Last Bus to Woodstock (13 page)

‘What do you think then, Lewis?’

‘Might be worth a go.’

‘How many men do you want?’

‘We’d need to do a bit of thinking first, wouldn’t we?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The local authorities could help a good deal. First we’d need some up-to-date lists of residents.’

‘Yes. You’re right. We need to think it through before we do anything.’

‘That’s what I thought, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘We could get straight on to it in the morning, sir, if you felt up to it.’

‘Or we could get straight on to it now if
you
felt up to it?’

‘I suppose we could.’

Lewis rang his long-suffering spouse, and conferred with Morse for the next two hours. After he had left, Morse reached for a bedside phone and was lucky to find the Chief Superintendent still in his office. And half an hour later Morse was still talking, and ruefully cursing himself for having forgotten to reverse the charges.

O
N THE MORNING
of Saturday, 9 October Bernard Crowther sat at his desk in his front room reading Milton, but not with his usual thrilled enjoyment. He was lecturing on
Paradise Lost
this term and in spite of his thorough and scholarly mastery of the work he felt he should do a little more homework. Margaret had caught the bus to Summertown to do her shopping and his car was ready outside to pick her up at midday. The children were out. Goodness knew where . . .

He was surprised to hear the front door bell ring, for they had few callers. Butcher perhaps. He opened the door.

‘Why, Peter! What a surprise! Come in, come in.’ Peter Newlove and Bernard had been firm friends for years. They had arrived at Lonsdale College the same term and since then had enjoyed a warm and genuine relationship. ‘What brings you here? Not very often we have the pleasure of seeing you in North Oxford. I thought you played golf on Saturday mornings, anyway.’

‘I couldn’t face it this morning. Bit chilly round the fairways, you know.’ The weather had turned much colder the last two days, and the autumn had suddenly grown old. The day seemed bleak and sour. Peter sat down. ‘Working on Saturday morning, Bernard?’

‘Just getting ready for next week.’

Peter looked across at the desk. ‘Ah.
Paradise Lost
, Book I. I remember that. We did it for higher certificate.’

‘You’ve read it since, of course.’

‘
From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer’s day
. What about that?’

‘Very fine.’ Bernard looked out of the window and saw the white hoar-frost still unmelted on his narrow lawn.

‘Is everything all right, Bernard?’ The man from Gloucestershire spoke with an abrupt kindliness.

‘Course everything’s all right. Why did you say that?’ It was clear to Peter that everything was far from right.

‘Oh, I don’t know. You just seemed a bit on edge on Wednesday night. Scuttled away like a startled hare after the dinner.’

‘I’d forgotten that Margaret would be late, and I knew the kids would be waiting outside.’

‘I see.’

‘Was it that obvious?’

‘No, not really. I was watching you, that’s all. You didn’t seem your old self when we had a drink together, and I thought you might be a bit under the weather.’ Bernard said nothing. ‘Everything OK with you and, er, Margaret?’

‘Oh, yes. Fine. I’ve got to collect her, by the way, at twelve. What’s the time now?’

‘Half past eleven.’ Peter rose to his feet.

‘No, don’t go! We’ve got time for a quick drink. What’ll you have?’

‘Are you going to have one?’

‘Of course I am. Whisky?’

‘Fine.’

Bernard withdrew to the kitchen to get the glasses, and Peter stood in front of the window, looking out into the narrow street. A car, white and pale blue, with a light (not flashing) on the roof and
POLICE
marked in bold black lettering across its side, was parked across the way, two or three doors to the left. It had not been there when Peter arrived. As he watched, a police constable, with a black and white chequered band around his flat, peaked hat, was coming out of a front gate. A middle-aged woman walked with him and the two were talking freely, pointing between them to every point of the compass. More talk and further pointing arms. Was she pointing here? The constable had a list in his hand and he was clearly checking some names. The woman stood with her apron around her, clutching her arms about her middle to keep warm and chattering interminably on.

Bernard came in, the glasses clattering a little on the tray. ‘Say when!’

‘I see you’ve got a few criminals in the road, Bernard.’

‘What did you say?’ Bernard looked up sharply.

