'Do you remember the driver?'
'No. But I think I remember the cab firm.'
Roope was right, of course. It shouldn't be all that difficult. 'We could try to—'
'Why not?' Roope got to his feet and picked up a pile of books. 'No time like the present, they say.'
As they walked up to Carfax and then left into Queen Street, Morse felt that he had gone wrong somewhere, and he said nothing until they reached the railway station, where a line of taxis was parked alongside the pavement. 'You'd better leave it to me, sir. I've got a bit of experience—'
'I'd rather do it myself, if you don't mind, Inspector.'
So Morse left him to get on with it; and stood there waiting under the 'Buffet' sign, feeling (he told himself) like the proverbial spare part at a prostitute's wedding.
Five minutes later a crestfallen Roope rejoined him: it wasn't going to be so easy as he'd thought, though he'd still like to do it himself, if Morse didn't mind, that was. But why should Morse mind? If the young fellow was as anxious as all that to justify himself. 'Like another beer?'
They walked through the ticket area and came to the barrier.
'We only want a beer,' explained Morse.
' 'Fraid you'll need platform tickets, sir.'
'Ah, bugger that,' said Morse. He turned to Roope: 'Let's walk down to the Royal Oxford'
'Just a minute!' said Roope quietly. His eyes were shining again, and he retraced his steps and tapped the ticket collector on the shoulder. 'Do you remember me?'
'Don't think so, mate.'
'Were you here on duty last Friday afternoon?'
'No.' Dismissive.
'Do you know who was?'
'You'd have to ask in the office.'
'Where's that?'
The man pointed vaguely. 'Not much good now, though. Lunchtime, isn't it?'
Clearly it wasn't Roope's day, and Morse put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, and turned to the ticket collector. 'Give us two of your platform tickets.'
Half an hour later, after Roope had left him, Morse sat deep in thought and, to the teenaged couple who came to sit opposite him at the narrow buffet table, his face seemed quite impassive. Yet had they looked more carefully at him, and rather less eagerly towards each other, they might just have spotted the mildest hint of a satisfied smile trying to hide itself around the corners of his mouth. He sat quite still, his grey eyes staring unblinkingly into some great blue beyond, as the unresting birds of thought winged round and round his brain. until the London train came lumbering massively alongside the platform and finally broke the spell.
The young couple got up, kissed briefly but passionately, and said their fond farewells.
'I won't come on the platform,' he said. 'Always makes me miserable.'
'Yeah. You ge' off now. See you Sat'day.'
'You bet!'
The girl walked off in her high-heeled boots towards the door leading to Platform 1, and the boy watched her as she went, and fished for his platform ticket.
'Don't forge'. I'll bring the drinks this time.' She almost mouthed the words, but the boy understood and nodded. Then she was gone; and Morse felt the icy fingers running down from the top of his spine. That was the memory that had been eluding him. Yes! It all came back in a rushing stream of recollection. He'd been an undergraduate then and he'd invited the flighty little nurse back to his digs in Iffley Road and she'd insisted on bringing a bottle because her father kept a pub and she'd asked him what his favourite drink was and he'd said Scotch and she'd said it was hers too not so much because she enjoyed the taste but because it made her feel all sexy and. Christ, yes!
Morse shut off the distant, magic memories. The main silhouette was growing blurred again; but others now appeared upon the wall of the darkened cave, and together they fell into a more logical grouping. Much more logical. And as Morse handed in his platform ticket and walked out into the bright afternoon, he was more firmly convinced than ever that someone else had been in Studio 2 that Friday afternoon. He looked at his watch: 145 pm. Tempting. By Jove, yes! The cinema was only three or four minutes' walk away, and Inga would be showing 'em all a few tricks. Ah well.
He signalled for a taxi: 'Foreign Examinations Syndicate, please.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'I DON'T CARE WHAT you ask her,' snapped Morse. 'When I've fetched her in here, just keep her talking for ten minutes, that's all I ask.' Lewis, who half an hour previously had been summoned to the Syndicate building once more, looked inordinately uncomfortable. 'What do you want me to find out, though?'
'Anything you like. Ask her what her measurements are.'
'I wish you'd try to be serious, sir.'
'Well, ask her whether gin goes straight to her tits, or something.'
Lewis decided he would get nowhere with Morse in such a mood. What had happened to him? Something, surely; for suddenly he seemed as chirpy as a disc jockey.
Morse himself crossed the corridor, knocked on Monica's door, and went in. 'Can you spare a minute, Miss Height? Won't take long.' He escorted her politely to Quinn's office, showed her to the chair that faced Lewis, her reluctant interlocutor, and himself stood idly aside.
The phone went a few minutes later and Lewis answered it. 'For you, sir.'
'Morse here.'
'Ah, Inspector. Can I see you for a minute? It's, er, rather important. Can you come along straightaway?'
'I'm on my way.'
Both Lewis and Monica had heard the-voice plainly, and Morse excused himself without further explanation.
Once inside Monica's office, he worked swiftly. First, the bulky sheepskin jacket hanging up in the wall cupboard. Nothing much in either pocket — nothing much of interest, anyway. Next, the handbag. It would surely be here, if anywhere. Make-up, cheque book, diary, Paper-mate pen, comb, small bottle of perfume, pair of earrings, programme for a forthcoming performance of The Messiah, packet of Dunhill cigarettes, matches — and a purse. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the catch and poked his fingers amidst the small change and the keys and the stamps and—there it was. Ye gods. He'd been right! He was breathing nervously and noisily as he closed the handbag, placed it carefully back in its former position, left the room, closed the door quietly behind him, and stood alone in the corridor. He saw the implications — the extraordinarily grave implications — of the discovery he had just made. Certainly he'd been fairly sure that with a bit of luck he might find something. Yet now he'd found it, he knew there was something wrong, something that rang untrue, something that had not occurred to him before. Still, there was a quick way of finding out.
He hadn't been away for more than two or three minutes, and Lewis was relieved to see him back so soon. He sat on the corner of the table and looked at her. There were times (not very frequent, he admitted) when he seemed to lose all interest in the female sex, and this was one of them. She might as well have been a statue cast in frigid marble for all the effect she was having on him how. It happened to all men — or, at least, so Morse had heard. The womenopause, they called it. He took a deep breath. 'Why did you lie to me about last Friday afternoon?'
Monica's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, but she was not, it appeared, excessively surprised. 'It was Sally, wasn't it? I realized, of course, what your man was up to.'
'Well?'
'I don't know. I suppose it sounded less — less sordid, somehow, saying we went to my place.'
'Less sordid than what?'
'You know — motoring around, stopping in lay-bys and hoping no one else would pull in.'