Last Seen Wearing im-2 Page 21

  'And you think Baines had the bite on Acum?'

  'Pretty certain of it I should think that Acum' (Morse chose his words carefully) '—judging from the little I've seen of his wife — would have been a bloody fool to have ruined his career just for the sake of a brief infatuation with one of his pupils. And he didn't. He played the game and cleared out.'

  'And paid up.'

  'Yes. He paid up, though I shouldn't think Baines was stupid enough to expect too much from a former colleague who was probably fairly hard up anyway. Just enough, though. Just enough for Baines to relish another little show of power over one of his fellow human beings.'

  'I suppose you're going to tell me next that Baines had the bite on the Taylors as well.'

  'No. Just the opposite, in fact I reckon that Baines was paying money to Mrs. Taylor.'

  Lewis sat up. Had he heard aright? 'You mean Mrs. Taylor was blackmailing Baines?'

  'I didn't say that, did I? Let's go back a bit. We've agreed that Baines got to know about Phillipson's little peccadillo at the Station Hotel. Now I can't imagine that Baines would merely be content with the Phillipson angle. I think that he began to grub around on the Taylor side of the fence. Now, Lewis. What did he find? You remember that George Taylor was out of work at the time, and that far from being a potential source of blackmail the Taylors were in dire need of money themselves. And especially Mrs. Taylor. Baines had met them several times at parents' evenings, and I should guess that he arranged to see Mrs. Taylor privately, and that he pretty soon read the temperature of the water correctly.'

  'But Baines wasn't the type of man who went around doing favours.'

  'Oh no. The whole thing suited Baines splendidly.'

  'But he gave her money, you think?'

  'Yes.'

  'But she wouldn't take his money just like that, would she? I mean. . she wouldn't expect. .'

  'Wouldn't expect to get the money for nothing? Oh no. She had something to give him in return.'

  'What was that?'

  'What the hell do you think it was? You weren't born yesterday, were you?'

  Lewis felt abashed. 'Oh, I see,' he said quietly.

  'Once a week in term time, if you want me to keep guessing, Tuesdays, likely as not, when he had the afternoon off. Tuesday afternoons, Lewis. Do you see what that means?'

  'You mean,' stammered Lewis, 'that Baines probably. . probably. .'

  'Probably knew more about the fate of Valerie Taylor than we thought, yes. I should think that Baines would park somewhere near the Taylors' house — not too near — and wait until Valerie had gone off back to school. Then he'd go in, get his pound of flesh, pay his stamp duty—'

  'Bit dangerous, wasn't it?'

  'If you're a bachelor like Baines and you're dying to spill your oats — well. . After all, no one would know what was going on. Lock the door and—'

  Lewis interrupted him. 'But if they'd arranged to meet the day that Valerie disappeared, it would have been crazy for Mrs. Taylor to have murdered her daughter.'

  'It was crazy anyway. I don't think she would have worried too much if the police force was out the front and the fire brigade was out the back. Listen. What I think may have happened on that Tuesday is this. Baines parked pretty near the house, probably in a bit of waste land near the shops, just above the Taylors' place. He waited until afternoon school had started, and then he saw something very odd. He saw Valerie, or who he thought was Valerie, leave by the front door and run down the road. Then he went up to the house and knocked — we didn't find a key, did we? — and he got no answer. It's all a bit odd. Has his reluctant mistress — well, let's hope she was reluctant — has she slipped out for a minute? He can almost swear she hasn't, but he can't be absolutely sure. He walks back, frustrated and disappointed, and scratches his balls in the car; and something tells him to wait. And about ten minutes later he sees Mrs. Taylor walking — probably walking in a great hurry — out of one of the side streets and going into the house. Has she been out over the lunchtime? Unusual, to say the least. But there's something odder still — far odder. Something that makes him sit up with a vengeance. Valerie — he would remember now — had left with a basket; and here is Valerie's mother returning with the very same basket. Does he guess the truth? I don't know. Does he go to the house again and knock? Probably so. And I would guess she told him she couldn't possibly see him that afternoon. So Baines walks away, and drives home, and wonders. . Wonders even harder the next day when he hears of Valerie's disappearance.'

  'He guessed what had happened, you think?'

  'Pretty sure he did.'

  Lewis thought for a minute. 'Perhaps Mrs. Taylor just couldn't face things any longer, sir, and told him that everything was finished; and he in turn might have threatened to go to the police.'

  'Could be, but I should be very surprised if Baines was killed to stop him spilling the beans — or even some of them. No, Lewis. I just think that he was killed because he was detested so viciously that killing him was an act of superb and joyous revenge.'

  'You think that Mrs. Taylor murdered him, then?'

  Morse nodded. 'You remember the first time we saw Mrs. Taylor in the pub? Remember that large American-style handbag she had? It was a bit of a puzzle at first to know how anyone could ever cart such a big knife around. But the obvious way to do it is precisely the way Mrs. Taylor chose. Stick it in a handbag. She got to Kempis Street at about a quarter-past nine, I should think, knocked on the door, told a surprised Baines some cock-and-bull story, followed him into the kitchen, agreed to his offer of a glass of something, and as he bends down to get the beer out of the fridge, she takes her knife out and — well, we know the rest.'