‘Is the law always prowling around here like this?’ Peter got no further. The door bell rang twice; shrill, peremptory. Bernard opened the door and stood face to face with the young constable.

‘Can I help you, officer?’

‘Yes, I think so, sir, if you will. Won’t take more’n a minute. Is this your car, sir?’ He pointed to the red 1100 outside.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Just checking, sir. We’ve had a lot of cars stolen recently. Just checking.’ He made a note in his book. ‘Can you remember the registration number, sir?’

Mechanically Bernard recited the number.

‘That’s yours all right then, sir. Have you got your log-book handy, sir?’

‘Is it necessary?’

‘Well, it is rather important, if you don’t mind, sir. We’re checking as thoroughly as we can.’

Peter heard the conversation through the open door and felt strangely worried. Bernard came in and poked about haphazardly in his desk. ‘Where the hell’s Margaret . . . They’re checking on stolen cars, Peter. Shan’t be a minute.’ He looked ashen, and could find nothing. ‘I’m sorry, officer,’ he called. ‘Come in a minute, will you?’

‘Thank you, sir. Don’t worry if you can’t put your hand on the log-book, sir. You can give me the information yourself quite easily.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Full name, sir?’

‘Bernard Michael Crowther.’

‘Age, sir?’

‘Forty-one.’

‘Married, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Children?’

‘Two.’

‘Occupation?’

‘University lecturer.’

‘That’s about all, sir.’ He closed his book. ‘Oh, just one more thing. Have you left your car unlocked recently? You know what I mean. Is it locked now, for example?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘No, it isn’t, sir. I tried all the doors before I called. It’s an open invitation to car thieves, you know.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll try to remember.’

‘Do you use your car much, sir?’

‘Not a great deal. Running around a bit in Oxford. Not much really.’

‘You don’t take it out when you go for a drink, for example?’

Peter thought he saw the daylight. Bernard had been drinking and driving, had he?

‘No, not very often,’ answered Bernard. ‘I usually go round to the Fletcher’s. It’s not far; I always walk there.’

‘Would you take the car if you went drinking outside Oxford, sir?’

‘I’m afraid I would,’ said Bernard slowly, in a helpless sort of way.

‘Well, don’t drink too much, sir, if you’re driving. But I’m sure you know all about that.’ The constable glanced quickly round the room and looked drily at the two large tumblers of whisky; but he said nothing more until he reached the door. ‘You don’t know anyone else in the road who’s got a red car, do you, sir? I’ve got to make a few more inquiries.’

Bernard thought, but his mind was swimming. He couldn’t think of anybody. He closed his eyes and put his left hand on his forehead. Every day in term time he walked to the far end of the road. Red car? Red car? His was the only one, he was pretty sure of that.

‘Well don’t worry, sir. I’ll just make one or two more, er . . . Anyway, thank you for your help, sir.’ He was gone. But not, Peter noticed, to make any more inquiries in that particular road. He walked straight to the police car (left unlocked) and immediately accelerated away.

Some ten minutes later as he drove along to Woodstock, Peter Newlove was glad he’d never married. The same woman – thirty, forty, fifty years! Not for him. He couldn’t imagine poor old Bernard jumping into bed that afternoon for a riotous half-hour romp with Margaret. Whereas . . . He thought of Gaye undressing, and his right foot pressed hard upon the accelerator.

An immensely excited Constable McPherson rushed across the forecourt of the Thames Valley HQ where earlier the same morning he had seen poor old Morse staggering painfully along, his arms encircling the shoulders of two of his burly mates. Wow! McPherson felt like a man with eight draws up on the treble-chance pool. As he had driven the few miles from North Oxford to Kidlington, he sensed a feeling of unprecedented elation. For the last four years his uniformed career had been uniformly undistinguished; he had apprehended no significant villain; he had witnessed no memorable breach of either the civil or the criminal code. But blessed indeed he was today! As he had neared the Banbury Road roundabout he had switched on the wailing siren and the winking blue light, and had delighted in the deference accorded to him by his fellow motorists. He felt mightily important. Why not? He
was
mightily important – for today, at least.

