Last Seen Wearing

facts, almost all the facts, were pointing to the same conclusion — that he had been wrong, wrong from the start.

A constable, young, tall, confident, tapped sharply on the car window. 'Is this your car, sir?'

Morse wound the window down and wearily identified himself.

'Sorry, sir. I just thought. .'

'Of course you did.'

'Can I be of any assistance, sir?'

'Doubt it,' replied Morse. 'I'm looking for a young girl.'

'She live round here, sir?'

'I don't know,' said Morse. 'I don't even know if she lives in London. Not much hope for me, is there?'

'But you mean she's been seen round here recently?'

'No,' said Morse quietly. 'She's not been seen anywhere for over two years.'

'Oh, I see, sir,' said the young man, seeing nothing. 'Well, perhaps I can't help much then. Good night, sir.' He touched his helmet, and walked off, uncomprehending, past the gaudy strip clubs and the pornographic bookshops.

'No,' said Morse to himself, 'I don't think you can.'

He started the engine and drove via Shepherd's Bush and the White City towards the M40. He was back in his office just before midnight.

It did not even occur to him to go straight home. He was fully aware, even if he could give no explanation for it, of the curious feet that his mind was never more resilient, never sharper, than when apparently it was beaten. On such occasions his brain would roam restlessly around his skull like a wild and vicious tiger immured within the confines of a narrow cage, ceaselessly circumambulating, snarling savagely — and lethal. During the whole of the drive back to Oxford he had been like a chess player, defeated only after a monumental struggle, who critically reviews and analyses the moves and the motives for the moves that have led to his defeat. And already a new and strange idea was spawning in the fertile depdis of his mind, and he was impatient to get back.

At three minutes to midnight he was poring over the dossiers on the Taylor case with the frenetic concentration of a hastily summoned understudy who had only a few minutes in which to memorize a lengthy speech.

At 2.30 a.m. the night sergeant, carrying a steaming cup of coffee on a tray, tapped lightly and opened the door. He saw Morse, his hands over his ears, his desk strewn with documents, and an expression of such profound intensity upon his face that he quickly and gently put down the tray, reclosed the door, and walked quickly away.

He called again at 4.30 a.m. and carefully put down a second cup of coffee beside the first, which stood where he had left it, cold, ugly-brown, untouched. Morse was fast asleep now, his head leaning back against the top of the black leather chair, the neck of his white shirt unfastened, and an expression on his face as of a young child for whom the vivid terrors of the night were past. .

It had been Lewis who had found her. She lay supine upon the bed, fully clothed, her left arm placed across the body, the wrist slashed cruelly deep. The white coverlet was a pool of scarlet, and blood had dripped its way through the mattress. Clutched in her right hand was a knife, a wooden-handled carving knife, 'Prestige, Made in England', some 35–36 centimetres long, the cutting blade honed along its entire edge to a razor- sharp ferocity.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many.

(Phaedrus)

LEWIS REPORTED BACK for duty at eight o'clock and found a freshly shaven Morse seated at his desk. He could scarcely hide his disappointment as Morse began to recount the previous day's events, and found himself quite unable to account for the inspector's sprightly tone. His spirits picked up, however, when Morse mentioned the crucial evidence given by Miss Baker, and after hearing the whole story, he evinced little surprise at the string of instructions that Morse proceeded to give him. There were several phone calls to make and he thought he began to understand the general tenor of the inspector's purpose.

At 9.30 he had finished, and reported back to Morse.

'Feel up to the drive then?'

'I don't mind driving one way, sir, but—'

'Settled then. I'll drive there, you drive back. Agreed?'

'When were you thinking of going, sir?'

'Now,' said Morse. 'Give the missus a ring and tell her we should be back about er. .'

'Do you mind me mentioning something, sir?'

'What's worrying you?'

'If Valerie was in that nursing home—'

'She was,' interrupted Morse.

'—well, someone had to take her and fetch her and pay for her and everything.'

'The quack won't tell us. Not yet, anyway.'

'Isn't it fairly easy to guess, though?'