Last Bus To Woodstock

'We don't know for certain that both of them got to Woodstock anyway,' said Morse.

'But Sylvia got there, didn't she, sir, and the other girl asked for the bus there?'

'I'm beginning to wonder if Mrs. Jarman is such a helpful witness, after all.'

'I think she is, because that's only the bad news.'

'You've got some good news?' Morse tried to sound a bit, more cheerful.

'Well, it's that lorry the old girl told us about. Quite easy really to trace it. You see at Cowley there's this system with car-bodies. When they. .'

'Yes, I know. You did a sharp job, Lewis. But cut the trimmings.'

'He remembers them. A Mr. George Baker — lives in Oxford. And listen to this, sir. He saw the two girls getting into a car. A red car — he was sure of that. Chap driving — not a woman. He remembered because he often picks up hitchers, especially if they're girls; and he saw these two just beyond the roundabout about fifty yards ahead. He would have given them a lift, he said, but this other car pulls up, and he has to pull out to get past. He saw the blonde all right.'

'We're a despicable lot, aren't we?' said Morse. 'Would you have picked them up?'

'I don't usually, sir. Only if they're in uniform. I was glad of a few lifts myself when I was in the Forces.'

Morse reflected carefully on the new evidence. Things were certainly moving.

'What did you say about a pint?'

They sat silently in The White Horse at Kidlington and Morse decided that the beer was drinkable. Finally he broke the silence. 'A red car, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Interesting piece of research for you. How many men in Oxford own red cars?'

'Quite a few, sir.'

'You mean a few thousand.'

'I suppose so.'

'But we could find out?'

'I suppose so.'

'Such a problem would not be beyond the wit of our efficient force?'

'I suppose not, sir.'

'But what if he doesn't live in Oxford?'

'Well, yes. There is that.'

'Lewis, I think the beer is dulling your brain.'

But if alcohol was dimming Lewis's intellectual acumen, it had the opposite effect on Morse. His mind began to function with an easy clarity. He ordered Lewis to take the weekend off, to get some sleep, to forget Sylvia Kaye, and to take his wife shopping; and Lewis was happy to do so.

Morse, not an addictive smoker, bought twenty king sized cigarettes and smoked and drank continuously until 2.00 p.m. What had really happened last Wednesday evening? He was tormented by the thought that a sequence of events, not in themselves extraordinary, had taken place; that each event was the logical successor of the one before it; that he knew what one or two of these events had been; that if only his mind could project itself into a series of naturally causal relationships, he would have it all. It needed no startling, visionary leap from ignorance to enlightenment. Just a series of logical progressions. But each progression landed him at a dead end, like the drawings in children's annuals where one thread leads to the treasure and all the others lead to the edge of the page. Start again.

'I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to drink up,' said the landlord.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Saturday, 2 October, p.m.

MORSE SPENT THE afternoon of Saturday, 2 October, sitting mildly drunk in his office. He had smoked his packet of cigarettes by 4.30 p.m. and rang for more. His mind grew clearer and clearer. He thought he saw the vaguest pattern in the events of the evening of Wednesday, 29 September. No names — no idea of names, yet — but a pattern.

He looked through the letters he had copied from the Town and Gown: they seemed a sorry little package. Some he dismissed immediately: not even a deranged psychiatrist could have built the flimsiest hypotheses on five of the nine pieces of evidence. One of the postcards read: 'Dear Ruth, Weather good, went swimming twice yesterday. Saw a dead jellyfish on the beach. Love, T.' How very sad to be a jellyfish, thought Morse. Only three of the communications held Morse's attention; then two; then one. It was a typewritten note addressed to Miss Jennifer Coleby and it read:

Dear Madam,

After asessing the mny applications we have received, we must regretfully inform you that our application has been unsuccessful. At the begining of November however, further posts will become available, and I should, in all honesty, be sorry to loose the opportunity of reconsidering our position then.

We have now alloted the September quota of posts in the Psycology Department; yet it is probable that a reliably qualified assistant may be required to deal with the routnie duties for the Principal's office.

Yours faithfully,

It was subscribed by someone who did not appear particularly anxious that his name be shouted from the