'I've hurt my foot, Mr. Crowther.'
'Have you? I'm sorry to hear that. My medical friends say that feet and hands are about the worst things to knock about — something to do with the multiplicity of nerve endings.'
He had a pleasant voice and manner. Morse looked him fully in the eyes. For several seconds neither man flinched, and Morse thought he saw a basic honesty in the man. But he could not conceal from himself a draining sense of disappointment and anticlimax; like Constable McPherson he had thought of a big pools win, only to find that instead of 'telegrams required' the forecast was very low. 'Yes.' He picked up the conversation. 'I shan't be walking round Blenheim Park tonight, sir.'
'Nor shall I,' said Bernard.
'Very romantic, I should think, having a bit on the side like that.'
'You make it sound very crude.'
'Wasn't it?'
'Perhaps so.'
'Are you still seeing her?'
'No. My philandering days are over now, I hope.'
'Have you seen her since that night?'
'No. It's all off. It seemed better.'
'Does she know that you picked the two girls up?'
'Yes.'
'Is she upset — that it's all over, I mean?'
'I suppose so, a bit.'
'What about you?'
'To be truthful, it's a great relief. I'm not a very accomplished Casanova and I hated all the lying.'
'You realize, of course, that it would help a great deal if this young lady — is she young, by the way?'
For the first time Bernard hesitated. 'Fairly young.'
'If this young lady,' continued Morse, 'would come forward and corroborate your evidence?'
'Yes. I know it would.'
'But you don't want that.'
'I'd rather you disbelieved my story than dragged her into it.'
'You're not going to tell me who she is? I can promise you that I will handle the business myself.'
Bernard shook his head. 'I'm sorry. I can't do that.'
'I could try to find her, you know,' said Morse.
'I couldn't stop that.'
'No, you couldn't.' Morse moved his foot carefully back to the cushion strategically placed under his desk. 'You could be withholding vital evidence, Mr. Crowther.' Bernard said nothing. 'Is she married?' persisted Morse.
'I'm not going to talk about her,' he said quietly, and Morse sensed a steely resolve in the man.
'Do you think I could find her?' His foot shot with pain, and he picked it up again. Oh, what the hell, he thought; if this bit of stuff likes him to tickle her tits under the trees, what's that got to do with me? Bernard had not answered and Morse changed his tack. 'You realize, I'm sure, that this other girl, the one who sat in the back seat, she's the one who might be able to give us a line?' Crowther nodded. 'Why do you think we haven't heard from her?
'I don't know.'
'Can't you think of any reason?'
Bernard could, that was clear, but he did not put his thoughts into words.
'You can, can't you, Mr. Crowther? Because it could be exactly the same reason which accounted for your reluctance to come forward.' Bernard nodded again. 'She could tell us, perhaps, who Sylvia Kaye's boyfriend was, where she was going to meet him, what they were going to do — she might be able to tell us such a lot, don't you think?'
'I didn't get the idea they knew each other very well.'
'Why do you say that?' asked Morse sharply.
'Well, they didn't chatter much together. You know how young girls do: pop music, dances, discos, boy friends — they just didn't talk much — that's all.'
'You didn't catch her name?'
'No.'
'Have you tried to think if Sylvia used her name?'
'I've tried to tell you all I can remember. I can't do any more.'
'Betty, Carole, Diana, Evelyn. . no?' Bernard remained impassive. 'Gaye, Heather, Iris, Jennifer. .' Morse could