  Lewis sat back and considered what Morse had said. It all hung loosely together, perhaps, but he was feeling hot and tired.

  'Go and have a lie down,' said Morse, as if reading his thoughts. 'You've had about enough for one day.'

  'I think I will, sir. I shall be much better tomorrow.'

  'Don't worry about tomorrow. I shan't do anything until the afternoon.'

  'It's the inquest in the morning, though, isn't it?'

  'Formality. Pure formality,' said Morse. 'I shan't say much. Just get him identified and tell the coroner we've got the bloodhounds out. "Murder by person or persons unknown." I don't know why we're wasting public money on having an inquest at all.'

  'It's the law, sir.'

  'Mm.'

  'And tomorrow afternoon, sir?'

  'I'm bringing the Taylors in.'

  Lewis stood up. 'I feel a bit sorry for him, sir.'

  'Don't you feel a bit sorry for her?' There was a sharp edge on Morse's voice; and after he had gone Lewis wondered why he'd suddenly turned so sour.

  At four o'clock that same afternoon, as Morse and Lewis were talking together and trying to unravel the twisted skein of the Valerie Taylor case, a tall military-looking man was dictating a letter to one of the girls from the typing pool. He had some previous experience of the young lady in question, and decided it would be sensible to make the letter even briefer than he had intended; for although it would contain no earth-shattering news, he was anxious for it to go in the evening post. He had tried to phone earlier but had declined to leave a message when he learned that the only man who could have any possible interest in the matter was out — whereabouts temporarily unknown. At four-fifteen the letter was signed and in the evening postbag.

  The bombshell burst on Morse's desk at 8.45 a.m. the following morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

  (A. Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four)

  'IT'S A MISTAKE, I tell you. It's some clown of a sergeant who's ballsed the whole thing up.' His voice was strident, exasperated. He was prepared to forgive a certain degree of inadequacy, but never incompetence of this order. The voice at the other end of the line sounded firm and assured, like a kindly parent seeking t
o assuage a petulant child.

  'There's no mistake, I'm afraid. I've checked it myself. And for heaven's sake calm down a bit, Morse my old friend. You asked me to do something for you, and I've done it. If it comes as a bit of a shock—'

  'A bit of a shock! Christ Almighty, it's not just a bit of a shock, believe me; it's sheer bloody lunacy!'

  There was a short delay at the other end. 'Look, old boy, I think you'd better come up and see for yourself, don't you? If you still think it's a mistake — well, that's up to you.'

  'Don't keep saying "if" it's a mistake. It is a mistake — you can put your shirt and your underpants on that, believe me!' He calmed himself down as far as he could and resumed the conversation in a tone more befitting his station. 'Trouble is I've got a damned inquest today.'

  'Shouldn't let that worry you. Anybody can do that for you. Unless you've arrested somebody, of course.'

  'No, no,' muttered Morse, 'nothing like that It would have been adjourned anyway.'

  'You sound a bit fed up one way or another.'

  'I bloody am fed up,' snapped Morse, 'and who wouldn't be? I've got the case all ready for bed and you send me a scratty little note that's blown the top off the whole f— thing! How would you feel?'

  'You didn't expect us to find anything — is that it?'

  'No,' said Morse, 'I didn't. Not a load of cock like that, anyway.'

  'Well, as I say, you'll be able to see for yourself. I suppose it could have been somebody else with the same name, but it's a whacking big coincidence if that's the case. Same name, same dates. No, I don't think so. You'd be pushing your luck, I reckon.'

  'And I'm going on pushing it,' rejoined Morse, 'pushing it like hell, have no fear. Coincidences do happen, don't they?' It sounded more like a plea to the gods than a statement of empirical truth.

  'Perhaps they do, sometimes. It's my fault, though. I should have got hold of you yesterday. I did try a couple of times in the afternoon, but. .'

  'You weren't to know. As far as you were concerned it was just one more routine inquiry.'

  'And it wasn't?' said the voice softly.

  'And it wasn't,' echoed Morse. 'Anyway, I'll get there as soon as I can.'

  'Good. I'll get the stuff ready for you.'

  Chief Inspector Rogers of New Scotland Yard put down the phone and wondered why the letter he had dictated and signed the previous afternoon had blown up with such obvious devastation in Morse's face. The carbon copy, he noticed, was still lying in his out-tray, and he picked it up and read it through again. It still seemed pretty harmless.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  For the attention of Det, Chief Inspector Morse,

  Thames Valley Police HQ,

  Kidlington, Oxon,

  Dear Morse,

  You asked for a check on the abortion clinics for the missing person, Valerie Taylor. Sorry to have taken so long about it, but it proved difficult. The trouble is all these semi-registered places where abortions still get done unofficially — no doubt for a whacking private fee. Anyway, we've traced her. She was at the East Chelsea Nursing Home on the dates you gave us. Arrived 4.15 p.m. Tuesday, under her own name, and left some time Friday a.m. by taxi. About three months pregnant. No complications. Description fits all along the line, but we could check further. She had a room-mate who might not be too difficult to trace. We await your further instructions.

