Last Bus to Woodstock (19 page)

‘Yes. I read about it and of course everyone tried to talk to him about it.’

‘Did he have much to say?’

‘Not really. Didn’t seem to want to talk. Understandable, I suppose.’

‘Yes. Well, thanks once again.’

‘You’re very welcome. Do you want his home address?’

‘No thanks. I’ve got it here.’

Lewis was rather more fortunate. Mrs Jarman was at home, dusting the stairs.

‘But I don’t understand, Sergeant. I’m
sure
they were both girls.’

Lewis nodded. ‘Just checking up on one or two things.’

‘But I spoke to one of them, as you know, and the other poor girl – well, you know . . . And I thought they were
about
the same height; but it’s ever so difficult to remember you know . . .’ Yes, Lewis knew. He left her to dust the stairs.

He found the bus conductor drinking coffee in the canteen at Gloucester Green.

‘
One
girl getting on the bus? But you said
two
before.’

‘Yes, I know. But we’ve got an idea that perhaps only one got on.’

‘Sorry. I can’t remember. I am sorry, honest – but it’s a long time ago now.’

‘Yes. Don’t worry. As I said – just an idea. If you do happen to think of anything . . .’

‘Of course.’

George Baker was digging his garden. ‘’Allo mate. I seen you before.’

‘Sergeant Lewis Thames Valley Police.’

‘Ah. Course, Wha’ can a do forya?’

Lewis explained his visit but George’s answer was only marginally less discouraging than those of the others.

‘We-ell, I s’pose it
could
a been a fella, bu’ swipe me mate, I could a swore as both of ’em was women.’

Memories were fading and the case was growing stale. Lewis went home for lunch.

At 2.00 p.m. he was ushered into the office of the car service manager of Barkers Garage on the Banbury Road, where he spent more than an hour working his way methodically through hundreds of carbon copies of work-sheets, customers’ invoices, booking-ledgers and other sundry records of car repairs for the weeks beginning September 22 and 27. He found nothing. He spent a further hour going back to the beginning of September, increasingly conscious that his task was futile. Miss Jennifer Coleby, although she had an account with Barkers, had not brought in her car for any repairs or service since July. She had bought the car new from the garage over three years ago; HP nearly finished; no trouble with payments; no serious mechanical faults. 6,000 service on 14 July, with a few oddments put right. £13.55. Bill paid July 30.

Lewis was disappointed if not surprised. Morse seemed to have a bee in his bonnet about this Coleby woman. Perhaps this would put him off for good? But he doubted it. He walked over the road to the newsagents and bought the evening newspaper. A caption near the botton right-hand corner of the front page caught his eye:

Lewis thought it must be a hoax.

The confident head of the murder inquiry, if ever invited to take his eight discs to a desert island, would have answered ‘Committees’ to the inevitable question about what he would be most glad to have got away from. The meeting called for this Thursday afternoon to consider pensions, promotions and appointments stretched on and on like an arid desert. His only contribution throughout was a word of commendation for Constable McPherson. It seemed a justifiable excuse for contravening his customary and caustic taciturnity. The meeting finally broke up at five minutes past five, when he yawned his way back to his office and found Lewis reading the prospects for Oxford United’s visit to Blackpool the following Saturday.

‘Seen this, sir?’ Lewis handed him the newspaper and pointed to the caption portending judgement day for the Woodstock killer.

Morse read the item with weary composure. ‘They do twist things a bit, these reporters, don’t they?’

Sue Widdowson’s day, too, dragged drearily by. She’d wanted desperately to talk to Morse again last night. Who knows what she might have said? Was his phone out of order? But in the cold light of morning she had realized how foolish it would have been. David was coming on Saturday for the weekend, and she would be meeting him at the station at the usual time. Dear David. She had received another letter that morning. He was so nice and she liked him so very much. But . . . No! She had just
got
to stop thinking of Morse. It had been almost impossible. Sandra had been full of questions and Doctor Eyres had patted her bottom far too intimately, and she was lousily, hopelessly miserable.

