Last Bus To Woodstock

'I can't remember. I just can't seem to remember.'

'Now, Mrs. Jarman, don't rush yourself. Just relax and picture it all again. Take your time.'

Mrs. Jarman closed her eyes and Morse watched her with keen anticipation. She said nothing. Morse at last broke the embarrassing silence. 'What about the girl who was murdered? Did she say anything else? She wanted to hitch-hike, you said.'

'Yes, she kept saying something like "Come on".'

' "It'll be all right"?' added Morse.

'Yes. It'll be all right. We'll have a giggle about it in the morning.'

Morse's blood froze. He remained utterly motionless. But Mrs. Jarman's memory had dredged its last.

Morse relaxed. 'We've kept you up late, but you've been wonderful. And this must he a real priority brand of Scotch?'

'Oh, would you like a little drop more, sir?'

'Well, I think I wouldn't perhaps say no, Mrs. Jarman. Yes, a drop of the finest Scotch I've tasted in years.'

As Mrs. Jarman turned her back to refill his glass, Morse sternly motioned Lewis to stay where he was, and for the next half hour he tried with every subtlety he knew to jog the good lady's recollection of her chance encounter with the murdered girl and her companion. But to no avail.

'Just one more thing, Mrs. Jarman. When you come to see us in the morning, we shall be holding an identity parade. It won't take more than a minute or two.'

'You mean you want me to. . Oh dear!'

At 11.45 p.m. Morse and Lewis took their leave of Mrs. Jarman. They were standing by their cars when the door of the house suddenly opened again and Mrs. Jarman came hurriedly towards Morse.

'There's just one more thing, sir. I've just remembered. When you said close your eyes and just picture things. I've thought of something. That other girl, sir. When she ran, she ran with a sort of splay-footed run — do you know what I mean, sir?'

'Yes I do,' said Morse.

The two men returned to HQ. After enquiring whether any further calls had come through and learning there were none, Morse called Lewis to his office.

'Well, my friend?' Morse looked pleased with himself.

"You told her we're going to have an identity parade?' asked a puzzled Lewis.

'We are. Now tell me this. What would you say was the most vital fact we learned from Mrs. Jarman?'

'We learned quite a few pieces of valuable information.'

'Yes, we did. But only one fact that really made your hair stand on end, eh?' Lewis tried to look intelligent. 'We learned, did we not,' said Morse, 'that the girls would have a bit of a giggle about it all in the morning?'

'Oh, I see,' said Lewis, not seeing.

'You see what it means? They would be meeting in the morning — Thursday morning, and we know that Sylvia Kaye was in employment and we know where, do we not?'

'So the other girl works there, too.'

'The evidence would seem to point very much that way, Lewis.'

'But I was there, sir, and none of them said a word.'

'Don't you find that very interesting?'

'I don't seem to have done a very good job, did I?' Lewis looked disconsolately down at the Chief Inspector's carpet.

'But don't you see,' continued Morse, 'we now know that one of the girls — how many were there?'

'Fourteen.'

'That one of those girls is at the very least withholding vital evidence and at the best telling us a heap of lies.'

'I didn't talk to them all, sir.'

'Good God, man! They knew what you were there for, didn't they? One of their colleagues is murdered. A sergeant of the murder squad comes to their office. What the hell did they think you'd gone for? Service the bloody typewriters? No, you did well, Lewis. You didn't force our little girl to weave her tangled web for us. She thinks she's OK and that's how I want it.' Morse got up. 'I want you to get some sleep, Lewis. You've got work to do in the morning. But just before you go, find me the private address of Mr. Palmer. I think a little visit is called for.'

'You're not thinking of knocking him up now, are you, sir?'

'Not only am I going to knock him up as you put it, Lewis, I am going to ask him, very nicely of course, to open up his offices for me and I am going to look through the private drawers of fourteen young ladies. It should be an exciting business.'

'Won't you need a search warrant, sir?'

'I never did understand the legal situation over search warrants,' complained Morse.

'I think you ought to have one, sir.'

'And perhaps you'll let me know where the hell I find anyone to sign a warrant at this time of the night — or morning, whatever it is.'

'But if Mr. Palmer insists on his legal rights. .' began Lewis.

'I shall tell him we're trying to find out who raped and murdered one of his girls,' snapped Morse, 'not looking for dirty postcards from Pwllheli!'

'Wouldn't you like me to come with you, sir?'

'No. Do as I say and go to bed.'

'Well, good luck, sir.'

'I shan't need it,' said Morse. 'I know you'd never believe it, but I can be an officious bastard when I want to be. Mr. Palmer will be out of bed as if he'd got a flea in his pyjama bottoms.'

But the manager of the Town and Gown Assurance Co., though condescending to get out of bed, flatly refused to get out of his pyjamas — top or bottom. He asked Morse for his authority to search his offices, and once having established that Morse had none, he proved adamant to all the cajolings and threats that Morse could muster. The Inspector reflected that he had badly underestimated the little manager. After prolonged negotiation, however, a policy was finally agreed. All the staff of the Town and Gown would be assembled in the manager's office at 8.45 a.m. the following morning, where they would all be asked if they had any objection to the police opening any incoming private correspondence. If there were no objection (Palmer assured Morse), the Inspector could open all correspondence, and, if need be, make confidential copies of any letter which might be of value. Furthermore all the female employees would be asked to attend an identity parade at the Thames Valley HQ some time later the same morning. Palmer would need some time to arrange a skeleton servicing of the telephone exchange and other vital matters. It was a good job it was Saturdays the office closed at midday.

Perhaps, thought Morse in retrospect, things hadn't worked out too badly. He wearily drove to HQ and wondered why, with all his experience, he had rushed so wildly into such an ill-considered and probably futile scheme as he had contemplated. Yet, for all that, he thought that he had in some strange way been right. He felt in his bones that there was an urgency about this stage of the investigation. He felt he was poised for a big breakthrough, though he did not at this stage realize how many breaks-throughs would be required before the case was solved. Nor did he realize that in an oddly perverse way Palmer's refusal to allow him unauthorized entry to his premises had presented him with one gigantic piece of luck. For a letter, addressed to one of the young ladies in Palmer's employ, was already on its way, and no power on earth, except the inefficiency of some unsuspecting sorting clerk, could — or indeed did — prevent its prompt delivery.