Last Seen Wearing

'Few quid last year, sir. But it's a million to one chance — getting a big win.'

'Like this bloody business,' mumbled Morse, distastefully surveying the fruits of Ainley's labours.

For the next two and a half hours they sat over the Taylor documents, occasionally conferring over an obscure or an interesting point — but for the most part in silence. It would have been clear to an independent witness of these proceedings that Morse read approximately five times as quickly as his sergeant; but whether he remembered five times as much of what he read would have been a much more questionable inference. For Morse found it difficult to concentrate his mind upon the documents before him. As he saw it, the facts, the bare unadulterated facts, boiled down to little more than he had read in the pub the previous day. The statements before him, checked and signed, appeared merely to confirm the bald, simple truth; after leaving home to return to school Valerie Taylor had completely vanished. If Morse wanted a fact, well, he'd got one. Parents, neighbours, teachers, classmates — all had been questioned at length. And amidst all their well-meaning verbosity they all had the same thing to say — nothing. Next, reports of Ainley's own interviews with Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, with the headmaster, with Valerie's form tutor, with her games mistress and with two of her boyfriends. (Ainley had clearly liked the headmaster, and equally clearly had disapproved of one of the boyfriends.) All nicely, neatly written in the small, rounded hand that Morse had already seen. But — nothing. Next, reports of general police inquiries and searches, and reports of the missing girl being spotted in Birmingham, Clacton, London, Reading, Southend, and a remote village in Moray. All wild-goose chases. All false alarms. Next, personal and medical reports on Valerie herself. She did not appear academically gifted in any way; or if she was, she had so far successfully concealed her scholastic potential from her teachers. School reports suggested a failure, except in practical subjects, to make the best of her limited abilities (familiar phrases!), but she seemed a personable enough young lady, well liked (Morse drew his own conclusions) by her fellow pupils of either sex. On the day of her disappearance she was attested by school records to be seventeen years and five months old, and five feet six inches in height. In her previous academic year she had taken four CSE subjects, without signal success, and she was at that time sitting three GCE O-level subjects — English, French and Applied Science. From the medical report it appeared that Valerie was quite remarkably healthy. There were no entries on her National Health medical card for the last three years, and before that only measles and a bad cut on the index finger of her left hand. Next, a report over which Ainley had obviously (and properly) taken considerable pains, on the possibility of any trouble on the domestic front which may have caused friction between Valerie and her parents, and led to her running away from home. On this most important point Ainley had gone to the trouble of writing out two sheets of foolscap in his own fair hand; but the conclusions were negative. On the evidence of Valerie's form tutor (among whose manifold duties something designated 'pastoral care' appeared a high priority), on the evidence of the parents themselves, of the neighbours and of Valerie's own friends, there seemed little reason to assume anything but the perfectly normal ups-and-downs in the relationship between the members of the Taylor clan. Rows, of course. Valerie had been home very late once or twice from dances and discos, and Mrs. Taylor could use a sharp tongue. (Who couldn't?) Ainley's own conclusion was that he could find no immediate cause within the family circle to account for a minor squabble — let alone the inexplicable departure of an only daughter. In short — nothing. Morse thought of the old Latin proverb. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Out of nothing you'll get nothing. Not that it helped in any way.

Apart from the typed and handwritten documents, there were three maps: an ordnance-survey map of the Oxford district showing the areas covered by the search parties; a larger map of the Oxfordshire region on which the major road and rail routes were marked with cryptic symbols; and finally a sketch-map of the streets between the Roger Bacon School and the Taylors' house, with Valerie's route to and from her school carefully and neatly drawn in in red biro by the late chief inspector. Whilst Lewis was plodding along, several miles behind his master, the master himself appeared to be finding something of extraordinary interest in this last item: his right hand shaded his forehead and he seemed to Lewis in the diroes of the deepest contemplation.

'Found something, sir?'

'Uh? What?' Morse's head jerked back and the idle daydream was over.

'The sketch-map, sir.'

'Ah, yes. The map. Very interesting. Yes.' He looked at it again, decided that he was unable to recapture whatever interest may have previously lain therein and picked up the Sunday Mirror once more. He read his horoscope: 'You're doing better than you realize, so there could be a major breakthrough as far as romance is concerned. This week will certainly blossom if you spend it with someone witty and bright.'

He looked glumly across at Lewis, who for the moment at least appeared neither very witty nor very bright

'Well, Lewis. What do you think?'

'I've not quite finished yet, sir.'

'But you must have some ideas, surely.'

'Not yet.'

'Oh, come on. What do you think happened to her?'

Lewis thought hard, and finally gave expression to a conviction which had grown steadily stronger the more he had read. 'I think she got a lift and ended up in London. That's where they all end up.'

'You think she's still alive, then?'

Lewis looked at his chief in some surprise. 'Don't you?'

'Let's go for a drink,' said Morse.

They walked out of the Thames Valley HQ and at the Belisha crossing negotiated the busy main road that linked Oxford with Banbury.

'Where are we going, sir?'

Morse took Ainley's hand-drawn map from his pocket. 'I thought we ought to take a gentle stroll over the ground, Lewis. You never know.'

The council estate was situated off the main road, to their left as they walked away from Oxford, and very soon they stood in Hatfield Way.

'We going to call?'

'Got to make a start somewhere, I suppose,' said Morse.

The house was a neat, well-built property, with a circular rose-bed cut into the centre of the well-tended front lawn. Morse rang the bell, and rang again. It seemed that Mrs. Taylor was out. Inquisitively Morse peered