Last Seen Wearing

He passed over a photocopied sheet of paper and Lewis read what Morse had found:

'Mr. E. Phillips, 41 Longmead Road, Farnborough.' He sat silently, and then looked again at the copy of the expenses form that Morse had given him earlier. It was certainly odd. Very, very odd.

'And,' continued Morse, 'I've checked on something else. There's no Mr. Phillips who lives in Longmead Road, Farnborough, for the very simple reason there is no Longmead Road in Farnborough.'

Lewis considered the evidence. Initials? Move on one from D to E. Easy. Phillipson? Just leave off the last two letters. Could be. But something else was staring him in the face. The home address (as given on the expenses form) of Mr. D. Phillipson was 14 Longmead Road, Epsom. Transpose the 1 and the 4, and move on one from E to F: Epsom to Farnborough.

'I should think Peters ought to be able to give us a line on the handwriting, sir.'

'We'll leave him out of it.' It sounded final.

'It's a bit suspicious, all right,' admitted Lewis. 'But where does Valerie Taylor fit in? Why her?'

'It's got to be her,' said Morse. 'It all adds up, don't you see?'

'No.'

'Well, let's just assume that what I suspect is the truth. Agreed? Assume, nothing more. Now, where are we? For some reason Phillipson meets Valerie, probably in Oxford, probably at the station buffet. He chats her up and — Bob's your uncle. Off they go to the Station Hotel — a bit of a roll round the bed, and she goes off home with a few quid in her pocket. I don't think she'd stay all night; probably a couple of hours or so — no more. It wouldn't be easy for her to leave the hotel after midnight, would it? Not without causing a bit of comment.'

'I still don't see why it should be Valerie, though. And even if you're right, sir, what's it all got to do with Valerie disappearing?'

Morse nodded. Tell me, Lewis. If anyone got to know about this little bit of philandering, who do you think it would be?'

'Phillipson could have told his wife, I suppose. You know, he would have felt guilty about it—'

'Mm.' It was Morse's turn to display a lack of enthusiasm and Lewis tried again.

'I suppose Valerie could have told someone?'

'Who?'

'Her mum?'

'She was a bit scared of her mum, wasn't she?'

'Her dad, then?'

'Could be.'

'I suppose someone could have seen them,' said Lewis slowly.

'I'm pretty sure someone did,' said Morse.

'And you think you know who it was?'

Again Morse nodded. 'So do you, I think.'

Did he? In such situations Lewis had learned to play it cleverly. 'You mean. .?' He tried to look as knowing as his utter lack of comprehension would permit, and mercifully Morse took up his cue.

'Yes. He's the only person connected with the case who lives anywhere near there. You don't make an excursion to the Station Hotel if you live in Kidlington, do you? Come to think of it, you don't make an excursion to the Station Hotel wherever you live. The beer there's bloody awful.'

Lewis understood now, but wondered how on earth they'd ever managed to get this far on such a flimsy series, of hypotheses. 'He found out, you think?'

'Saw 'em, most probably.'

'You've not tackled him about it yet?'

'No, I want to get a few things straight first. But I shall be seeing him, have no fear.'

'I still don't see why you think it was Valerie.'

'Well, let's look at things from her point of view for a minute. She gets herself pregnant, right?'

'So you say, sir.'

'And so does Maguire.'

'We've got no real evidence.'

'No, not yet, I agree. But we may well have some fairly soon — you'll see. For the minute let's just assume she's pregnant. I'm pretty sure that Phillipson himself wouldn't have been the proud daddy; in fact, I shouldn't think he ever dreamed of touching her again. But if she were in trouble, daren't tell her parents, say — who would she go to? As I see it, she may well have gone to someone who owed her a favour, someone who had some sort of moral duty to help her, someone in fact who daren't not help her. In short she'd probably go to Phillipson. And, as I see it, they cooked up something between 'em. The Taylors — they'd almost certainly have to be in on it — the Taylors, Phillipson and Valerie. I should think that Phillipson arranged a place for her to go to in London, paid the abortion clinic, and let the whole thing look like a runaway schoolgirl lark. The Taylors are saved any local scandal and disgrace. Phillipson has paid his pound of flesh, and Valerie is let off lightly for her sins. Yes, I think that's roughly what might have happened; only roughly, mind you.'