Mrs Amy Sanders was worried about her son. He had seemed listless and off-colour for a week or so now. In the past he had taken the odd day or two off work, and more than once she had had to lay it on a bit thick in describing to Messrs Chalkley the symptoms of some fictitious malady which had temporarily stricken her dear boy. But today she was genuinely concerned. John had been sick twice during the night and was lying shivering and sweating when she had called him at 7.00 a.m. He had eaten nothing all day and, against her son’s wishes, she had rung the doctor’s surgery at 5.00 p.m. No, she had not thought it urgent, but would be most grateful if the doctor could call some time.

The bell rang at 7.30 p.m. and Mrs Sanders opened the front door to find a man she had never seen before. Still, the doctors these days were always changing around.

‘Does Mr John Sanders live here?’

‘Yes. Come in, doctor. I’m ever so glad you could call.’

‘I’m not a doctor, I’m afraid. I’m a Police Inspector.’

The landlord of the Bell at Chipping Norton took the booking himself at 8.30 p.m. He consulted the register and picked up the phone again.

‘For tomorrow night and Saturday night, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think we can do that all right, sir. Double room. Do you want a private bathroom?’

‘That would be nice. And a double bed if you’ve got one. We never seem to sleep well in these twin beds.’

‘Yes. We can do that.’

‘I’m afraid I shan’t have time to confirm it in writing.’

‘Oh don’t worry about that, sir. If you could just let me have your name and address.’

‘Mr and Mrs John Brown, Hill Top, Eaglesfield (all one word), Bristol.’

‘I’ve got that.’

‘Good. My wife and I look forward to seeing you. We should be there about five.’

‘We hope you’ll enjoy your stay, sir.’

The landlord put down the phone and wrote the names of Mr and Mrs J. Brown in the booking register. His wife had once added up the number of John Browns booked into the Bell: in one month alone there were seven. But it wasn’t his job to worry too much about that. Anyway, the man had sounded most polite and well educated. Nice voice, too: West Countryish – rather like his own. And there must be one or two quite genuine John Browns somewhere.

M
ORSE WOKE UP
late on Friday morning.
The Times
was already on the floor in the hall and one letter was protruding precariously through the letter box. It was a bill from Barkers – £9.25. He stuck it, with several of its fellows, behind the clock on the mantelpiece.

The car purred into life at the first gentle touch. He had the sticks in the back of the car and decided to run down to the Radcliffe Infirmary before going to the office. As he joined the patiently crawling, never-ending line of traffic in the Woodstock Road, he debated his course of action. He could see her quite by chance, of course – as he had last time; or he could ask for her. But would she want that? He longed just to
see
her again and, dammit!, she would be there. What could be more natural? He had dreamed about Sue the previous night, but in a vague, elusive sort of way which had left her standing in the forecourt of his mind.
Had
it been her on the phone on Wednesday night?

He turned off, across the traffic, into the yard of the Radcliffe, stopped on double yellow lines, collared the nearest porter, gave him the sticks and the promissory note of the bearer to return the same, and told him to see to it. Police!

The road was clear as he left Oxford and he cursed himself savagely every other minute. He should have gone in – stupid fool. He knew deep down he wasn’t a stupid fool, but it didn’t help much.

Lewis was waiting for him. ‘Well, what’s the programme, sir?’

‘I thought we’d take a gentle bus ride a little later, Lewis.’ Ah well. His not to reason why. ‘Yes. I thought we’d go to Woodstock on the bus together. What about that?’

‘Has the car conked out again?’

‘No. Going like a dream. So it should. Had a bill for the bloody battery this morning. Guess how much.’

‘Six, seven pounds.’

‘Nine pounds twenty-five!’

Lewis screwed up his nose. ‘Cheaper if you’d gone to the tyre and battery people up in Headington. They don’t charge for any labour. I’ve always found them very good.’

‘You sound as if you’re always having car trouble.’

‘Not really. Had a few punctures lately, though.’

‘Can’t you change a tyre yourself?’

‘Well yes. Course I can. I’m not an old woman you know, but you’ve got to have a spare.’

Morse wasn’t listening. He felt the familiar tingle of the blood freezing in his arms. ‘You’re a genius, Sergeant. Pass me the telephone directory. Consult the yellow pages. Here we are – only two numbers. Which shall we try first?’

