Last Seen Wearing Part 13

'Saw 'em, most probably.'

'You've not tackled him about it yet?'

151.

COLIN DEXTER.

'No, I want to get a few things straight first. But I shall be seeing him, have no fear.'

'I still don't see why you think it was Valerie.'

'Well, let's look at things from her point of view for a minute. She gets herself pregnant, right?'

'So you say, sir.'

'And so does Maguire."

'We've got no real evidence.'

'No, not yet, I agree. But we may well have some fairly soon - you'll see. For the minute let's just a.s.sume she's pregnant. I'm pretty sure that Phillipson himself wouldn't have been the proud daddy; in fact, I shouldn't think he ever dreamed of touching her again. But if she were in trouble, daren't tell her parents, say - who would she go to? As I see it, she may well have gone to someone who owed her a favour, someone who had some sort of moral duty to help her, someone in fact who daren't not help her. In short she'd probably go to Phillipson. And, as I see it, they cooked up something between 'em. The Taylors - they'd almost certainly have to be in on it - the Taylors, Phillipson and Valerie. I should think that Phillipson arranged a place for her to go to in London, paid the abortion clinic, and let the whole thing look like a runaway schoolgirl lark.

The Taylors are saved any local scandal and disgrace. Phillipson has paid his pound of flesh, and Valerie is let off lightly for her sins. Yes, I think that's roughly what might have happened; only roughly, mind you.'

'But how did she disappear?'

'Again I'm guessing. But I suspect that when she left 152.

home after lunch she took a minimum of things with her - hence the bag or basket, whatever it was; it had to look, you see, as if she was going off to school in the normal way - the neighbours and so on might see her. As it happens, they didn't - but that was pure chance. I should think she went down the main road, probably nipped into the ladies' lavatory by the shops and changed her school uniform for something a bit tren-dier (don't forget the bag, Lewis!), and met Phillipson who was waiting for her in his car further down the road near the roundabout. They've probably got her case in the boot already. He drove her down to the station in Oxford, gave her full instructions, parked somewhere in town, bought a book at Blackwells and got home by three o'clock. Easy.' He stopped and looked hopefully at Lewis. 'Well, something like that. What do you think?'

'And I suppose she just gets rid of the baby like you say, finds she likes London, gets in with a swinging set, and forgets all about mum and dad and everything at home.'

'Something like that,' said Morse, without conviction.

'They put the police to a d.i.c.kens of a lot of trouble for nothing, then, didn't they?'

'Probably never thought we'd make so much fuss.'

'They'd have a good idea.'

Morse was looking increasingly uneasy. 'As I told you, Lewis, it's only a rough outline. Just remember that if Valerie had wanted to, she could have ruined Phillip-son's career in a flash. Just think of the headlines! It'd 153.

be dynamite! And think of Valerie, too. She certainly wouldn't want to be carting a kid around at her age. And her parents..."

'A lot of parents don't seem to mind too much these days, sir.'

Morse was feeling cross and showed it. 'Well they did! They minded enough to go through with the whole b.l.o.o.d.y business; still are going dirough with it...'

Somewhere along the line the euphoria had turned to a saddened exasperation. He knew far better than Lewis could have told him that he hadn't really thought things through.

"You know, Lewis, something must have turned sour somewhere, mustn't it? Perhaps something went wrong..." He suddenly brightened. 'We shall have to find out, shan't we?'

'You think Valerie's still alive then, sir?'

Morse backed down with commendable grace. 'I suppose so, yes. After all she wrote home, didn't she? Or so you tell me.'

He had a cheek, this man Morse, and Lewis shook his head in dismay. Everything had pointed to a straightforward case of a girl running away from home. As everyone (including Morse) had said, it happens all the time. And what a dog's breakfast he'd made of it all!

But Lewis had to concede that there might be something wordi salvaging from all that complicated nonsense. Valerie and Phillipson. Could be true, perhaps. But why did he have to invent all that fanciful 154.

stuff" about changing in ladies' lavatories? Oh dear. But something else was worrying him.

'You said, sir, that you thought Baines might have found out about Phillipson and this girl - whoever she was.'

'I think he did. In fact, I think Baines knows a h.e.l.l of a lot more about the whole caboodle than anybody.'

'More than you, sir?'

'G.o.d, yes. He's been watching and waiting, has Baines; and I suspect he'd be very happy for the truth - or most of it - to come out. Phillipson would be a dead duck then, and they'd have to appoint a new headmaster, wouldn't they? And they've got Baines - a faithful servant who's been there all these years, runner-up at the last appointment ... why, I shouldn't think the Governors would even advertise.'

