Last Seen Wearing

(A. E. Housman, Last Poems)

IT WAS JUST AFTER ten-thirty when he paid and tipped the taxi driver: it cost him more than the return first-class fare to London. At the bottom of the building he found, as before, the lift for the even-numbered floors on his left and that for the odd on his right. He remembered the floor. Of course he did.

She was radiant. That was the best epithet for her, although there were many others. She wore a thin black sweater in which her full and bra-less breasts bobbed irresistibly; and a long black skirt, slit high along her leg and leaving a sublime uncertainty of what she wore below. Her mouth, just as he had seen it last, was stickily seductive, the lips moist and slightly parted, theteedi so gleaming white. O Lord, have mercy on our souls!

'What would you like to drink, Inspector? Whisky? Gin?'

'Whisky, please. Lovely.'

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Morse moved quickly over to a small shelf of books beside the deeply- leathered divan. Rapidly he flicked open the front covers of the books there, and as rapidly replaced them. Only one of them held his attention and that only for a few seconds, when the grey eyes momentarily flashed with a glint of satisfaction, if not surprise.

He was seated on the divan when she returned with a large whisky in a cut-glass tumbler and sat down beside him.

'Aren't you drinking?'

Her eyes met his and held them. 'In a minute,' she whispered, linking her arm through his, the tips of her fingers gently tracing slow designs along his wrist.

Softly he took her hand in his, and for a short sweet second the thrill was that of a sharp electric shock that shot along his veins, and a zig-zag current that sparked across his temples. He looked down at her delicately- fingered left hand, and saw across the bottom of the index finger the faint white line of an old scar — like the scar that was mentioned in the medical report on Valerie Taylor, when she had cut herself with a carving knife — in Kidlington, when she was a pupil at the Roger Bacon School.

'What shall I call you?' she asked suddenly. 'I can't go on calling you 'Inspector' all night, can I?'

'It's a funny thing,' said Morse. 'But no one ever calls me by my Christian name.'

Lightly she touched his cheek with her lips, and her hand moved slowly along his leg. 'Never mind. If you don't like your name, you can always change it, you know. There's no law against that.'

'No, there isn't. I could always change it if I wanted to, I suppose. Just like you changed yours.'

Her body stiffened and she took her hand away. 'And what on earth is that supposed to mean?'

'You told me your name was Yvonne the last time I saw you. But that isn't your real name, is it? Is it, Valerie?'

'Valerie? You can't possibly. .' But she was unable to articulate her thoughts beyond that point, and a look of profound perplexity appeared to cross her beautiful face. She stood up.

'Look, Inspector, or whatever your name is, my name's Yvonne Baker — you'd better get that straight before we go any further. If you don't believe me you can ring the couple on the floor below. I was at school in Seven Sisters Road with Joyce—'

'Go ahead,' said Morse blandly. 'Ring up your old school pal if you want to. Why not tell her to come up to see us?'

A look of anger flashed across her face and momentarily made it less than beautiful. She hesitated; then walked over to the phone and dialled a number.

Morse leaned back and sipped his whisky contentedly. Even from across the room he could hear the muted, metallic purrs with perfect clarity; he found himself mentally counting them. . Finally she put down the phone and came back to sit beside him once more. He reached to the book-shelf, abstracted a small hardbound copy of Jane Eyre, and opened the front cover. Inside was the label of the Roger Bacon Comprehensive School, on which Valerie's own name appeared, appended to those of her literary predecessors:

Angela Lowe 5C

Mary Ann Baldwin 5B

Valerie Taylor 5C

He passed it across to her. 'Well?'

She shook her head in exasperation. 'Well what?'

'Is it yours?'

'Of course it isn't mine. It's Valerie's — you can see that. She gave it me to read in the clinic. It was one of her O-level set books, and she thought I'd enjoy reading it. But I never got round to it and I. . I just forgot to give it her back, that's all.'

'And that's your story?'

'It isn't a story. It's the truth. I don't know—'

'What went wrong at home, Valerie? Did you—'

'Oh God! What the hell are you on about? I'm not Valerie. It's. . I. . I. . I just don't know where to start. Look, my parents live in Uxbridge — can you understand that? I can ring them. You can ring them. I—'

'I know your parents, Valerie. You got so fed up with them that you left them. Left them without a word of explanation — at least until Ainley found you. And then at long last you did write home —'