She nodded.
'Sex parties?'
'In a way.'
'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'
'You know. The usual sort of thing: films to start with. .'
'Blue films?'
Again she nodded.
'And then?'
'Oh God! Come off it. Are you trying to torture yourself, or something?'
She was far too near the truth, and Morse felt miserably embarrassed. He got to his feet and looked round fecklessly for his coat. 'You'll have to give me the address, you realize that.'
'But I can't. I'd—'
'Don't worry,' said Morse wearily. 'I shan't pry any more than I have to.'
He looked once more around the expensive flat. She must earn a lot of money, somehow; and he wondered if it was all much compensation for the heartache and the jealousy that she must know as well as he. Or perhaps we weren't all the same. Perhaps it wasn't possible to live as she had done and keep alive the finer, tenderer compassions.
He looked across at her as she sat at a small bureau, writing something down: doubtless the address of the bawdy house in Hammersmith. He had to have that, whatever happened. But did it matter all that much? He knew instinctively that she was there that night, among the wealthy, lecherous old men who gloated over pornographic films, and pawed and fondled the figures of the high-class prostitutes who sat upon their knees unfastening their flies. So what? He was a lecherous old man too, wasn't he? Very nearly, anyway. Just a sediment of sensitivity still. Just a little. Just a little.
She came over to him, and for a moment she was very beautiful again. 'I've been very patient with you, Inspector, don't you think?'
'I suppose so, yes. Patient, if not particularly cooperative.'
'Can I ask you a question?'
'Of course.'
'Do you want to sleep with me tonight?'
The back of Morse's throat felt suddenly very dry. 'No.'
'You really mean that?'
'Yes.'
'All right.' Her voice was brisker now. 'Let me be "co-operative" then, as you call it.' She handed him a sheet of notepaper on which she had written two telephone numbers.
The first one's my father's. You may have to drag him out of bed, but he's almost certainly home by now. The other one's the Wilsons, downstairs. As I told you, I was at school with Joyce. I'd like you to ring them both, please.'
Morse took the paper and said nothing.
Then there's this.' She handed him a passport. 'I know it's out of date, but I've only been abroad once. To Switzerland, three years ago last June.'
With a puzzled frown Morse opened the passport and the unmistakable face of Miss Yvonne Baker smiled up at him in gentle mockery from a Woolworth poly-foto. Three years last June. . whilst Valerie Taylor was still at school in Kidlington. Well before she. . before. .
Morse took off his coat and sat down once again on the divan. 'Will you ring your friends below, Yvonne? And if you're feeling very kind, can I please ask you to pour me another whisky? A stiff one.'
At Paddington he was informed that the last train to Oxford had departed half an hour earlier. He walked into the cheerless waiting room, put his feet up on the bench, and soon fell fast asleep.
At 3.30 a.m. a firm hand shook him by the shoulder, and he looked up into the face of a bearded constable,
'You can't sleep here, sir. I shall have to ask you to move on, I'm afraid.'
'You surely don't begrudge a man a bit of kip, do you, officer?'
'I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to move on, sir.'
Morse almost told him who he was. But simultaneously the other sleepers were being roused and he wondered why he should be treated any differently from his fellow men.
'All right, officer.' Huh! 'All right': that's what Valerie would have said. But he put the thought aside and walked wearily out of the station. Perhaps he'd have more luck at Marylebone. He needed a bit of luck somewhere.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Pilate saith unto him, What is truth?
(John, xviii)
DONALD PHILLIPSON WAS a very worried man. The sergeant had been very proper, of course, and very polite: 'routine inquiries', that was all. But the police were getting uncomfortably close. A knife that might be missing from the school canteen — that was perfectly understandable: but from his own kitchen! And it was no great surprise that he himself should be suspected of murder: but Sheila! He couldn't talk to Sheila, and he wouldn't let her talk to him: the subject of Valerie Taylor and, later, the murder of Baines lay between them like a no-man's-land, isolated and defined, upon which neither dared to venture. How much did Sheila know? Had she learned that Baines was blackmailing him? Had she learned or half-guessed the shameful reason? Baines himself may have hinted at the truth to her. Baines! God rot his soul! But whatever Sheila had done or intended to do on the night that Baines was killed was utterly unimportant, and he wished to know nothing of it. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he, Donald Phillipson, who was guilty of murdering Baines.
The walls of the small study seemed gradually to be closing in around him. The cumulative pressures of the last three years had now become too strong, and the tangled web of falsehood and deceit had enmeshed his very soul. If he were to retain his sanity he had to do something; something to bring a period of peace to a conscience tortured to its breaking-point; something to atone for all the folly and the sin. Again he thought of Sheila and the children and he knew that he could hardly face them for much longer. And interminably his thoughts went dancing round and round his head and always settled to the same conclusion. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he and only he who was guilty of murdering Baines.
Morning school was almost over, and Mrs. Webb was tidying up her desk as he walked through.
'I shan't be in this afternoon, Mrs. Webb.'
'No. I realize that, sir. You never are on Tuesdays.'
'Er, no. Tuesday afternoon, of course. I'd, er. . I'd forgotten for the minute.'
It was like hearing the phone in a television play: he knew there was no need to answer it himself. He still felt wretchedly tired and he buried his head again in the pillows. Having found no more peace at Marylebone than at Paddington, he had finally arrived back in Oxford at 8.05 a.m., and had taken a taxi home. One way or another it had been an expensive debacle.
An hour later the phone rang again. Shrill, peremptory, now, registering at a higher level of his consciousness; and shaking his head awake, he reached for the receiver on the bedside table. He yawned an almighty 'Yeah?' into the mouthpiece and levered himself up to a semi-vertical position. 'Lewis? What the hell do you want?'
'I've been trying to get you since two o'clock, sir. It's—'
'What? What time is it now?'
'Nearly three o'clock, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you but I've got a bit of a surprise for you.'