cup of coffee.

Ten minutes later a freshly shaven Morse walked brightly into the canteen. 'Ah, there you are Lewis. Sorry to be late.' He ordered a coffee and sat opposite. 'Bad news for you, I'm afraid.' Lewis looked up sharply. 'You lost your money. The constipated camel came in second.'

Lewis smiled. 'Never mind, sir. I just hope you didn't lose too much yourself.'

Morse shook his head. 'Oh no, I didn't lose anything; in fact I made a few quid. I backed it each way.'

'But. .' began Lewis

'C'mon,' said Morse. 'Drink up. We've got work to do.'

For the next four hours the two of them were busy sorting the reports flowing in from the wide-flung inquiries Morse had initiated the previous day. At twelve noon, Lewis felt he knew more about Sylvia Kaye than he did about his wife. He read each report with great care — Morse's orders — and felt that many of the facts were beginning to fix themselves firmly in his mind. Morse, he noticed, devoured the reports with an amazing rapidity, reminiscent of someone skipping through a tedious novel; yet occasionally he would re-read the odd report with a fascinated concentration.

'Well?' said Morse finally.

'I think I've got most things pretty straight, sir.'

'Good.'

'You seemed to find one or two of the reports very interesting, sir.'

'Did I?' Morse sounded surprised.

'You spent about ten minutes on that one from the secretarial college, and it's only half a page.'

'You're very observant, Lewis, but I'm sorry to disappoint you. It was the most ill-written report I've seen in years, with twelve — no less — grammatical monstrosities in ten lines! What's the force coming to?'

Lewis didn't know what the force was coming to and hadn't the courage to inquire into the Inspector's statistical findings on his own erratic style. He asked instead, "Do you think we're getting anywhere, sir?'

'Doubt it,' replied Morse.

Lewis wasn't so sure. Sylvia's movements on the previous Wednesday seemed established. She had left the office in the High at 5.00 p.m., and almost certainly walked the hundred yards or so to the № 2 bus stop outside University College. She had arrived home at 5.35 p.m. and had a good meal. She told her mother she might be late home, left the house at roughly 6.30 p.m. wearing — as far as could be established — the clothes in which she was found. Somehow she had got to Woodstock. It all seemed to Lewis a promising enough starting-point for a few preliminary inquiries.

'Would you like me to get on to the bus company, sir, and see the drivers on the Woodstock run?'

'Done it,' said Morse.

"No good?' Disappointment showed in the sergeant's voice.

'I don't think she went by bus.'

'Taxi, sir?'

'Improbable wouldn't you think?'

'I don't know, sir. It might not be all that expensive.'

'Perhaps not, but it seems most improbable to me. If she'd wanted a taxi, she'd have rung up from home — there's a phone there.'

'She may have done just that, sir.'

'She didn't. No phone call was made by any member of the Kaye household yesterday.'

Lewis was experiencing a dangerous failure of confidence. 'I don't seem to be much help,' he said. But Morse ignored the comment.

'Lewis, how would you go from Oxford to Woodstock?'

'By car, sir.'

'She hadn't got a car.'

'Get a lift with one of her friends?'

'You wrote the report. She doesn't seem to have had many girlfriends.'

'A boyfriend, you think, sir?'

'Do you?'

Lewis thought a minute. 'Bit odd if she was going with a boy friend. Why didn't he pick her up at her house?'

'Why not, indeed?'

'She wasn't picked up at home?'

"No. Her mother saw her walking away.'

"You've interviewed her mother then, sir.'

"Yes. I spoke to her last night.'

'Is she very upset?'

'She's got broad shoulders, Lewis, and I rather like her. Of course she's terribly upset and shocked. But not quite so heartbroken as I thought she'd be. In fact I got the idea her beautiful daughter was something of a trial to her.'

Morse walked over to a large mirror, took out a comb and began to groom his thinning hair. He carefully drew a few strands across a broad area of nakedness at the back of his skull, returned the comb to his pocket and asked a perplexed Sergeant Lewis what he thought of the effect.

'You see, Lewis, if Sylvia didn't go by bus, taxi or boyfriend, how on earth did she ever get to Woodstock? And remember that get to Woodstock somehow she assuredly did.'

'She must have hitched it, sir.'

Morse was still surveying himself in the mirror. "Yes, Lewis, I think she did. And that is why,' he took out the comb again and made some further passes at his straggling hair, 'that is why I think I must put in a little TV appearance tonight.' He picked, up the phone and put through a call to the Chief Superintendent. 'Go and get some lunch, Lewis. I'll see you later.'