Last Seen Wearing (17 page)

   'Looks as if you're not the only forger in the case, sir.' Morse made no reply. Somewhere at the back of his mind something clicked smoothly into place. So far in the case he had managed to catch a few of the half-whispers and from them half-divine the truth; but now it seemed the facts were shouting at him through a megaphone.

   Baines, it was clear, had written the letter to Valerie's parents; and the evidence for Valerie being still alive was down to zero on the scale of probabilities. In one way Morse was glad; and in another he felt a deep and poignant sadness. For life was sweet, and we each of us had our own little hopes, and few of us exhibited overmuch anxiety to quit this vale of misery and tears. Valerie had a right to live. Like himself. Like Lewis. Like Baines, too, he supposed. But someone had decided that Baines had forfeited his right to live any longer and stuck a knife through him. And Morse stood silently at Baines's desk and knew that everyone expected him to discover who that someone was. And perhaps he would, too. At the rate he was going he would be able to know the truth before the day was out. Perhaps all he had to do was look through the rest of the drawers and find the whole solution neatly copied out and signed. But he hardly expected to find much else, and didn't. For the next hour he and Lewis carefully and patiently vetted the miscellaneous contents of each of the other drawers; but they found nothing more of any value or interest, except a recent photocopy of Phillipson's expenses form.

   The phone stood on the top of the desk, a white phone, the same phone that had rung at lunchtime when Mrs. Webb had called a man who then lay cold and dead beside the opened fridge. And then, suddenly, Morse noticed it. It had been under his nose all the time but he had ignored it because it was an item so naturally expected: a plastic, cream-coloured rectangular telephone index-system, whereby one pressed the alphabetical letter and the index opened automatically at the appropriate place. Half expecting to find his own illustrious self recorded, Morse pressed the 'M'; but there was nothing on the ruled card. Clearly none of Baines's more intimate acquaintances boasted a surname beginning with 'M'. So Morse pressed 'N'; and again he found no entry. And 'O'; and with the same result. Probably Baines had only recently acquired the index? It looked reasonably new and maybe he had not yet transcribed the numbers from an older list. But no such list had yet been found. Morse pressed 'P', and a slight shiver ran along his spine as he saw the one entry: Phillipson, with the headmaster's Oxford telephone number neatly appended thereto. Morse continued systematically through the remainder of the alphabet. Under 'R' was the number of the Oxford branch of the RAC, but nothing more. And under 'S', the number of a Sun Insurance agent. And then 'T'; and once again the slight, involuntary shiver down the spine. Taylor. And somewhere at the back of Morse's mind something else clicked smoothly into place, 'U', 'V'—nothing, 'W', Mr. Wright, with an Oxford number: builder and decorator. On to 'X', 'Y', 'Z'—nothing. 'A'. Morse looked carefully at the card and frowned, and whistled softly. Only one entry: Acum, the personal number (not the school's) written neatly in the appropriate column . . .

   In all, there were fourteen entries only, most of which were as innocently explicable as the RAC and the interior decorator. And only three of the fourteen names appeared to have the slightest connection with the case: Acum, Phillipson, Taylor. Funny (wasn't it?) how the names seemed to crop up in trios. First, it had been Acum, Baines and Phillipson, and now Baines had got himself crossed off the list and another name had appeared almost magically in his place: the name of Taylor. Somewhere, yet again, in the farthest uncharted comers of Morse's mind, a little piece clicked smoothly into place.

   Although the curtains had been drawn back as soon as the police arrived, the electric lights were still switched on, and Morse finally switched them off as he stood on the threshold. It was 5.30 p.m.

   'What's next?' asked Lewis.

   Morse pondered a while. 'Has the wife got the chips on, Lewis?'

   'I 'spect so, sir. But I'm getting rather fond of dried-up chips.'

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alibi
(L. alibi, elsewhere, orig. locative—alius, other); the plea in a criminal charge of having been elsewhere at the material time.

(Oxford English Dictionary)

'H
E'S NOT GOING
to like it much.'

   '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?'

