Last Seen Wearing

Again Strange hesitated. 'Ainley came to see me about this case several times. He was, let's say, uneasy about it. There were certain aspects of it that made him very. . very worried.'

Surreptitiously Morse looked at his watch. Ten past five. He had a ticket for the visiting English National Opera performance of Die Walkure starting at half-past six at the New Theatre.

'It's ten past five,' said Strange, and Morse felt like a young schoolboy caught yawning as the teacher was talking to him. .School. Yes, Valerie Taylor had been a schoolgirl — he'd read about the case. Seventeen and a bit. Good looker, by all accounts. Eyes on the big city, like as not. Excitement, sex, drugs, prostitution, crime, and then the gutter. And finally remorse. We all felt remorse in the end. And then? For the first time since he had been sitting in Strange's office Morse felt his brain becoming engaged. What had happened to Valerie Taylor?

He heard Strange speaking again, as if in answer to his thoughts.

'At the end Ainley was beginning to get the feeling that she'd never left Kidlington at all.'

Morse looked up sharply. 'Now I wonder why he should think that?' He spoke the words slowly, and he felt his nerve-endings tingling. It was the old familiar sensation. For a while he even forgot Die Walkure.

'As I told you, Ainley was worried about the case.'

'You know why?'

'You've got the files.'

Murder? That was more up Morse's alley. When Strange had first introduced the matter he thought he was being invited to undertake one of those thankless, inconclusive, interminable, needle-in-a-haystack searches: panders, pimps and prostitutes, shady rackets and shady racketeers, grimy streets and one-night cheap hotels in London, Liverpool, Birmingham. Ugh! Procedure. Check. Recheck. Blank. Start again. Ad infinitum. But now he began to brighten visibly. And, anyway, Strange would have his way in the end, whatever happened. Just a minute, though. Why now? Why Friday, 12 September — two years, three months and two days (wasn't it?), after Valerie Taylor had left home to return to afternoon school? He frowned. 'Something's turned up, I suppose.'

Strange nodded. 'Yes.'

That was better news. Watch out you miserable sinner, whoever you are, who did poor Valerie in! He'd ask for Sergeant Lewis again. He liked Lewis.

'And I'm sure,' continued Strange, 'that you're the right man for the job.'

'Nice of you to say so.'

Strange stood up. 'You didn't seem all that pleased a few minutes ago.'

'To tell you the truth, sir, I thought you were going to give me one of those miserable missing-person cases.'

'And that's exactly what I am going to do.' Strange's voice had acquired a sudden hard authority. 'And I'm not asking you to do it — I'm telling you.'

'But you said. .'

'You said. I didn't. Ainley was wrong. He was wrong because Valerie Taylor is very much alive.' He walked over to a filing cabinet, unlocked it, took out a small rectangular sheet of cheap writing paper, clipped to an equally cheap brown envelope, and handed both to Morse. 'You can touch it all right — no fingerprints. She's written home at last.'

Morse looked down miserably at the three short lines of drab, uncultured scrawl:

Dear Mum and Dad,

Just to let you know I'm alright so don't worry. Sorry I've not written before, but I'm alright. Love Valerie.'

There was no address on the letter.

Morse slipped the envelope from the clip. It was postmarked Tuesday, 2 September, London, EC4.

CHAPTER TWO

We'll get excited with Ring seat (10).

(Clue from a Ximenes crossword puzzle)

ON THE LEFT-HAND side sat a man of vast proportions, who had come in with only a couple of minutes to spare. He had wheezed his way slowly along Row J like a very heavy vehicle negotiating a very narrow bridge, mumbling a series of breathless 'thank yous' as each of the seated patrons blocking his progress arose and pressed hard back against the tilted seats. When he had finally deposited his bulk in the seat next to Morse, the sweat stood out on his massive brow, and he panted awhile like a stranded whale.

On the other side sat a demure, bespectacled young lady in a long purple dress, holding a bulky opera score upon her knee. Morse had nodded a polite 'good evening' when he took his seat, but only momentarily had the lips creased before reassuming their wonted, thin frigidity. Mona Lisa with the guts ache, thought Morse. He had been in more exhilarating company.

But there was the magnificent opera to relish once again. He thought of the supremely beautiful love duet in Act 1, and he hoped that this evening's Siegmund would be able to cope adequately with that noble tenor passage — one of the most beautiful (and demanding) in all grand opera. The conductor strode along the orchestra pit, mounted the rostrum, and suavely received the plaudits of the audience. The lights were dimmed, and Morse settled back in his seat with delicious anticipation. The coughing gradually sputtered to a halt and the conductor raised his baton. Die Walkure was under way.

After only two minutes, Morse was conscious of some distracting movement on his right, and a quick glance revealed that the bespectacled Mona Lisa had extricated a torch from somewhere about her person and was playing the light laterally along the orchestrated score. The pages crinkled and crackled as she turned them, and for some reason the winking of the flashlight reminded Morse of a revolving lighthouse. Forget it. She would probably pack it