'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.'
'And that's what you did?'
'Yes.'
'Would Mr. Martin back you up?'
'Yes. If you explained to him why—'
'You mean you haven't done that already?' The tone of Morse's voice was becoming increasingly harsh, and Monica coloured deeply again.
'Don't you think we ought to ask him?'
'No I don't! You've got him round your little finger, woman! Anyone can see that. I'm not interested in your web of lies. I want the truth! We're investigating a murder — not a bloody parking offence!'
'Look, Inspector. I can't do much more than tell you—'
'Of course you can! You can tell me the truth.'
'You seem terribly sure of—'
'And so I am, woman! What the hell do you think that is?' He banged his right hand furiously on the top of the desk, and revealed the torn-off half of a cinema ticket. Across the top were the letters 10, and almost immediately after them the number 2; beneath were the words 'Rear Lounge', and along the right-hand edge, running downwards, were the numbers 93556.
Monica looked down at the ticket as if mesmerized.
'Well?'
'I suppose it was you who arranged the little charade on the phone with Dr. Bartlett?'
'I've done worse in my time,' said Morse. And suddenly, and quite inexplicably, he felt a surge of sympathy and warmth towards her, and his tone softened as he looked into her eyes: 'It'll come out in the end — you know that. Please let me have the truth.'
Monica sighed deeply. 'Do you mind getting me a cigarette, Inspector? As I think you know, mine are in my handbag.'
Yes (she said) Morse had been right. With Sally back from school that afternoon, there was no chance of going home, and she wasn't that keen, in any case. The whole thing was her fault quite as much as Donald's, of course; but recently she had been increasingly anxious to end the futile and dangerous affair. It was Donald who suggested they should go to the cinema and she had finally agreed. It would be an unnecessary risk to be seen going in together, and so it was arranged that he should go in at twenty past one, and she a few minutes later. They would each buy a ticket separately, and he would sit on the back row of the rear lounge in Studio 2 and watch out for her. And that's what they'd done. Everything had gone as planned, and they had left the cinema at about half past three. They'd each taken their car, and hers had been parked in Cranham Terrace, at the side of the cinema. She herself had gone straight home afterwards, and so, for all she knew, had Donald. Naturally they'd both been worried when they heard that the police wanted to know their whereabouts on Friday afternoon, and so they'd foolishly — well, Morse knew what they'd done. It wasn't all that far from the truth, though, was it? But, yes, they'd lied about that Friday afternoon. Of course, they had.
'Do you mind if we get your boyfriend in?' asked Morse.