Last Bus To Woodstock

'Yes. I'm still here.'

'No reply, I'm afraid, sir.'

'Is he in college this afternoon?'

'I saw him this morning, sir. Just a minute.' Three minutes later Morse was wondering if the wretched porter had taken a gentle stroll around the quad.

'Are you there, sir?'

'Yes, I'm still here.'

'He's away somewhere, sir, for the weekend. It's a conference of some sort.'

'Do you know when he's due back?'

'Sorry, sir. Shall I put you through to the college office?'

'No, don't bother. I'll ring again later.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Morse held the phone in his hands for a few seconds and finally put it down with the greatest circumspection. 'I wonder. I wonder. .' He was lost in thought.

'It seems both of our birds have flown, sir.'

'I wonder if the conference is being held in London.'

'You don't think. .?'

'I don't know what to think,' said Morse.

Nor was he sure what to think when half an hour later the findings of the laboratory were phoned through. Lewis watched the Inspector's curious reactions.

'Are you sure. .? You're quite sure. .? Yes. Well, many thanks. You'll bring them over? Good. Thank you.'

'Well, Lewis, you're in for a surprise.'

'About the note?'

'Yes. About the note — the note someone wrote to the young lady who is now visiting 'some friends' in London. They say they know whose typewriter it was.'

'And whose was it?'

'That's what's puzzling me. We've never heard of him before! He's a Mr. Peter Newlove.'

'And who's Mr. Peter Newlove?'

'It's time we found out.' He rang Lonsdale College for the second time that afternoon and found the same slow-motion porter presiding over the Lodge.

'Mr. Newlove, sir? No, I'm afraid he's not in college. Just let me check in the book. . No, sir.' He's away till Monday. Can I take a message? No? All right. Goodbye, sir.'

'Well, that's that,' said Morse. 'All our birds have flown. And I don't see much point in staying here, do you?' Lewis didn't.

'Let's just tidy up all this mess,' said Morse.

Lewis gathered together the papers on his side of the table — the photographs of Sylvia Kaye and the carefully drawn diagrams of the yard at The Black Prince, annotated in thin, spidery writing with details of everything found therein. He looked again at the close-ups of the murdered girl lying there, and felt a paternally protective urge to cover the harsh nakedness of her beautiful body.

'I'd like to get the bastard who did this,' he muttered.

'What's that?' Morse took the photographs from him.

'He must be a sex maniac, don't you think, sir? Tearing off her clothes like that and leaving her for anyone and everyone to see. God, I wish I knew who he was!'

'Oh, I don't think there's much difficulty about that,' said Morse.

Lewis looked at him incredulously. 'You mean you know?'

Morse nodded slowly, and locked away the file on Sylvia Kaye.

PART THREE

Search for a killer

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sunday, 17 October

SUE SAW DAVID off on the Birmingham train at 7.13 on Sunday evening. She told him what a marvellous weekend it had been — and so it had. On Saturday they had gone to the cinema, had a delicious Chinese meal and generally luxuriated in being together. Most of Sunday they had spent in Headington at the home of David's parents, pleasant, warm-hearted people, sensible enough to leave the two young love-birds alone for the greater part of the day. They hoped to marry some time next autumn, after David had finished his post-graduate year of research in metallurgy at the University of Warwick. He was hopeful (for he had taken a 'first') of getting a lectureship somewhere, and Sue encouraged him: she would rather be married to a lecturer than to an industrial chemist, or whatever metallurgists became. She thought that was the only thing about David of which she couldn't wholeheartedly approve — his choice of metallurgy. It had something to do with her own schooldays and the distaste she'd always felt amid the smells and silver slivers of the metalwork shop. There was something, too,