Last Seen Wearing (14 page)

   'He probably missed his train,' protested Lewis.

   'Don't think so,' said Morse. 'I've checked. The last of the interviews was over by a quarter to six, and there was a good train for Phillipson to catch at 8.35. And even if he'd missed that, there was another at 9.45. But he wouldn't miss it, would he? Two and three-quarter hours to get from Kidlington to Oxford? Come off it!'

   'He probably felt tired—you know how it is.'

   'Not too tired to cock his leg around Valerie Taylor.'

   'It's just not fair to say that, sir.'

   'Isn't it, now? Well, let me tell you something else, Lewis. I went to the Royal Oxford yesterday and found the old register. Do you know something?
There is no entry for any Phillipson that night.'

   'All right. He just tried to claim a few extra quid for nothing. He caught the train after all.'

   'I bet he wouldn't like me to check up with his wife about that!' Morse was now regaining his momentum.

   'You've not checked with her, then?'

   'No. But I checked up on something else. I went round to the Station Hotel just opposite. Very interesting. They looked out their old register for me, and I'll give you one guess who the last entry on the list was.'

   'He probably just got the names of the hotels muddled. They're pretty near each other.'

   'Could be. But you see, Lewis,
there's no Phillipson there either.
Let me show you what there was, though.'

   He passed over a photocopied sheet of paper and Lewis read what Morse had found:

   'Mr. E. Phillips, 41 Longmead Road, Farnborough.' He sat silently, and then looked again at the copy of the expenses form that Morse had given him earlier. It was certainly odd. Very, very odd.

   'And,' continued Morse, 'I've checked on something else. There's no Mr. Phillips who lives in Longmead Road, Farnborough, for the very simple reason there
is
no Longmead Road in Farnborough.'

   Lewis considered the evidence. Initials? Move on one from D to E. Easy. Phillipson? Just leave off the last two letters. Could be. But something else was staring him in the face. The home address (as given on the expenses form) of Mr. D. Phillipson was 14 Longmead Road, Epsom. Transpose the 1 and the 4, and move on one from E to F: Epsom to Farnborough.

   'I should think Peters ought to be able to give us a line on the handwriting, sir.'

   'We'll leave him out of it.' It sounded final.

   'It's a bit suspicious, all right,' admitted Lewis. 'But where does Valerie Taylor fit in? Why her?'

   'It's got to be her,' said Morse. 'It all adds up, don't you see?'

   'No.'

   'Well, let's just assume that what I suspect is the truth. Agreed?
Assume,
nothing more. Now, where are we? For some reason Phillipson meets Valerie, probably in Oxford, probably at the station buffet. He chats her up and—Bob's your uncle. Off they go to the Station Hotel—a bit of a roll round the bed, and she goes off home with a few quid in her pocket. I don't think she'd stay all night; probably a couple of hours or so—no more. It wouldn't be easy for her to leave the hotel after midnight, would it? Not without causing a bit of comment.'

   'I still don't see why it should be Valerie, though. And even if you're right, sir, what's it all got to do with Valerie disappearing?'

   Morse nodded. Tell me, Lewis. If
anyone got
to know about this little bit of philandering, who do you think it would be?'

   'Phillipson could have told his wife, I suppose. You know, he would have felt guilty about it—'

   'Mm.' It was Morse's turn to display a lack of enthusiasm and Lewis tried again.

   'I suppose Valerie could have told someone?'

   'Who?'

   'Her mum?'

   'She was a bit scared of her mum, wasn't she?'

   'Her dad, then?'

   'Could be.'

   'I suppose someone could have seen them,' said Lewis slowly.

   'I'm pretty sure someone did,' said Morse.

   'And you think you know who it was?'

   Again Morse nodded. 'So do you, I think.'

   Did he? In such situations Lewis had learned to play it cleverly. 'You mean . . .?' He tried to look as knowing as his utter lack of comprehension would permit, and mercifully Morse took up his cue.

   'Yes. He's the only person connected with the case who lives anywhere near there. You don't make an excursion to the Station Hotel if you live in Kidlington, do you? Come to think of it, you don't make an excursion to the Station Hotel wherever you live. The beer there's bloody awful.'

   Lewis understood now, but wondered how on earth they'd ever managed to get this far on such a flimsy series, of hypotheses. 'He found out, you think?'

   'Saw 'em, most probably.'

   'You've not tackled him about it yet?'

   'No, I want to get a few things straight first. But I shall be seeing him, have no fear.'

   'I still don't see why you think it was Valerie.'

   'Well, let's look at things from her point of view for a minute. She gets herself pregnant, right?'

   'So you say, sir.'

   'And so does Maguire.'

   'We've got no real evidence.'

   'No, not yet, I agree. But we may well have some fairly soon—you'll see. For the minute let's just assume she's pregnant. I'm pretty sure that Phillipson himself wouldn't have been the proud daddy; in fact, I shouldn't think he ever dreamed of touching her again. But if she were in trouble, daren't tell her parents, say—who would she go to? As I see it, she may well have gone to someone who owed her a favour, someone who had some sort of moral duty to help her, someone in fact who daren't
not
help her. In short she'd probably go to Phillipson. And, as I see it, they cooked up something between 'em. The Taylors—they'd almost certainly have to be in on it—the Taylors, Phillipson and Valerie. I should think that Phillipson arranged a place for her to go to in London, paid the abortion clinic, and let the whole thing look like a runaway schoolgirl lark. The Taylors are saved any local scandal and disgrace. Phillipson has paid his pound of flesh, and Valerie is let off lightly for her sins. Yes, I think that's roughly what might have happened; only roughly, mind you.'

   'But how did she disappear?'

