Last Bus To Woodstock

'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 dryly 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.