'They'd have to, sir. It's the law.'

'Oh ... Anyway, he'd get the job - sure as eggs are eggs. And he'd love it. The thought of all that power, Lewis - power over other people's lives. That's what Baines is hankering after.'

'Don't you think,' said Lewis gently, 'that it would be a good idea to get tilings on to a bit of a firmer footing, sir? I mean, why not quesdon Phillipson and Baines and the Taylors? You'd probably get the truth out of one of them.'

'Perhaps.' Morse stood up and flexed his arms. 'But you're going to be pleased with me, Lewis. At the beginning of this case I promised myself I'd stick to facts, and so far I've not done very well.

But you see a 155.

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reformed character before you, *my friend. First, I've arranged to see Phillipson and Baines - together, mind you! - tomorrow afternoon. Good touch, eh, Lewis? Tuesday afternoon. Should be good, I reckon. No holds barred! And then - that phone call you heard. Metropolitan Police, no less. They're going to help us if they can; and they think they can. If Valerie did go up to London for an abortion, she'd have to go to some sort of clinic, wouldn't she? And we know exactly when she went. She might have changed her name and address and G.o.d knows what. But diose boys in London are pretty sharp. If she did go to a clinic - even a shady, back-street clinic -1 reckon we've got her on toast. And if they don't trace anything - well we shall have to think again, I suppose. But if we do find out where she went - and I think we shall - well, we're there, aren't we? She had no money of her own, that's for sure, and somebody, somebody, Lewis, had to fork out pretty handsomely. And then? Then we take it from there.' Morse sat down again. He was trying hard, but was convincing no one, not even himself.

'You're not really very interested in finding her at all, are you, sir?'

The sparkle had gone from Morse's eyes: Lewis was right, of course. 'To tell you the truth, I shan't give two b.u.g.g.e.rs if we never find her. Perhaps we've found her, anyway. She may have been the girl sharing Maguire's flat. I don't think so. But if she was - so what? She may have been one of those strippers we saw; you remember, the one with the mask and the bouncy t.i.ts. So what? You know, Lewis, this whole case is beginning to 156.

get one almighty bore, and if all we're going to do is stir up a load of trouble and get poor old Phillipson the sack - I'd rather pack it up.'

'It's not like you to back out of anything, sir.'

Morse stared morosely at the blotting paper. 'It's just not my sort of case, Lewis. I know it's not a very nice thing to say, but I just get on better when we've got a body - a body that died from unnatural causes. That's all I ask. And we haven't got a body.'

'We've got a living body,' said Lewis quietly.

Morse nodded. 'I suppose you're right.' He walked across the room and stood by the door, but Lewis remained seated at the desk. 'What's the matter, Lewis?'

'I just can't help wondering where she is, sir. You know, at this very minute she must be somewhere, and if only we knew we could just go along there and find her. Funny, isn't it? But we can't find her, and I don't like giving up. I just wish we could find her, that's all.'

Morse walked back into the room and sat down again. 'Mm. I'd not thought of it quite like that before ... I've been so c.o.c.ksure she was dead that I haven't really thought of her as being alive.

And you're right She's somewhere; at this very second she's sitting somewhere.'1 The grey eyes were beginning to glow once more and Lewis felt happier.

'Could be quite a challenge, couldn't it, sir?'

Te-es. Perhaps it's not such a bad job after all - chasing a young tart like Valerie Taylor.'

'You think we should try, then?'

'I'm beginning to think we should, yes.'

'Where do we start?'

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COLIN DEXTER.

'Where the h.e.l.l do you think? She's almost certainly sitting somewhere in a luxury flat plucking her eyebrows.'

'But where, sir?'

'Where? Where do you think? London, of course. What was that postmark? 04 wasn't it? She's within a few miles' radius of 04. Sure to be!'

'That wasn't the postmark on the second letter she wrote.'

'Second letter? Oh yes. What was the postmark on that?'

Lewis frowned slightly, 'wi. Don't you remember?'

'wi, eh? But I wouldn't worry your head about that second letter, Lewis?'

'You wouldn't?'

'No, I wouldn't bother about it at all. You see, Lewis, I wrote that second letter myself.'

158.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter cry, And the wild regrets, and the b.l.o.o.d.y sweats, None knew so well as I: For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must the.

Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol THERE WERE OVER one hundred and twenty of them, and it was too many. Why, if each of them were given leave to speak only for a minute, that would be two hours! But anyway, Ac.u.m didn't think he wanted to say anything. The great majority of the delegates were in their forties and fifties, senior men and women who, judging from their comments and their questions, sent forth an annual stream of gifted linguists to a.s.sume their natural Oxbridge birthrights.

He had felt tired after his five-and-a-half-hours' drive the previous day, and this morning's programme, conducted in a genteel atmosphere of rarefied intellectuality, had hardly succeeded in fostering any real esprit de corps. Speaking on 'Set Texts in the Sixth Form' the Senior Tutor had given voice softly and seriously to the delicate rhythms of Racine, and Ac.u.m began to wonder if the premier universities were not growing further 159 and further out of touch with his own particular brand of comprehensive school. His main problem in the sixth was to recruit a handful of pupils who had just about reached the minimum requirement of a grade C in O-level French, and who, in the wake of their qualified triumphs, had prompdy mislaid the substance of their erstwhile knowledge during two long months of carefree summer freedom. He wondered if other schools were different; if he himself, in some way, were to blame.

Fortunately the post-lunch discussion on the merits of the Nuffield French experiment was infinitely lighter and brighter, and Ac.u.m felt slightly more at home with his co-delegates. The Senior Tutor, the rhythms of Racine still rippling along through his mind, testified evangelically to the paramount need for a formal grammatical discipline in the teaching of all languages, including modern languages. And if Racine and Moliere were not worth reading, reading with accuracy, and reading without the remotest possibility of misunderstanding arising from mistranslation - then we all might just as well forget literature and life. It sounded magnificent.

And then that burly, cheerful fellow from Bradford had brought the academic argument down to earth with a magnificent thud: give him a lad or a la.s.s with t'gumption to order t'pound of carrots at t'French greengrocer's shop, any dair! The conference exploded in glorious uproar.

Slyly, a dignified old greybeard suggested dial no Englishman, even one who had the good fortune to learn his native tongue in Yorkshire, 160.

had ever been confronted with an insuperable language-barrier in finding his way to a p.i.s.soir in Paris.

It was all good stuff now. The conference should have pa.s.sed a vote of thanks to the burly Bradforthanand his pound of carrots. Even Ac.u.m nearly said something; and almost every other member of the silent majority nearly said somediing, too. There were just far too many there.

Ridiculous, really. No one would notice if you were there or not. He was going out tonight, anyway. No one was going to miss him if he slipped away from the conference hall. He would be back long before the porters' lodge was shut at 11.00 p.m.

The school bell rang at 4.00 p.m., and the last lesson of the day was over. Streams of children emerged from cla.s.srooms and, like a nest of ants uncovered, bewilder-ingly crossed and re-crossed to cloakrooms, to bicycle sheds, to societies, to games practices and to sundry other pursuits. More leisurely, the teachers direaded their way back dirough the milling throngs to the staff room; some to smoke, some to talk, some to mark. And very soon most of them, teachers and pupils alike, would be making their way home. Another day was done.

Baines returned from teaching a fourth-year madi-ematics set and dropped a pile of diirty exercise books on to his table. Twenty seconds each - no more; only ten minutes the lot. He might as well get them marked straight away. Thank the Lord it wasn't like marking English or History, with all that reading to do. His 161.

COLIN DEXTER.

practised eye had learned to pounce upon the pages in a flash. Yes, he would dash them off now.

'Mr Phillipson would like a word with you,' said Mrs Webb.

'Oh. Now?'

'As soon as you came in, he said.'

Baines knocked perfunctorily and entered the study.

'Have a seat a minute, Baines.'

Warily the second master took a seat. There was a serious edge to Phillipson's voice - like a doctor's about to inform you that you've only a few months more to live.

'Inspector Morse will be in again tomorrow afternoon. You know that, don't you?' Baines nodded. 'He wants to talk to us both - together.'

'He didn't mention that to me.'

'Well, that's what he's going to do.' Baines said nothing. 'You know what this probably means, don't you?'

'He's a clever man.'

'No doubt. But he won't be getting any further, will he?' The tone of Phillipson's voice was hard, almost the tone of a master to his pupil. "You realize what I'm saying, don't you, Baines? Keep your mouth shut!'

'Yes, you'd like me to do that, wouldn't you?'

'I'm warning you!' The latent hatred suddenly blazed in Phillipson's eyes. No pretence now; only an ugly, naked hatred between them.