Last Bus to Woodstock
Read Last Bus to Woodstock Online
Authors: Colin Dexter
CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR
Colin Dexter
Death is Now My Neighbour
‘Dexter . . . has created a giant among fictional
detectives and has never short-changed his readers.’
The Times
The Daughters of Cain
‘This is Colin Dexter at his most excitingly devious.’
Daily Telegraph
The Way Through the Woods
‘Morse and his faithful Watson, Sergeant Lewis,
in supreme form . . . Hallelujah.’
Observer
The Jewel That Was Ours
‘Traditional crime writing at its best; the kind
of book without which no armchair is complete.’
Sunday Times
The Wench is Dead
‘Dextrously ingenious.’
Guardian
The Secret of Annexe 3
‘A plot of classical cunning and intricacy.’
Times Literary Supplement
The Riddle of the Third Mile
‘Runs the gamut of brain-racking unputdownability.’
Observer
The Dead of Jericho
‘The writing is highly intelligent, the atmosphere
melancholy, the effect haunting.’
Daily Telegraph
Service of all the Dead
‘A brilliantly plotted detective story.’
Evening Standard
The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn
‘Morse’s superman status is reinforced by an
ending which no ordinary mortal could have
possibly unravelled.’
Financial Times
Last Seen Wearing
‘Brilliant characterisation in original whodunnit.’
Sunday Telegraph
Last Bus to Woodstock
‘Let those who lament the decline of the English
detective story reach for Colin Dexter.’
Guardian
WOODSTOCK
Colin Dexter graduated from Cambridge University in 1953 and has lived in Oxford since 1966. His first novel,
Last Bus to Woodstock
, was published in 1975. There are now thirteen novels in the series, of which
The Remorseful Day
, is, sadly, the last.
Colin Dexter has won many awards for his novels, including the CWA Silver Dagger twice, and the CWA Gold Dagger for
The Wench is Dead
and
The Way Through the Woods.
In 1997 he was presented with the CWA Diamond Dagger for outstanding services to crime literature, and in 2000 was awarded the OBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List.
The Inspector Morse novels have, of course, been adapted for the small screen with huge success by Carlton/Central Television, starring John Thaw and Kevin Whately.
THE INSPECTOR MORSE NOVELS
Last Bus to Woodstock
Last Seen Wearing
The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn
Service of All the Dead
The Dead of Jericho
The Riddle of the Third Mile
The Secret of Annexe 3
The Wench is Dead
The Jewel That Was Ours
The Way Through the Woods
The Daughters of Cain
Death is Now My Neighbour
The Remorseful Day
Also available in Pan Books
Morse’s Greatest Mystery and other stories
The First Inspector Morse Omnibus
The Second Inspector Morse Omnibus
The Third Inspector Morse Omnibus
The Fourth Inspector Morse Omnibus
LAST BUS TO
WOODSTOCK
PAN BOOKS
First published 1975 by Macmillan
First published in paperback 1997 by Pan Books
This edition published 2007 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2009 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-46857-2 PDF
ISBN 978-0-330-46856-5 EPUB
Copyright © Colin Dexter 1975
The right of Colin Dexter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Visit
www.panmacmillan.com
to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases
RELUDE
‘L
ET
’
S WAIT
just a
bit
longer, please,’ said the girl in dark-blue trousers and the light summer coat. ‘I’m sure there’s one due pretty soon.’
She wasn’t quite sure though, and for the third time she turned to study the time-table affixed in its rectangular frame to Fare Stage 5. But her mind had never journeyed with any confidence in the world of columns and figures, and the finger tracing its tentatively horizontal course from the left of the frame had little chance of meeting, at the correct coordinate, the finger descending in a vaguely vertical line from the top. The girl standing beside her transferred her weight impatiently from one foot to the other and said, ‘I don’ know abou’ you.’
‘Just a minute.
Just a minute
.’ She focused yet again on the relevant columns: 4, 4A (not after 18.00 hours), 4E, 4X (Saturdays only). Today was Wednesday. That meant . . . If 2 o’clock was 14.00 hours, that meant . . .
‘Look, sweethear’, you please yourself bu’ I’m going to hitch i’.’ Sylvia’s habit of omitting all final ‘t’s seemed irritatingly slack. ‘It’ in Sylvia’s diction was little more than the most indeterminate of vowel sounds, articulated without the slightest hint of a consonantal finale. If they ever became better friends, it was something that ought to be mentioned.
What time was it now? 6.45 p.m. That would be 18.45. Yes. She was getting somewhere at last.
‘Come on. We’ll get a lif’ in no time, you see. Tha’s wha’ half these fellas are looking for – a bi’ of skir’.’
And, in truth, there appeared no reason whatsoever to question Sylvia’s brisk optimism. No accommodating motorist could fail to be impressed by her minimal skirting and the lovely invitation of the legs below.
For a brief while the two girls stood silently, in uneasy, static truce.
A middle-aged woman was strolling towards them, occasionally stopping and turning her head to gaze down the darkening length of the road that led to the heart of Oxford. She came to a halt a few yards away from the girls and put down her shopping bag.
‘Excuse me,’ said the first girl. ‘Do you know when the next bus is?’
‘There should be one in a few minutes, love.’ She peered again into the grey distance.
‘Does it go to Woodstock?’
‘No, I don’t think so – it’s just for Yarnton. It goes to the village, and then turns round and comes back.’
‘Oh.’ She stepped out towards the middle of the road, craned her neck, and stepped back as a little convoy of cars approached. Already, as the evening shaded into dusk, a few drivers had switched on their side-lights. No bus was in sight, and she felt anxious.
‘We’ll be all
righ
’,’ said Sylvia, a note of impatience in her voice. ‘You see. We’ll be ’avin’ a giggle abou’ i’ in the morning.’
Another car. And another. Then again the stillness of the warm autumn evening.
‘Well, you can stay if you like – I’m off.’ Her companion watched as Sylvia made her way towards the Woodstock roundabout, some two hundred yards up the road. It wasn’t a bad spot for the hitch-hiker, for there the cars slowed down before negotiating the busy ring-road junction.
And then she decided. ‘Sylvia, wait!’; and holding one gloved hand to the collar of her lightweight summer coat, she ran with awkward, splay-footed gait in pursuit.
The middle-aged woman kept her watch at Fare Stage 5. She thought how many things had changed since she was young.
But Mrs Mabel Jarman was not to wait for long. Vaguely her mind toyed with a few idle, random thoughts – nothing of any moment. Soon she would be home. As she was to remember later on, she could describe Sylvia fairly well: her long, blonde hair, her careless and provocative sensuality. Of the other girl she could recall little: a light coat, dark slacks – what colour, though? Hair – lightish brown? ‘Please try as hard you can, Mrs Jarman. It’s absolutely vital for us that you remember as much as you can . . .’ She noticed a few cars, and a heavy, bouncing articulated lorry, burdened with an improbably large number of wheel-less car-bodies. Men? Men with no other passengers? She would try so hard to recall. Yes, there had been men, she was sure of that. Several had passed her by.
At ten minutes to seven an oblong pinkish blur gradually assumed its firmer delineation. She picked up her bag as the red Corporation bus slowly threaded its way along the stops in the grey mid-distance. Soon she could almost read the bold white lettering above the driver’s cab. What was it? She squinted to see it more clearly:
WOODSTOCK
. Oh dear! She had been wrong then, when that nicely spoken young girl had asked about the next bus. Still, never mind! They hadn’t gone far. They would either get a lift or see the bus and manage to get to the next stop, or even the stop after that. ‘How long had they been gone, Mrs Jarman?’