Last Seen Wearing

let her talk to him: the subject of Valerie Taylor and, later, the murder of Baines lay between them like a no-man's- land, isolated and defined, upon which neither dared to venture. How much did Sheila know? Had she learned that Baines was blackmailing him? Had she learned or half-guessed the shameful reason? Baines himself may have hinted at the truth to her. Baines! God rot his soul! But whatever Sheila had done or intended to do on the night that Baines was killed was utterly unimportant, and he wished to know nothing of it. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he, Donald Phillipson, who was guilty of murdering Baines.

The walls of the small study seemed gradually to be closing in around him. The cumulative pressures of the last three years had now become too strong, and the tangled web of falsehood and deceit had enmeshed his very soul. If he were to retain his sanity he had to do something; something to bring a period of peace to a conscience tortured to its breaking-point; something to atone for all the folly and the sin. Again he thought of Sheila and the children and he knew that he could hardly face them for much longer. And interminably his thoughts went dancing round and round his head and always settled to the same conclusion. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he and only he who was guilty of murdering Baines.

Morning school was almost over, and Mrs. Webb was tidying up her desk as he walked through.

'I shan't be in this afternoon, Mrs. Webb.'

'No. I realize that, sir. You never are on Tuesdays.'

'Er, no. Tuesday afternoon, of course. I'd, er. . I'd forgotten for the minute.'

It was like hearing the phone in a television play: he knew there was no need to answer it himself. He still felt wretchedly tired and he buried his head again in the pillows. Having found no more peace at Marylebone than at Paddington, he had finally arrived back in Oxford at 8.05 a.m., and had taken a taxi home. One way or another it had been an expensive debacle.

An hour later the phone rang again. Shrill, peremptory, now, registering at a higher level of his consciousness; and shaking his head awake, he reached for the receiver on the bedside table. He yawned an almighty 'Yeah?' into the mouthpiece and levered himself up to a semi-vertical position. 'Lewis? What the hell do you want?'

'I've been trying to get you since two o'clock, sir. It's—'

'What? What time is it now?'

'Nearly three o'clock, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you but I've got a bit of a surprise for you.'

'Huh, I doubt it.'

'I think you ought to come, though. We're at the station.'

'Who do you mean by 'we'?'

'If I told you that, sir, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?'

'Give me half an hour,'said Morse.

He sat down at the table in Interview Room One. In front of him lay a document, neatly typed but as yet unsigned, and he picked it up and read it:

'I have come forward voluntarily to the police to make this statement, and I trust that to some extent this may weigh in my favour. I wish to plead guilty to the murder of Mr. Reginald Baines, late second master of the Roger Bacon Comprehensive School, Kidlington, Oxon. The reasons I had for killing him are not, in my view, strictly relevant to the criminal procedings, that will be brought against me, and there are certain things which everyone should have the right to hold sacrosanct. About the details of the crime, too, I wish for the present to say nothing. I am aware that the question of deliberate malice and premeditation may be of great importance, and for this reason I wish to notify my lawyer and to take the benefit of his advice.

I hereby certify that this statement was made by me in the presence of Sergeant Lewis, CID, Thames Valley Police, on the day and at the time subscribed. Your obedient servant,'

Morse looked up from the sheet of typing and turned his light-grey eyes across the table.

'You can't spell 'proceedings',' he said.

'Your typist, Inspector. Not me.' Morse reached for his cigarettes and offered them across. 'No thank you, I don't smoke.'

Without dropping his eyes, Morse lit a cigarette and drew upon it deeply. His expression was a mixture of vague distaste and tacit scepticism. He pointed to the statement. 'You want this to go forward?'

'Yes.'

'As you wish.'

They sat silently, as if neither had anything further to say to the other. Morse looked across to the window, and outside on to the concrete yard. He'd made so many stupid blunders in the case; and no one was likely to thank him overmuch for making yet another. It was the only sensible solution, perhaps. Or almost the only sensible solution. Did it matter? Perhaps not. But still upon his face remained the look of dark displeasure.

'You don't like me much, do you, Inspector?'

'I wouldn't say that,' replied Morse defensively. 'It's just. . It's just that you've never got into the habit of telling me the truth, have you?'

'I've made up for it now, I hope.'

'Have you? Morse's eyes were hard and piercing, but to his question there was no reply.

'Shall I sign it now?'

Morse remained silent for a while. 'You think it's better this way?' he asked very quietly. But again there was no reply, and Morse passed across the statement and stood up. 'You've got a pen?'

Sheila Phillipson nodded, and opened her long, expensive leather hand-bag.