  Yours sincerely,

  P.S. Don't forget to call when you're this way again. The beer at the Westminster is drinkable — just!

  Chief Inspector Rogers shrugged his shoulders and put the carbon back in the out-tray. Morse! He always had been a funny old bird.

  Morse himself sat back in his black leather chair and felt like a man who had just been authoritatively informed that the moon really was made of green cheese after all. Scotland Yard! They must have buggered it all up — must have done! But whatever they'd done, it was little use pretending he could go ahead with his intended schedule. What was the good of bringing two people in for questioning about the murder of a young girl if on the very day she was supposed to be lying dead in the boot of a car she had walked as large as life into some shabby nursing home in East Chelsea — of all places? For a few seconds Morse almost considered the possibility of taking the new information seriously. But he couldn't quite manage it. It just couldn't be right, and there was a fairly easy way of proving that it wasn't right. Central London lay no more than sixty miles away.

  He went in to see Strange, and the superintendent, reluctantly, agreed to stand in for him at the inquest.

  He rang Lewis, and told him he had to go off to London — he mentioned nothing more — and learned that Lewis would be reporting for duty again the next morning. That is, if he was needed. And Morse said, in a rather weak voice, that he thought he probably would be.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  She'll be wearing silk pyjamas when she comes.

  (Popular song)

  BY ANY RECKONING Yvonne Baker was a honey. She lived alone — or to be accurate she rented a single flat — in a high-rise tenement block in Bethune Road, Stoke Newington. She would have preferred a slightly more central spot and a slightly more luxurious apartment. But from Manor House tube station in Seven Sisters Road, just ten minutes' walk away, she could be in Central London in a further twenty minutes; and anyone looking around the tasteful and expensive decor of her flat would have guessed (correctly) that, whether from money honourably earned in the cosmetic department of an exclusive store in Oxford Street, or from other unspecified sources of income, Miss Baker was a young woman of not unsubstantial means.

  At half-past six she lay languorously relaxed upon her costly counterpane, idly painting her long, beautifully-manicured nails with a particularly revolting shade of sickly green varnish. She wore a peach-coloured satin dressing-gown, her legs, invitingly long and slender, drawn up to her waist, her thoughts centred on the evening ahead of her. The real trouble with pyjama parties was that some of the guests hadn't quite the courage to conform to the code, and wore enough under their nightshirts or pyjamas to defeat the whole object of the simple exercise. At least she would show them. Some of the girls would wear a bra and panties, but she wasn't going to. Oh no. She experienced a tingle of excitement at the thought of dancing with the men, and of knowing only too clearly the effect that she would have upon them. It was a gorgeous feeling anyway, wearing so little. So sensuous, so abandoned!

  She finished her left hand, held it up before her like a policeman stopping the traffic, and flexed her fingers. She then poured some removing fluid on to a wad of cotton wool and proceeded to rub off all the varnish. Her hands looked better without any nail polish, she decided. She stood up, unfastened and took off her dressing-gown, and carefully lifted out of one of the wardrobe drawers a pair of palish-green pyjamas. She had a beautiful body, and like so many of her admirers she was inordinately conscious of it. She admired herself in the long wall-mirror, fastened all but the top button of her pyjama top and began to brush her long, luxuriant, honey-coloured hair. She would be collected by car at half-past seven, and she glanced again at the alarm clock on her bedside table. Three-quarters of an hour. She walked into the living room, put a record on the turntable, and lit a cigarette of quite improbable length.

  The door bell rang at ten minutes to seven, and her first thought was that the alarm clock must be slow again. Well, if it was, so much the better. She walked gaily to the door and opened it with a beaming smile upon her soft, full lips, a smile which slowly contracted and finally faded away as she stared at a man she had never seen before, who stood rather woodenly upon the threshold. Middle-aged and rather sour.

  'Hullo,' she managed.

  'Miss Baker?' Miss Baker nodded. 'I'm Chief Inspector Morse. I'd like to come in and have a word with you, if I may.'

  'Of course.' A slightly worried frown puckered the meticulously plucked eyebrows as he stood aside and closed the door behind him.

  As he explained the reason for his
visit, she felt that he was the only man within living memory upon whom she appeared to have no visibly erotic effect. In her pyjamas, too! He was brisk and businesslike. Two years the previous June she had shared, had she not, a room in the East Chelsea Nursing Home with a girl named Valerie Taylor? He wanted to know about this girl. Everything she could conceivably remember — every single little thing.

  The door bell rang again at twenty-five past seven and Morse told her in an unexpectedly peremptory tone to get rid of him, whoever he was.

  'I hope you realize I'm going out to a party tonight, Inspector.' She sounded vexed, but in reality was not so vexed as she appeared. In an odd sort of way he was beginning to interest her.

  'So I see,' said Morse, eyeing the pyjamas. 'Just tell him you'll be another half-hour with me — at least.' She decided she liked his voice. 'And tell him I'll take you myself if he can't wait' She decided she'd rather like that.