“Really, sir?”
Lewis, as Morse could just about make out in the gloaming, was smiling quietly to himself.
“What the hell’s got into you, Lewis? You antagonize one of our leading witnesses; you go off and find an unshakeable alibi for his missus; and now you sit there grinning like a Cheshire—”
“By the way, sir, they do have a cat — I asked next door. ‘Johnson,’ its name is.”
“You’ve nothing else to tell me, have you?” asked Morse, looking curiously at his sergeant.
“Actually, there is, sir — yes.”
“Out with it, man!”
“Yesterday, sir, when we interviewed Paul Bayley, he said he’d been with his girlfriend all night.”
“You told me that. You told me you’d checked.”
“I did check. Bayley told me she was in the middle of moving flats that very day — seemed she’d been a little bit too generous with her favours for the landlord’s liking; and — just temporarily, mind — she was registered as of no fixed address. But Bayley said she’d almost certainly be in the City Centre Westgate Library — where she went most mornings — in the Local History Section—”
“Where she was!”
Lewis nodded. “Doing some research on Nuneham Courtenay and the Deserted Village. So she told me.”
“Well?”
“Well... that’s about it.”
“Is it?”
“She’s a very beautiful woman, sir.”
“More beautiful than Sheila Poster?”
“I’d say so. More to my taste, anyway.”
“And most men would fancy her?”
“If they had the chance.”
“And Bayley did have the chance.”
“I’m pretty sure he did. He’s been in Jowett Place for about four months or so now. Unemployed for a start; but then in work — so his landlord says.”
“His landlord? When did you see him?”
“He called in yesterday lunchtime, when you were in the pub. And from what he said—”
“You didn’t mention this before.”
“Thought I’d just do a bit of investigation off my own bat, sir. You didn’t mind?”
“See if you could solve the case, you mean?”
“Try to, yes. And the landlord said it was Sheila Poster who’d told Bayley about the vacancy in the flat upstairs and who’d put in a good word for him, you know — gave him a good-behaviour reference. Not only that, though. I reckon she was the one who told Bayley about the odd-job vacancy going up at the Graingers’ place.”
“Phew!” Morse whistled quietly. “You’re saying Bayley was the odd-job man?”
“I’m saying exactly that, sir!”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Not yet,” replied Lewis, beaming happily.
“Let me get this clear. You’re suggesting that Bayley goes to work for Mrs. Sylvia Grainger — she falls for him — he falls for her — she knows her husband’s having an affair with the charwoman — she’s proof of it. Then” (Morse paused slightly for dramatic effect) “just when things are looking hunky-dory, this charwoman claims she’s pregnant. Not by Grainger, though...”
“... but by Bayley. Yes, sir.”
“And Bayley goes down on Sunday night — has it out with her — she refuses to play ball — and she gets herself murdered. Is that the idea?”
“Exactly!”
“But Bayley’s got an alibi! This local history woman of yours — she says she was with him all night.”
“From about nine P.M. to seven A.M. the following morning. Correct. Slept on the floor together in a friend’s house in Cowley somewhere — she refuses to say exactly where.”
“She’s probably trying to protect her friends or something.”
“Or something,” repeated Lewis.
“Just you bear in mind all the adverse publicity we’re getting about ‘confessions under duress,’ OK? We’ve got to tread carefully, you know that.”
It was still only four o’clock, yet already the afternoon had darkened into early dusk.
“Can you guess, sir, why Dr. Grainger was so worried about me interviewing his wife?”
“He probably thought you were a bit crude, Lewis — preferred a sensitive soul like me. And by the way, don’t forget that there are few in the Force more competent at that sort of thing than me.”
“You can’t think of any other reason?”
“You obviously can.”
Lewis savoured his moment of triumph. “Did you see the wedding-photo just now — the one Dr. Grainger had on the bureau?”
“Well, yes — at a distance.”
“Beautiful woman, Mrs. Grainger — very beautiful.”
“Taken quite a few years ago, that photo — she’s probably changed since then.”
“No! You’re wrong about that, sir.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I met her very recently. Met her yesterday morning, in fact. In the Westgate Library. She told me her name was Wendy Allsworth. But it isn’t, sir. It’s Sylvia Grainger.”
“Extraordinary!” said Morse, his voice strangely flat.
“You don’t sound all that surprised.”
“Just tell me one thing. When you took the statement from — from Mrs. Grainger, do you think she knew about the murder?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“No. So unless they planned things—”
“Very doubtful!” interposed Morse.
“—Bayley must have rung her up early that morning.”
“Do you think he told her?”
“I don’t think so. If she’d known it was a murder enquiry... No, I don’t think he told her.”
“I agree. She was prepared to go a long way — did go a long way. Not that far, though.”
Lewis hesitated. “You’ll excuse me for saying so, but as I said you don’t sound very surprised about all this.”
“What? Of course I am. From where I sat I couldn’t have recognized the Queen if she’d been in that photo. The old eyes are not as sharp as they were.”
“You knew, though, didn’t you?” asked Lewis quietly.
“Not all of it, no,” lied Morse.
Yet Lewis’s silence was saddeningly eloquent, and Morse finally nodded. Then sighed deeply.
“I’ve always told you, Lewis, haven’t I? The person who finds the body is going to be your prime suspect. That’s always been my philosophy. It’s compulsive with these murderers — they want their victim found. It’d send ’em crackers if the body lay undiscovered somewhere for any length of time.”
“So?” asked Lewis dejectedly.
“So! So I had Bayley brought in this morning — this lunchtime.”
“While I was with the builder.”
“Yes. And Bayley continues to be detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.”
“You interviewed him yourself?”
“Yes. And I just told you, there’s no one in the Force so firmly and fairly competent as me — not in that line of business.”
Lewis was smiling wryly now — first nodding, then shaking his head. He might well have known...
He nodded towards the Graingers’ home: “Shall we go and take her in as well?”
“Actually she’s, er, she’s already helping with our enquiries.”
Lewis almost exploded. “But you can’t — you can’t mean...”