'Where? I dunno. But I'm sure all he had to do was put a few finishing touches to things.'
'Do you think he did that in Annexe 3?'
'Possibly. Or he could have used the Gents' just off Reception.'
'Wouldn't Miss Jonstone have seen him?'
'How am I supposed to know? Shall we ask her, Lewis? Shall I ask her? Or what about you asking her — you're asking me enough bloody questions.'
'It's only because I can't quite understand things, that's all, sir.'.
'You think I've got it all wrong, don't you?' said Morse quietly.
'No! I'm pretty sure you're on the right lines, sir, but it doesn't all quite hang together, does it?'
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Monday, January 6th: A.M.
What is the use of running when we are not on the right road?
(GERMAN PROVERB)
THERE WAS A KNOCK on the door and Judith, the slimly attractive personal assistant to the Secretary, entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits.
'Miss Gibson thought you might like some refreshment.' She put the tray on the desk. 'If you want her, she's with the Deputy — the internal number's 208.'
'We don't get such VIP treatment up at HQ,' commented Lewis after she'd left.
'Well, they're a more civilized lot here, aren't they? Nice sort of people. Wouldn't harm a fly, most of them.'
'Perhaps one of them would!'
'I see what you mean,' said Morse, munching a ginger biscuit.
'Don't you think,' said Lewis, as they drank their coffee, 'that we're getting a bit too complex, sir?'
'Complex? Life is complex, Lewis. Not for you, perhaps. But for most of us it's a struggle to get through from breakfast to coffee-time, and then from coffee-time—'
There was a knock on the door and Miss Gibson herself re-entered. 'I saw Mrs. Webster just now and she said that Mrs. Bowman hadn't got back to her work yet. I thought perhaps she might be back here. .'
The two detectives looked at each other.
'She's not in the canteen?' asked Morse.
'No.'
'She's not in the Ladies'?'
'No.'
'How many exits are there here. Miss Gibson?'
'Just the one. We've all been so worried about security recently—'
But Morse was already pulling on his greatcoat. He thanked the Secretary and with Lewis in his wake walked quickly along the wooden-floored corridor towards the exit. At the reception desk sat the Security Officer. Mr. Prior, a thick-set, former prison officer, whose broad, intelligent face looked up from the Court Circular of the Daily Telegraph as Morse fired a salvo of questions at him.
'You know Mrs. Bowman?'
'Yessir.'
'How long ago did she leave?'
'Three — four minutes.'
'By car?'
'Yessir. Maroon Metro—1300—A reg.'
'You don't know the number?'
'Not offhand.'
'Did she turn left or right at the Banbury Road?'
'Can't see from here.'
'She was wearing a coat?'
'Yessir. Black, fur-collared coat. But she hadn't changed her shoes.'
'What do you mean?'
'Most of 'em come in boots this weather — and then change into something lighter when they're here. She still had a pair of high heels on — black; black leather, I should think'
Morse was impressed by Prior's powers of observation, said as much, and asked if he'd noticed anything else that was at all odd.
'Don't think so. Except perhaps when she said "Goodbye!" '
'Don't most people say "Goodbye" when they leave?'
Prior thought for a second before replying: 'No, they don't! They usually say "See you!" or "Cheers!" or something like that.'
Morse walked from the Locals, his eyes downcast, a deep frown on his forehead. The snow had been brushed away from the shallow steps that led down to the car park, and a watery-looking sun had almost dried the concrete. The forecast was for continued improvement in the weather, although in places there were still patches of hazardous ice.
'Where to?' asked Lewis as Morse got into the passenger seat of the police car.