   'Quarter of a mile—no more.'

   'The suspects are beginning to queue up, aren't they, Lewis?'

   'Is Mrs. Taylor a suspect?'

   'Why not? As far as I can see, she'd have had no trouble at all. Left Bingo at 9.00 p.m. and called in at the Jericho Arms at 9.30 p.m. or so. On the way she walks within a couple of hundred yards of Baines's place, eh? And where does it all leave us? If Baines was murdered at about 9.30 last night—what have we got? Three of 'em—all with their telephone numbers on Baines's little list.'

   'And there's Acum, too, sir. Don't forget him.'

   Morse looked at his watch. It was 8.00 p.m. 'You know, Lewis, it would be a real turn-up for the books if Acum was playing darts in the Jericho Arms last night, eh? Or sitting at a Bingo board in the Town Hall?'

   'He'd have a job wouldn't he, sir? He's in Caernarfon.'

   'I'll tell you one thing for sure, Lewis. Wherever Acum was last night he wasn't in Caernarfon.'

   He picked up the phone and dialled a number. The call was answered almost immediately.

   'Hello?' The line crackled fitfully, but Morse recognized the voice.

   'Mrs. Acum?'

   Yes. Who is it?'

   'Morse. Inspector Morse. You remember, I rang you up—'

   'Yes, of course I remember.'

   'Is your husband in yet?'

   'No. I think I mentioned to you, didn't I, that he wouldn't be back until late tonight?'

   'How late will he be?'

   'Not too late, I hope.'

   'Before ten?'

   'I hope so.'

   'Has he got far to travel?'

   'Quite a long way, yes.'

   'Look, Mrs. Acum. Can you please tell me where your husband has been?'

   'I told you. He's been on a teachers' conference. Sixth form French.'

   'Yes. But where exactly was that?'

   'Where? I'm not quite sure where he was staying.'

   Morse was becoming impatient. 'Mrs. Acum, you know what I mean. Where was the conference? In Birmingham?'

   'Oh, I'm sorry. I see what you mean. It was in Oxford, actually.'

   Morse turned to Lewis and his eyebrows jumped an inch. 'In Oxford, you say?'

   'Yes. Lonsdale College.'

   'I see. Well, I'll ring up again—about ten. Will that be all right?'

   'Is it urgent, Inspector?'

   'Well, let's say it's important, Mrs. Acum.'

   'All right, I'll tell him. And if he gets back before ten, I'll ask him to ring you.'

   Morse gave her his number, rang off, and whistled softly. 'It gets curiouser and curiouser, does it not, Lewis? How far is Lonsdale College from Kempis Street?'

   'Half a mile?'

   'One more for the list, then. Though I suppose Acum's got just as good, or just as bad, an alibi as the rest of'em.'

   'Haven't you forgotten one possible suspect, sir?'

   'Have I?' Morse looked at his sergeant in some surprise.

   'Mrs. Phillipson, sir. Two young children, soon in bed, soon asleep. Husband safely out of the way for three hours or so. She's got as good a motive as anybody, hasn't she?'

   Morse nodded. 'Perhaps she's got a better motive than most.' He nodded again and looked sombrely at the carpet.

   With a startling suddenness, a large spider darted across the floor with a brief, electric scurry— and, as suddenly, stopped—frozen into a static, frightening immobility. A fat-bodied, long-legged spider, the angular joints of the hairy limbs rising high above the dark squat body. Another scurry—and again the frozen immobility—more frightening in its stillness than in its motion. It reminded Morse of a game he used to play at children's parties called 'statues'; the music suddenly stopped and—still! Freeze! Don't move a muscle! Like the spider. It was almost at the skirting board now, and Morse seemed mesmerized. He was terrified of spiders.

   'Did you see that whopper in Baines's bath?' asked Lewis.

   'Shut up, Lewis. And put your foot on the bloody thing, quick!'

   'Mustn't do that, sir. He's got a wife and kids waiting for him somewhere.' He bent down and slowly moved his hand towards the spider; and Morse shut his eyes.