Last Bus To Woodstock

'Could there have been some fingerprints on the original copy?'

Morse heard the question and stared blankly into the middle distance. At last he shook his head sadly. 'Too late now.'

The primary school became a distinctly firmer prospect as the minutes ticked by. The sand-castle lurched forward and prepared to topple headlong. It was time someone else took over; he would see the Commissioner.

A police car stopped a few yards from him. 'Want some help, sir?'

'I'm all right, thanks.' Morse shook off his gloom. 'I'll be back in training next week. You'll see me in the first- team squad for the next home game.'

The constable laughed. 'Bit of a nuisance, though. Especially when you can't drive.'

Morse had almost forgotten his car. It had been locked up for over a week now. 'Constable, jump in the front with me, will you? It's high time I had a try.' He climbed into the driving seat, waggled his right foot over the brake and accelerator, pushed the foot with firmness on the brake-pedal, and decided he could cope. He started the engine, drove off round the yard, tested his ability to do the right things, came to a stop, got out and beamed like an orphan handed a teddy bear.

'Not bad, eh?' The constable helped Morse into the building and along to his office.

'You'll be able to use your car again tomorrow, won't you, sir?'

'I think I shall,' said Morse.

He sat down and thought of tomorrow. The Commissioner. In the afternoon would be best, perhaps. He rang the Commissioner's number, but there was no reply. He was seeing someone else, too, in the evening. He was looking forward to seeing Sue Widdowson — it was little use pretending he wasn't. But what a mess he'd made of it. The Bird and Baby indeed! Why on earth hadn't he invited her to The Elizabeth or The Sorbonne or The Sheridan. And why hadn't he arranged to pick her up, like any civilized man would have done? Hang Jennifer Coleby! It wasn't too late, though, was it? She would be home by now. He looked at his watch: 6.30 p.m. The Oxford Mail lay on his desk and he scanned the entertainments page. Hot Pants and Danish Blue, he noticed, had been retained for a second week 'by public demand'. He could have taken her to the pictures, of course. Perhaps not to Studio 2, though. Restaurants. Not much there. Then he spotted it. Sheridan Dinner Dance: double ticket—?6. 7.30–11.30 p.m. Bar. Dress informal.' He rang The Sheridan. Yes, a few double tickets still available, but he would have to collect them tonight. Could he ring back in a quarter of an hour or so? Yes. They would keep a double ticket for him.

Jennifer Coleby's telephone number was somewhere in the file and he soon found it. He thought over what he was to say. 'Miss Widdowson'—that would be best. He hoped that Sue would answer.

Brrr Brrr. He felt excited. Fool.

'Yes?' A young girl's voice, but whose? The line crackled.

'Is that Oxford 54385?'

'Yes, it is. Can I help you?' Morse's heart sank. It was unmistakably the cool, clear voice of Jennifer Coleby. Morse tried in some inchoate way to speak as if he wasn't Morse. 'I want to speak to Miss Widdowson if she's there, please.'

'Yes, she is. Who shall I say is calling?'

'Oh tell her it's one of her old school friends,' replied the un-Morselike voice.

'I'll get her straight away, Inspector Morse.'

'Sue! Su-ue!' he heard her shouting. 'One of your old school friends on the line!'

'Hello. Sue Widdowson here.'

'Hello.' Morse didn't know what to call himself. 'Morse here. I just wondered if you'd like to make it The Sheridan tomorrow night instead of going for a drink. There's a dinner-dance on and I've got tickets. What do you say?'

'That'd be lovely.' Morse thought he liked her voice. 'Absolutely lovely. Several of my friends are going. Should be great fun.'

Oh no! thought Morse. 'Not too many, I hope. I don't want to have to share you with a lot of others, you know.' He said it lightly with a heavy heart.

'Well, quite a few,' admitted Sue.

'Let's make it some other place, shall we? Do you know anywhere?'

'Oh, we can't do that. You've got the tickets anyway. We'll enjoy it — you'll see.'

Morse wondered if he would ever learn to tell the truth. 'All right. Now I can pick you up, if you like. Would that suit you?'

'Oh, yes please. Jenny was going to run me down in her car — but if you. .'

'All right. I'll pick you up at 7.15.'

'7.15 it is then. Is it long dresses?' Morse didn't know. 'Never mind — I can easily find out.'

From one of your many friends, doubtless, thought Morse. 'Good. Looking forward to it.'

'Me, too.' She put down the receiver and Morse's own endearing adieu was left unspoken. Was he really looking forward to it? They were usually a bit of an anticlimax, these things. Still it would do him good. Or serve him right. He didn't much care. He'd have a decent meal anyway, and it would be good to hold a young girl in his arms again, tripping the light fantastic. . Oh hell! He'd forgotten all about that. He was going out of his mind, the stupid, senseless fool that he was. He could no more invite the fair Miss Widdowson to share the delights of a dreamy waltz than invite a rabbi to a plate of pork. He hobbled to the enquiry desk. 'Get me a car, Sergeant.'