Last Bus To Woodstock

Morse heard her out. As she had been talking a wildly improbable thought had taken root in his mind. He almost wanted to hear her repeat the tedious catalogue of constraints. 'I'm most grateful to you, Matron. I do want to apologize. .'

'Oh, not at all. I've enjoyed talking to you. Now, please let me help in any way I can.' She would do anything for him now, he knew that. But the situation had changed. There was just the wildest, slimmest chance now, where before there had been none at all. He rang off as soon as he could, the Matron almost begging for the chance of doing him some favour. But he wanted none: his course was now clear.

Sue was having lunch while Morse was finishing his lengthy call to her immediate superior. She was thinking of him, too. Would she had known him earlier! She knew with a passionate certainty that he could have changed her life. Was it too late even now? Dr Eyres sat next to her, taking every opportunity he decently could of effecting the closest physical contact with the lovely staff nurse; but Sue loathed his proximity and his insinuations and, not worrying about a sweet, she left the table as quickly as she could. Oh Morse! Why didn't I meet you before? She walked back to the outpatients' room at the casualty clinic and sat down on one of the hard benches. Absently she picked up a long-outdated copy of Punch and flicked mechanically through the faded pages. . What was she to do? He hadn't been anywhere near since that wretched night when Jennifer had come home. Jennifer! And she had been fool enough to confide in Jennifer. David? She would have to write to David. He would be so upset; but to live with someone, to sleep with someone, forty even fifty years — someone you didn't really and truly love. .

Then she saw him. He stood there, an anxious, vulnerable look in his grey eyes. The tears started in her eyes and she felt an incredible joy. He came and sat beside her. He didn't even try to hold her hand — there was no need of that. They talked, she didn't know what about. It didn't matter.

'I shall have to go,' she said. Try to see me soon, won't you?' It was after half-past one.

Morse felt desperately sick at heart. He looked at Sue long and hard, and he knew that he loved her so dearly.

'Sue?'

'Yes?'

'Have you got a photograph of yourself?'

Sue rummaged in her handbag and found something. 'Not all that good, is it, really?'

Morse looked at the photograph. She was right. It didn't really do her justice, but it was his Sue all right. He put it carefully into his wallet, and got up to go. Patients were already waiting: patients with bulky plasters over legs and arms; patients with bandages round their heads and wrists; a road casualty with blood around the mouth, the face an ashen white. It was time to go. He touched her hand lightly and their fingers met in a tender, sweet farewell. Sue watched him go, limping slightly, through the flappy, celluloid doors.

It was almost a quarter to two as Morse walked down from the Radcliffe Infirmary to the broad, tree-lined avenue of St. Giles'. He thought of postponing his next task; but it had to be done some time, and he was on the spot now anyway.

Keeping to the right-hand side of St. Giles' as he made his way in the general direction of the Martyrs' Memorial, Morse stopped at the first snack-bar he came to, the Wimpy Grill, and walked inside. On his own admission the small, swarthy Italian, turning beefburgers on a hotplate, 'no speake, signor, the English so good,' and promptly summoned his slatternly young waitress into the consultation. Morse left amid a general shaking of heads and a flurry of gesticulation; it wasn't going to be easy. A few yards further down he stopped and entered The Bird and Baby where he ordered a pint of bitter and engaged in earnest, quiet conversation for several minutes with the barman, who also as it happened was the landlord and who always stood lunch-time duty behind his bar. Sorry, no. Oh yes, he'd have noticed; but no. Sorry. It was going to be a long, dispiriting business, but one which only Morse himself could do.

He worked his way methodically along the dozen likely places in the Cornmarket below the ABC Cinema, crossed the road at Carfax, and started up the other side. It was at a little ('snacks served') cake shop nestling alongside the giant pile of Marks and Spencer that he found the person he was searching for. She was a grey- haired, plumpish woman, with a kindly face and a friendly manner. Morse spoke to her for several minutes, and this time too there was much nodding of the head and pointing. But pointing not vaguely outside, up alleys or down side-streets; this time the pointing was towards a little room, beyond the shop, wherein the establishment's snacks were served. To be precise, the pointing was towards one particular small table standing in the far corner of the room, with one chair on each side of it, both now empty, and a cruet, a dirty ashtray and a bottle of tomato sauce upon its red-and-white striped tablecloth.

It was 3.45 p.m. Morse went over to the table and sat down. He knew that the case was nearly over now, but he could feel no elation. His feet ached, especially the right one, and he was badly in need of something to cheer him up. Again he took out the picture of Sue from his wallet and looked at the face of the girl he loved so hopelessly. The grey-haired waitress came up to him.

'Can I get you anything, sir? I'm sorry I didn't realize you might. .'

'I'll have a cup of tea, luv,' said Morse. It was better than nothing.

He was not back in his office until 4.45 p.m. A note from Lewis lay on his desk. His sergeant hoped it would be all right going off a bit early. Please to ring him if he was needed. His wife had a touch of flu and the kids were a bit of a handful.

Morse screwed up the note and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Underneath the note lay the letter that Lewis had brought from Jennifer Coleby. Making certain that it was carefully sealed, Morse placed it unopened into the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and turned the key in the lock.

He looked up a number in the directory and heard the drumming 'purr purr, purr purr'. He looked at his watch: almost 5.00 p.m. It wouldn't matter of course if he had gone, but he wanted to get things over straight away. 'Purr purr, purr purr.' He was on the point of giving up when the call was answered.

'Hello?' It was Palmer.

'Ah. Glad to catch you, sir. Morse here.'

'Oh.' The little manager sounded none too overjoyed. 'You're lucky. I was just locking up, but I thought I'd better get back and answer it. You never know in this job. Could be important.'

'It is important.'

'Oh.'