   'Again I'm guessing. But I suspect that when she left home after lunch she took a minimum of things with her—hence the bag or basket, whatever it was; it had to look, you see, as if she was going off to school in the normal way—the neighbours and so on might see her. As it happens, they didn't—but that was pure chance. I should think she went down the main road, probably nipped into the ladies' lavatory by the shops and changed her school uniform for something a bit trendier (don't forget the bag, Lewis!), and met Phillipson who was waiting for her in his car further down the road near the roundabout. They've probably got her case in the boot already. He drove her down to the station in Oxford, gave her full instructions, parked somewhere in town, bought a book at Blackwells and got home by three o'clock. Easy.' He stopped and looked hopefully at Lewis. 'Well, something like that. What do you think?'

   'And I suppose she just gets rid of the baby like you say, finds she likes London, gets in with a swinging set, and forgets all about mum and dad and everything at home.'

   'Something like that,' said Morse, without conviction.

   'They put the police to a dickens of a lot of trouble for nothing, then, didn't they?'

   'Probably never thought we'd make so much fuss.'

   'They'd have a good idea.'

   Morse was looking increasingly uneasy. 'As I told you, Lewis, it's only a rough outline. Just remember that if Valerie had wanted to, she could have ruined Phillipson's career in a flash. Just think of the headlines! It'd be dynamite! And think of Valerie, too. She certainly wouldn't want to be carting a kid around at her age. And her parents . . .'

   'A lot of parents don't seem to mind too much these days, sir.'

   Morse was feeling cross and showed it. 'Well
they
did! They minded enough to go through with the whole bloody business; still are going through with it . . .'

   Somewhere along the line the euphoria had turned to a saddened exasperation. He knew far better than Lewis could have told him that he hadn't really thought things through.

   'You know, Lewis, something must have turned sour somewhere, mustn't it? Perhaps something went wrong . . .' He suddenly brightened. 'We shall have to find out, shan't we?'

   'You think Valerie's still alive then, sir?'

   Morse backed down with commendable grace. 'I suppose so, yes. After all she wrote home, didn't she? Or so you tell me.'

   He had a cheek, this man Morse, and Lewis shook his head in dismay. Everything had pointed to a straightforward case of a girl running away from home. As everyone (including Morse) had said, it happens all the time. And what a dog's breakfast he'd made of it all!

   But Lewis had to concede that there might be something worth salvaging from all that complicated nonsense. Valerie and Phillipson.
Could
be true, perhaps. But why did he have to invent all that fanciful stuff about changing in ladies' lavatories? Oh dear. But something else was worrying him.

   'You said, sir, that you thought Baines might have found out about Phillipson and this girl—whoever she was.'

   'I think he did. In fact, I think Baines knows a hell of a lot more about the whole caboodle than anybody.'

   'More than you, sir?'

   'God, yes. He's been watching and waiting, has Baines; and I suspect he'd be very happy for the truth—or most of it—to come out. Phillipson would be a dead duck then, and they'd have to appoint a new headmaster, wouldn't they? And they've got Baines—a faithful servant who's been there all these years, runner-up at the last appointment . . . why, I shouldn't think the Governors would even advertise.'

   'They'd have to, sir. It's the law.'

   'Oh . . . Anyway, he'd get the job—sure as eggs are eggs. And he'd love it. The thought of all that power, Lewis—power over other people's lives. That's what Baines is hankering after.'

   'Don't you think,' said Lewis gently, 'that it would be a good idea to get things on to a bit of a firmer footing, sir? I mean, why not question Phillipson and Baines and the Taylors? You'd probably get the truth out of one of them.'

   'Perhaps.' Morse stood up and flexed his arms. 'But you're going to be pleased with me, Lewis. At the beginning of this case I promised myself I'd stick to
facts,
and so far I've not done very well. But you see a reformed character before you, my friend. First, I've arranged to see Phillipson and Baines—together, mind you!—tomorrow afternoon. Good touch, eh, Lewis?
Tuesday
afternoon. Should be good, I reckon. No holds barred! And then—that phone call you heard. Metropolitan Police, no less. They're going to help us if they can; and they think they can. If Valerie did go up to London for an abortion, she'd have to go to some sort of clinic, wouldn't she? And we know exactly
when
she went. She might have changed her name and address and God knows what. But those boys in London are pretty sharp. If she
did
go to a clinic—even a shady, back-street clinic—I reckon we've got her on toast. And if they don't trace anything—well we shall have to think again, I suppose. But if we do find out where she went—and I think we shall—well, we're there, aren't we? She had no money of her own, that's for sure, and somebody,
somebody,
Lewis, had to fork out pretty handsomely. And then? Then we take it from there.'

   Morse sat down again. He was trying hard, but was convincing no one, not even himself.

   'You're not really very interested in finding her at all, are you, sir?'

   The sparkle had gone from Morse's eyes: Lewis was right, of course. 'To tell you the truth, I shan't give two buggers if we never find her. Perhaps we've found her, anyway. She may have been the girl sharing Maguire's flat. I don't think so. But if she was—so what? She may have been one of those strippers we saw; you remember, the one with the mask and the bouncy tits. So what? You know, Lewis, this whole case is beginning to get one almighty bore, and if all we're going to do is stir up a load of trouble and get poor old Phillipson the sack—I'd rather pack it up.'

   'It's not like you to back out of anything, sir.'

   Morse stared morosely at the blotting paper. 'It's just not my sort of case, Lewis. I know it's not a very nice thing to say, but I just get on better when we've got a body—a body that died from unnatural causes. That's all I ask. And we haven't got a body.'

   'We've got a living body,' said Lewis quietly.