Last Seen Wearing

'Of course he's not going to like it much.'

'It's almost as good as saying we suspect him.'

'Well? We do, don't we?'

'Among others, you mean, sir?'

'Among others.'

'It's a pity they can't be just a bit more definite about the time.' Lewis sounded uneasy.

'Don't worry about that,' said Morse. 'Just get a complete schedule — from the time he left school to the time he went to bed.'

'As I say, sir, he's not going to like it very much.'

Morse got up and abruptly terminated the conversation. 'Well, he'll have to bloody well lump it, won't he?'

It was just after 6.30 p.m. when Morse pushed his way through the glass doors, left Police HQ behind him and made his way slowly and thoughtfully towards the housing estate. He wasn't looking forward to it, either. As Lewis had said, it was almost as good as saying you suspected them.

The Taylors' green Morris Oxford was parked along the pavement, and it was the shirt-sleeved George himself who answered the door, hastily swallowing a mouthful of his evening meal.

'I'll call back,' began Morse.

'No. No need, Inspector. Nearly finished me supper. Come on in.' George had been sitting by himself in the kitchen finishing off a plate of stew and potatoes. 'Cup o' tea?'

Morse declined and sat opposite George at the rickety kitchen table.

'What can I do for you, Inspector Morse?' He filled an outsize cup with deep-brown tea and lit a Woodbine. Morse told him of Baines's murder. The news had broken just too late for the final edition of the Oxford Mail, a copy of which lay spread out on the table.

George's reaction was flat and unconcerned. He'd known Baines, of course — seen him at parents' evenings. But that was all. It seemed to Morse curious that George Taylor had so little to say or (apparently) to feel on learning of the death of a fellow human being he had known; yet neither was there a hint of machination or of malice in his eyes, and Morse felt now, as on the previous occasion they had met, that he rather liked the man. But sooner or later he had to ask him, in the hallowed phrases, to account for all his movements on the previous evening. For the moment he stood on the brink and postponed the evil moment; and mercifully George himself did a good deal of the work for him.

'The missus knew him better'n me. I'll tell her when she gets in. Mondays and Tuesdays she's allus off at Bingo down in Oxford.'

'Does she ever win?' The question seemed oddly irrelevant

'Few quid now and then. In fact she won a bit last night, I reckon. But you know how it is — she spends about a quid a night anyway. Hooked on it, that's what she is.'

'How does she go? On the bus?'

'Usually. Last night, though, I was playing for the darts team down at the Jericho Arms, so I took her down with me, and she called in at the pub after she was finished, and then came home with me. It's on the bus, though, usually.'

Morse took a deep breath and jumped in. 'Look, Mr. Taylor, it's just a formality and I know you'll understand, but, er, I've got to ask you exactly where you were last night.'

George seemed not in the least put out or perturbed. In fact — or was it a nothing, an imperceptibility, a fleeting flash of Morse's imagination? — there might have been the merest hint of relief in the friendly eyes.

Lewis was already waiting when Morse arrived back in his office at 7.30 p.m., and the two men exchanged notes. Neither of them, it appeared, had been in too much danger of flushing any desperado from his lair. The alibis were not perfect — far from it; but they were good enough. Phillipson (according to Phillipson) had arrived home from school about 5.15 p.m.; had eaten, and had left home, alone, at 6.35 p.m. to see the Playhouse production of St. Joan. He had left his car in the Gloucester Green car park and reached the theatre at 6.50 p.m. The play had lasted from 7.15 to 10.30 p.m., and apart from walking to the bar for a Guinness in the first interval he had not left his seat until just after 10.30 when he collected his car and drove back home. He remembered seeing the BBC2 news bulletin at 11.00 p.m.

'How far's Gloucester Green from Baines's house?' asked Morse.

Lewis considered. 'Two, three hundred yards.'

Morse picked up the phone and rang the path lab. No. The humpbacked surgeon had not yet completed the scrutiny of various lengths of Baines's innards. No. He couldn't be more precise about the time of death. Eight to midnight. Well, if Morse were to twist his arm it might be 8.30 to 11.30—even 11.00, perhaps. Morse cradled the phone, stared up at the ceiling for a while, and then nodded slowly to himself.

'You know, Lewis, the trouble with alibis is not that some people have 'em and some people don't. The real trouble is that virtually no one's likely to have a really water-tight alibi. Unless you've been sitting all night handcuffed to a couple of high court judges, or something.'

'You think Phillipson could have murdered Baines, then?'

'Of course he could.'

Lewis put his notebook away. 'How did you get on with the Taylors, sir?'

Morse recounted his own interview with George Taylor, and Lewis listened carefully.

'So he could have murdered Baines, too.'

Morse shrugged noncommittally. 'How far's the Jericho Arms from Baines's place?'