Last Bus To Woodstock

The back of Jennifer's throat was dry. 'What for?' Her voice was suddenly a little harsher.

'Because,' said Morse quietly, 'I hope you will not be foolish enough to sign a statement which you know to be false' — Morse raised his voice—'and which I know to be false.' He gave her no chance to reply. 'This afternoon I gave instructions for you to be held for questioning since I suspected, and still suspect, that you are withholding information which may be of very great value in discovering the identity of Miss Kaye's murderer. That is a most serious offence, as you know. It now seems that you are foolish enough to compound such stupidity with the equally criminal and serious offence of supplying the police with information which is not only inaccurate but demonstrably false.' Morse's voice had risen in crescendo and he ended with a mighty thump with his fist upon the table between them.

Jennifer, however, did not appear quite so abashed as he had expected. 'You don't believe what I told you?'

'No.'

'Am I allowed to ask why not?' Morse was more than a little surprised. It was clear to him that the girl had recovered whatever nerve she may have lost. He clearly and patiently told her that she could not possibly have taken out her library books on Wednesday evening, and that this could be proved without any reasonable doubt. 'I see.' Morse waited for her to speak again. If he had been mildly surprised at her previous question, he was flabbergasted by her next. 'What were you doing at the time of the murder last Wednesday evening, Inspector?'

What was he doing? He wasn't quite sure, but any such admission would hardly advance his present cause. He lied. 'I was listening to some Wagner.'

'Which Wagner.'

'Das Rheingold.'

'Is there anyone who could back up your story? Did anyone see you?'

Morse surrendered. 'No.' In spite of himself, he had to admire the girl. 'No,' he repeated, 'I live on my own. I seldom have the pleasure of visitors — of either sex.'

'How very sad.'

Morse nodded. 'Yes. But you see, Miss Coleby, I am not as yet suspected of dressing up in women's clothes and standing at the top of the Woodstock Road hitching a lift with Sylvia Kaye.'

'And I am?'

'And you are.'

'But presumably I'm not suspected of raping and murdering Sylvia?'

'I hope you will allow me a modicum of intelligence.'

'You don't understand.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Hasn't it occurred to you that Sylvia probably enjoyed being raped?' There was bitterness in her tone, and her cheeks were flushed.

'That seems to assume that she was raped before she died, doesn't it?' said Morse quietly.

'I'm sorry — that was a horrid thing to say.'

Morse followed up his advantage. 'My job is to discover what happened from the moment Sylvia and her friend—and I believe that was you—got into a red car on the other side of the Woodstock roundabout. For some reason this other girl has not come forward, and I don't think the reason's very hard to find. She knew the driver of the car, and she's protecting him. She's probably frightened stiff. But so was Sylvia Kaye frightened stiff, Miss Coleby. More than that. She was so savagely struck on the back of the head that her skull was broken in several places and lumps of bone were found in her brain. Do you like the sound of that? It's an ugly, horrible sight is murder and the trouble with murder is that it usually tends to wipe out the only good witness of the crime — the victim. That means we've got to rely on other witnesses, normal ordinary people most of them, who accidentally get caught up at some point in the wretched business. They get scared; OK. They'd rather not get mixed up in it; OK. They think it's none of their business, OK — but we've got to rely on some of them having enough guts and decency to come forward and tell us what they know. And that's why you're here, Miss Coleby. I've got to know the truth.'

He took the statement that Jennifer had made and tore it into pieces. But he could not read her mind. As he had been speaking she had been gazing through the window of the little office into the outside yard, where the day before she had stood with her office colleagues.

'Well?'

'I'm sorry, Inspector. I must have caused you a lot of trouble. It was on Thursday that I went to the library.'

'And on Wednesday?'

'I did go out. And I did go on the road to Woodstock — but I didn't get as far as Woodstock. I stopped at The Golden Rose at Begbroke — that's what, about two miles this side of Woodstock. I went into the lounge and bought a drink — a lager and lime. I drank it out in the garden and then went home.'

Morse looked at her impatiently. 'In the dark, I suppose.'

'Yes. About half past seven.'

'Well — go on.'

'What do you mean—'go on'? That was all.'

'Do you want me to. .' began Morse, his voice fuming. 'Fetch Lewis!' he barked. Policewoman Fuller read the gale warning and hurried out.