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  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

  LAST BUS TO

  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

  * * *

  COLIN DEXTER

  * * *

  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

  Contents

  PRELUDE

  PART ONE: Search for a girl

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART TWO: Search for a man

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PART THREE: Search for a killer

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  PRELUDE

  * * *

  ‘LET’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. Th
a’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?’

  She stood back a little from the bus stop, and the Woodstock driver gratefully passed her by. Almost as soon as the bus was out of sight, she saw another, only a few hundred yards behind. This must be hers. The double-decker drew into the stop as Mrs Jarman raised her hand. At two minutes past seven she was home.

  Though a widow now, with her two children grown up and married, her pride-and-poverty semi-detached was still her real home, and her loneliness was not without its compensations. She cooked herself a generous supper, washed up, and turned on the television. She could never understand why there was so much criticism of the programmes. She herself enjoyed virtually everything and often wished she could view two channels simultaneously. At 10 o’clock she watched the main items on the News, switched off, and went to bed. At 10.30 she was sound asleep.

  It was at 10.30 p.m., too, that a young girl was found lying in a Woodstock courtyard. She had been brutally murdered.

  PART ONE

  Search for a girl

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  Wednesday, 29 September

  FROM ST GILES’ in the centre of Oxford two parallel roads run due north, like the prongs of a tuning fork. On the northern perimeter of Oxford, each must first cross the busy northern ring-road, along which streams of frenetic motorists speed by, gladly avoiding the delights of the old university city. The eastern branch eventually leads to the town of Banbury, and thence continues its rather unremarkable course towards the heart of the industrial midlands; the western branch soon brings the motorist to the small town of Woodstock, some eight miles north of Oxford, and thence to Stratford-upon-Avon.

  The journey from Oxford to Woodstock is quietly attractive. Broad grass verges afford a pleasing sense of spaciousness, and at the village of Yarnton, after only a couple of miles, a dual carriageway, with a tree-lined central reservation, finally sweeps the accelerating traffic past the airport and away from its earlier paralysis. For half a mile immediately before Woodstock, on the left-hand side, a grey stone wall marks the eastern boundary of the extensive and beautiful grounds of Blenheim Palace, the mighty mansion built by good Queen Anne for her brilliant general, John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough. High and imposing wrought-iron gates mark the main entrance to the Palace drive, and hither flock the tourists in the summer season to walk amidst the dignified splendour of the great rooms, to stand before the vast Flemish tapestries of Malplaquet and Oudenarde, and to see the room in which was born that later scion of the Churchill line, the great Sir Winston himself, now lying in the once-peaceful churchyard of nearby Bladon village.

  Today Blenheim dominates the old town. Yet it was not always so. The strong grey houses which line the main street have witnessed older times and could tell their older tales, though now the majority are sprucely converted into gift, antique and souvenir shops – and inns. There was always, it appears, a goodly choice of hostelries, and several of the hotels and inns now clustered snugly along the streets can boast not only an ancient lineage but also a cluster of black AA stars on their bright yellow signs.

  The Black Prince is situated half-way down a broadside-street to the left as one is journeying north. Amidst the Woodstock peerage it can claim no ancient pedigree, and it seems highly improbable, alas, that the warrior son of King Edward III had ever laughed or cried or tippled or wenched in any of its precincts. Truth to tell, a director of the London company which bought the old house, stable-yards and all, some ten years since, had noticed in some dubiously authenticated guidebook that somewhere thereabouts the Prince was born. The director had been warmly congratulated by his Board for this felicitous piece of research, and not less for his subsequent discovery that the noble Prince did not as yet figure in the Woodstock telephone directory. The Black Prince it was then. The gifted daughter of the first manager had copied out from a children’s encyclopaedia, in suitably antique script, a brief, if somewhat romantic, biography of the warrior Prince, and put the finished opus into her mother’s oven for half an hour at 450°. The resultant manuscript, reverently brown with age, was neatly, if cheaply, framed and now occupied a suitable position of honour on the wall of the cocktail lounge. Together with the shields of the Oxford colleges nailed neatly along the low stained beams, it added tone and class.

  For the last two and a half years Gaye had been the resident ‘hostess’ of the Black Prince – ‘barmaid’, thought the manager, was a trifle infra dignitatem. And he had a point. ‘A pint of your best bitter, luv,’ was a request Gaye seldom had to meet and she now associated it with the proletariat; here it was more often vodka and lime for the bright young things, Manhattan cocktails for the American tourists
, and gin and French – with a splash of Italian – for the Oxford dons. Such admixtures she dispensed with practised confidence from the silvery glitter and sparkle of bottles ranged invitingly behind the bar.

  The lounge itself, deeply carpeted, with chairs and wall-seats covered in a pleasing orange shade, was gently bathed in half light, giving a chiaroscuro effect reminiscent, it was hoped, of a Rembrandt nativity scene. Gaye herself was an attractive, auburn-haired girl and tonight, Wednesday, she was immaculately dressed in a black trouser-suit and white-frilled blouse. A flash of gems on the second and third fingers of her left hand, betokened gentle warning to the mawkish amateur playboy, and perhaps – as some maintained – a calculated invitation to the wealthy professional philanderer. She was, in fact, married and divorced, and now lived with one young son and a mother who was not unduly chagrined at the mildly promiscuous habits of a precious daughter who had been unfortunate enough to marry such ‘a lousy swine’. Gaye enjoyed her divorced status as much as she enjoyed her job, and she meant to keep them both.

  Wednesday, as usual, had been a fairly busy evening, and it was with some relief when, at 10.25 p.m., she politely, but firmly, called for last drinks. A young man, seated on a high stool at the inner corner of the bar, pushed his whisky glass forward.

  ‘Same again.’

  Gaye glanced quizzically into unsteady eyes, but said nothing. She pushed her customer’s glass under a priority whisky bottle and placed it on the counter, holding out her right hand and mechanically registering the tariff with her left. The young man was obviously drunk. He fumbled slowly and ineffectually through his pockets before finding the correct money, and after one mouthful of his drink he eased himself gingerly off his seat, measured the door with an uncertain eye, and made a line as decently straight as could in the circumstances be expected.