Inside the station, McPherson debated for a second or two. Should he report to Lewis? Or should he report his intelligence direct to the Inspector? The latter course seemed on reflection the more appropriate, and he made his way along the corridors to Morse’s door, knocked and just caught the muffled ‘come in’ from the other side.

‘And what can I do for you, Constable?’

McPherson made his report with an accuracy and incisiveness that was impressive, and Morse congratulated him upon the prompt and efficient discharge of his duty. McPherson, though mightily gratified with the compliment, was a little surprised that Morse himself seemed not immediately anxious to summon the cohorts of the law. But he’d done his own job – done it well.

‘Excuse me if I don’t stand up – gout, you know – but . . .’ He shook McPherson’s hand warmly. ‘It won’t go unnoticed, believe me.’

After McPherson’s departure, Morse sat silently and thoughtfully for a few minutes. But so he had been sitting when the constable had entered. It would have been so disappointing for McPherson to have known, and anyway McPherson had been the immediate cause. No, he could never have had the heart to confess that Mr Bernard Crowther had telephoned in at 11.45 a.m. wishing, he said, to make a statement.

Crowther had insisted that he should present himself, that on no account were the police to collect him, that he expected the authorities at least to allow to a witness, coming forward voluntarily with what might be valuable information, the normal courtesy of not being picked up like a common felon. Morse had agreed, and Bernard promised to be with him at 2.30 p.m.

Morse found himself apologizing for his immobility and his first impression of Crowther was surprisingly agreeable. The man was nervous – that was plain for all to see; but there was an odd charm and dignity about the fellow; that sort of middle-aged schoolmaster-type that some of the girls might have a crush on.

‘Look, Inspector – you are a Chief Inspector, I think – I have never in my life been inside a police station until this moment. I am not conversant with normal police practice and procedure. So I have taken the precaution of writing out, very rushed, I’m afraid, the statement I wish to make.’

On the evening of Wednesday, September 29th, I left my house in Southdown Road at 6.45 p.m. I drove my car to the roundabout at the north end of the Banbury Road, where I turned left and travelled for four hundred yards or so along Sutherland Avenue to the roundabout at the northern end of the Woodstock Road. Here I turned off the A40 and took the road north to Woodstock. Night was already drawing in and I switched the side-lights on, in common, I noticed, with the majority of the other motorists. Yet although it was that awkward half light in which it is most difficult to drive, it was not dark enough for full head-lights; it was certainly not dark enough for me to miss two young girls standing a little way beyond the roundabout on the grass verge alongside the self-service filling-station. The girl nearer to the road I saw clearly. She was an attractive girl with long fair hair, white blouse, short skirt and a coat over her arm. The other girl had walked on a few yards and had her back towards me; she seemed to be quite happy to leave the business of getting a lift to her companion. But she had darkish hair, I think, and if I remember correctly was a few inches taller than her friend.

I must now try to be completely honest with you. I have often been guilty of romantic day-dreams, even vaguely erotic day-dreams, about picking up some wildly attractive woman and finding her a rare and disturbing combination of brains and beauty. In my silly imaginings the preliminary and diffident skirmishing would lead gradually but inevitably to the most wanton delights. But this, remember, has always been a day-dream and I mention it simply to excuse myself for having stopped at all. I shouldn’t feel guilty and apologetic about such things; yet in all honesty I do feel so, and have always felt so.

But that is by the way. I leaned over and opened the nearside front door and said that I was going to Woodstock, if that would help. The blonde girl said something like ‘Oh, super’. She turned round to her companion and said (I think), ‘What did I tell you?’ and got into the front seat beside me. The other girl opened the rear door and got in also. What conversation there was was desultory and disappointing. The girl beside me reiterated at intervals that this was ‘a real bi’ of luck’ (she had a typical Oxford manner of speech) because she had missed the bus; I think the girl sitting in the back spoke only once and that was to ask the time. I mentioned as we passed the gates of Blenheim Palace that this was about it, and I understood that it would do them fine. I dropped them as soon as we reached the main street, but I didn’t notice where they went. It was natural for me to believe, as I did, that they were going to meet their boy friends.