Morse got up from his chair and pulled on his greatcoat. 'And there's something else, you know, Lewis. Something to crown the whole lot, really. They keep all their records carefully at the Locals — well, the chap on the desk does. All passes have to be shown and I'd like to bet that those workmen were given semi-permanent passes so that they could make use of the facilities there without having to get a badge every time they went to the lavatory or whatever. Just think of it! We sit here and rack our brains — and all the time the fellow we're looking for is sitting there on a little card — in a little drawer at the Locals — with a photograph of himself on it! By Jove, this is the simplest case we've ever handled, my old friend. Come on. On your feet!'
But for a while, Lewis sat where he was, a wistful expression across his square, honest face. 'You know, it's a pity in a way, isn't it? Like you say, we've done all this thinking — we've even given the fellow a name! The only thing we never got round to was deciding where he lives, that's all. And if we'd been able to work that out — well, we wouldn't need any photograph or anything, would we? We'd have, sort of, thought it all out.'
Morse sat on the edge of his desk nodding his balding head. 'Ye-es. 'Tis a pity, I agree. Amazing, you know, what feats of logic the human brain is capable of. But sometimes life eludes logic — and sometimes when you build a great big wonderful theory you find there's a fault in the foundations and the whole thing collapses round your ears at the slightest earth tremor.'
Morse's voice had sounded strangely earnest, and Lewis noticed how tired his chief looked. 'You don't think we're in for an earthquake, do you?'
'Hope not! Above all I hope we get a chance to save Margaret Bowman — save her from herself as much as anything. Nice looker, you know, that woman. Lovely head of hair!'
'Especially when viewed from the top of a crane,' said Lewis, as he finally rose to his feet and pulled on his coat.
As they were leaving the office, Morse paused to look at a large white map of Oxford City that was fastened on the wall to the left of the door. 'What do you think, Lewis? Here we are: South Parade — that's where he picked her up. Now we want somewhere no more than five minutes away, so you say. Well, one thing's certain — he either turned left or he turned right at the Woodstock Road, agreed?' Morse's finger slowly traced a route that led off to the south: it seemed most unlikely that the man would be living in any of the large villa-type residences that lined the road for most of the way down to St. Giles', and Morse found himself looking at the map just below St. John's College playing fields, and especially at the maze of little streets that criss-crossed the heart of Jericho. For his part, Lewis's eyes considered the putative route that might have been taken if the man had turned right and towards the north; and soon he spotted a small cluster of streets, between (he Woodstock Road itself and, to the west of it, the canal and the railway. The writing on the map was very small but Lewis could just about read the names: St. Peter's Road; Ulfgar Road; Pixey Place; Diamond Close. . All council property, if Lewis recalled correctly — or used to be until, in the 1980s, the Tories remembered Anthony Eden's promises of a property-owning democracy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, January 7th: P.M.
I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew):
Their names are What and Why
and When
And How and Where and Who.
(RUDYARD KIPLING)
THE MOST OBVIOUS improvements effected by those who had bought their own red-brick houses had been to the doors and the windows: several of the old doors were replaced completely by stout oaken affairs — or at the very least painted some colour other than the former regulation light blue: and most of the old windows, with their former small oblong panes, were now replaced by large horizontal sheets of glass set in stainless-steel frames. In general, it seemed fairly clear, the tone of the neighbourhood was on the 'up'; and number 17 Diamond Close was no exception to this pattern of improved properties. A storm door (behind which no light was visible) had been built across the small front porch; and the front fence and garden had been redesigned to accommodate a medium-sized car — like the light-green Maestro which stood there now. Under the orange glare of the street-lamps, the close was strangely still.
The two police cars had moved slowly along St. Peter's Road and then stopped at the junction with Diamond Close. Morse, Lewis and Phillips were in the first car; two uniformed constables and a plain-clothes detective in the second. Both Phillips and the plain-clothes man had been issued with regulation revolvers; and these two (as prearranged) got out of their cars and without slamming the doors behind them walked silently along the thirty or so yards to the front of number 17, where, with the plain-clothes man rather melodramatically pointing his revolver to the stars, Sergeant Phillips pushed the white button of the front-door bell. After a few seconds, a dull light appeared from somewhere at the back of the house, and then a fuller light and the silhouette of a figure seen through the glass of the outer door. At that moment the watching faces of Morse and Lewis betrayed a high degree of tension: yet, in retrospect, there had been nothing whatsoever to occasion such emotion.
From the outset the man in the thick green sweater had proved surprisingly co-operative. He had requested to be allowed to finish his baked beans (refused), to collect a packet of cigarettes (granted), to drive to Police HQ in his own car (refused), and to take his scarf and duffel coat (granted). At no stage had he mentioned writs, warrants, lawyers, solicitors, civil rights, unlawful arrest or Lord Longford, and Morse himself was beginning to feel a little shamed-faced about the death-or-glory scenario of the arrest. But one never knew.
In the interview room it was Lewis who began the questioning.
'Your full name is Edward Wilkins?'
'Edward James Wilkins.'
'Your date of birth?'
'Twentieth September, 1951.'
'Place of birth?'
'17 Diamond Close.'
'The house you live in now?'
'Yes. My mother lived there.'
'Which school did you go to?'
'Hobson Road Primary — for a start.'
'And after that?'
'Oxford Boys' School.'
'You passed the eleven plus to go there?'
'Yes.'
'When did you leave?'
'In 1967.'
'You took your O levels?'
'Yes. I passed in Maths, Physics and Engineering Drawing.'
'You didn't take English Literature?'
'Yes, I did. But I failed.'
'Did you read any Milton?' interrupted Morse.
'Yes, we read Comus.'
'What did you do after you left school?' (Lewis had taken up the questioning once more.)
'I got an apprenticeship at Lucy's Ironworks in Jericho.'
'And then?'
'I didn't finish it. I stuck it for eighteen months and then I got offered a much better job with Mackenzie Construction.'
'You still work for them?'
'Yes.'
'What's your job, exactly?'
'I'm a crane-driver.'