‘What about the first one, sir?’

A few seconds later Morse was speaking to Cowley Tyre and Battery Services. ‘I want to speak to the boss of the place. It’s urgent. Police here.’ He winked at Lewis. ‘Ah, hullo. Chief Inspector Morse here. Thames Valley . . . No, no. Nothing like that . . . Now, I want you to look up your records for the week beginning 27 September . . . Yes. I want to know if you supplied a battery or mended a puncture for a Miss Jennifer Coleby. C-O-L-E-B-Y. Yes. It might have been any day – probably Tuesday or Wednesday. You’ll ring me back? Get on with it straight away, please. It’s most urgent. Good. You’ve got my number? Good. Cheers.’ He rang the second number and repeated the patter. Lewis was turning over the Sylvia Kaye file that lay open on Morse’s desk. He studied the photographs – large, glossy, black and white photographs with amazingly clear delineation. He looked again at the shots of Sylvia Kaye as she lay that night in the yard of the Black Prince. She’d been really something, he thought. The white blouse had been torn sharply on the left-hand side, and only the bottom of the four buttons remained fastened. The left breast was fully revealed and Lewis was strongly reminded of the provocative poses of the models in the girlie magazines. It could almost have been an erotic experience – looking through those pictures; but Lewis remembered the back of the blonde head and the cruelly shattered skull. He thought of his own darling daughter – thirteen now; she was getting a nice little figure . . . God, what a world to bring up children in. He hoped and prayed that she would be all right, and he felt a deep and burning need to find the man who did all that to Sylvia Kaye.

Morse had finished.

‘Can you put me in the picture, sir?’ asked Lewis.

Morse sat back and thought for a few minutes. ‘I suppose I ought to have told you before, Lewis. But I couldn’t be sure – well, can’t be sure now – about one or two things. Pretty well from the beginning I thought I had a good idea of the general picture. I thought it was like this. Two girls want a lift to Woodstock and we’ve got some fairly substantial evidence that they
were
picked up –
both
of them.’ Lewis nodded. ‘Now neither the driver nor the other girl came forward. The question I asked myself was “why?”. Why were both these people anxious to keep quiet? There were pretty obvious reasons why
one
of them should keep his mouth shut. But why both? It seemed most improbable to me that the pair of them could be partners in crime. So. What are we left with? One very strong possibility, as I saw it, was that they knew each other. But that didn’t seem quite good enough, somehow. Most people don’t withhold evidence, certainly don’t tell complicated lies, just because they know each other. But what if they have, between them, some guilty reason for wanting to keep things very quiet indeed? And what if such a guilty reason is the fact that they know each other rather
too
well? What if they are – not to put too fine a point on things – having an affair with each other? The situation’s not so good for them, is it? With a murder in the background – not so good at all.’ Lewis wished he’d get on with it. ‘But let’s go back a bit. On the face of it our evidence suggested from the word go that the encounter between the two girls and the driver of the car was pure chance: Mrs Jarman’s evidence is perfectly clear on that point. Now we have discovered, after a good deal of unnecessary trouble, who the driver of the red car was: Crowther. In his evidence he admits that he is having an affair with another woman and that the venue for these extramarital excursions is Blenheim Park. Furthermore, again on his own evidence, he was going to see his lady-love on the night of Wednesday, 29 September. Now at this point I took a leap in the dark. What if the lady-love was one of the girls he picked up?’

‘But . . .’ began Lewis.

‘Don’t interrupt, Lewis. Now, was the lady-love Sylvia Kaye? I don’t think so. We know that Mr John Sanders had a date, however vague, with Sylvia on the 29th. It doesn’t prove things one way or the other, but Sylvia is the less likely choice of the two. So. We’re left with our other passenger – Miss, or Mrs X. It is clear from Mrs Jarman’s evidence that Miss X seemed anxious and excited, and I think no one gets too anxious and excited about going to Woodstock unless that person has a date, and an important date at that, and not very much time to spare. Crowther said an hour or so at the most, remember?’