Last Seen Wearing (8 page)

   'Will it buggery!' said Morse.

   The Maltese advanced slightly and his hands glided towards Morse's wallet-pocket.

   Neither Morse nor Lewis were big men, and the last thing that Morse wanted at this juncture was a rough-house. He wasn't in very good condition anyway . . . But he knew the type well. Courage, Morse! He brushed the man's hand forcibly from his jacket and stepped a menacing pace forward.

   'Look, you miserable wog. You want a fight? That's fine. I wouldn't want to bruise my fist against your ugly chops, myself, but this pal of mine here will do it with the greatest pleasure. Just up his street. Army middleweight champion till a year ago. Where shall we go, you dirty little squit?'

   The little man sat back and sagged in his chair like a wilting balloon, and his voice was a punctured whine.

   'You got to be members of the club. If you not I get prosecuted by police.'

   'F—off,' said Morse, and with the ex-boxing champion behind him walked through the screen partition.

   In the small auditorium beyond sat a sprinkling of males, dotted around on the three rows of seats facing the small, raised stage, on which a buxom blonde stripper had just, climactically, removed her G-string. At least one of the management's promises had been honoured. The curtains closed and there was a polite smatter of half-hearted applause.

   'How did you know I was a boxing champion?' whispered Lewis.

   'I didn't,' said Morse, with genuine surprise.

   'You might get it right, though, sir.
Light
middleweight.'

   Morse grinned happily, and a disembodied voice from the wings announced the advent of The Fabulous Fiona. The curtains opened jerkily to reveal a fully-clothed Fiona; but it was immediately apparent that her fabulous body, whatever delights were soon to be unveiled, was signally bereft of any rhythmic suppleness as she struggled amateurishly to synchronize a few elementary dance steps with the languorously suggestive music.

   After The Sexy Susan and The Sensational Sandra even Morse was feeling a trifle blase; but, as he explained to an unenthusiastic Lewis, there might be better things to come. And indeed The Voluptuous Vera and The Kinky Kate certainly did something to raise the general standard of the entertainment. There were gimmicks aplenty: fans, whips, bananas and rubber spiders; and Morse dug Lewis in the ribs as an extraordinarily shapely girl, dressed for a fancy-dress ball, titillatingly and tantalizingly divested herself of all but an incongruously ugly mask.

   'Bit of class there, Lewis.'

   But Lewis remained unimpressed; and when the turn came round for the reappearance of The Fabulous Fiona Morse reluctantly decided they had better go. The little gorilla was fleecing a thin, spotty-faced young man of his one pown membership fee as they walked out of the club into the dazzling sunshine of the London street. After a few breaths of comparatively clean air, Morse returned to the entrance and stood by the young man.

   'What's your name, lad?'

   'William Shakespeare. What's yours?' He looked at Morse with considerable surprise. Who the hell did he think he was? It was over two years ago since anyone had spoken to him in that tone of voice. At school, in Kidlington.

   'Can we go and talk somewhere?'

   'What
is
this?'

   'John Maguire, if I'm not mistaken? I want to talk to you about Miss Valerie Taylor—I think you may have heard of her. Now we can do it quietly and sensibly, or you can come along with me and the sergeant here to the nearest police station. Up to you.'

   Maguire was obviously worried. 'Look. Not here, please. I've got half an hour off at four o'clock. I'll meet you then. I'll be in there.' He pointed anxiously to a sleazy-looking snack bar across the road next to the Angel.

   Morse pondered what to do.

   'Please,' urged Maguire. I'll be there. Honest, I will.'

   It was a difficult decision, but Morse finally agreed. He thought it would be foolish to antagonize Maguire before he'd even started on him.

   Morse gave quick instructions to Lewis as they walked away. He was to take a taxi back to Southampton Terrace and wait until Morse returned. If Maguire did decide to scuttle (it seemed unlikely, though) he would almost certainly go back there for some of his things.

   At the end of the street Lewis found a cab almost immediately, and Morse guiltily strolled back to the Penthouse.

   'You'd better give me another ticket,' demanded Morse brusquely. He walked once more down the murkily-lit passage, gave his ticket to a surprised and silent dwarf, and without further trouble re-entered the auditorium. He recognized The Voluptuous Vera with-out difficulty and decided that it would be no more than a minimal hardship thus to while away the next hour and a half. He just hoped the masked young lady was still on the bill . . .

At 4.00 p.m. they sat opposite each other in the snack bar.

   'You knew Valerie Taylor then?'

   'I was at school with her.'

   'Her boyfriend, weren't you?'

   'One of 'em.'

   'Like that, was it?' Maguire was non-committal. 'Why did Inspector Ainley come to see you?'

   'You know why.'

   'Did you know he was killed in a road accident the day he saw you?'

   'No, I didn't.'

   'I asked you why he came to see you.'

   'Same reason as you, I suppose.'

   'He asked you about Valerie?'

   Maguire nodded, and Morse had the feeling that the boy was suddenly feeling more relaxed. Had Morse missed the turning?

   'What did you tell him?'

   'What could I tell him? Nothing more to tell, is there? They got me to write out a statement when I was at school, and I told them the truth. Couldn't do much more than that, could I?'

   'You told the truth?'

   ' 'Course, I did. I couldn't have had anything to do with it. I was in school all day, remember?'

   Morse did remember, although he cursed himself for not bringing the boy's statement with him. Maguire had stayed at school for dinner and had been playing cricket the whole afternoon. At the time he must have seemed a peripheral figure in the investigation. Still was, perhaps. But why, then,
why
had Ainley come to London just to see him again—after all that time? There must have been
something,
something big. Morse finished the last dregs of his cold coffee and felt a bit lost. His devious manoeuvrings of the day began to look unnecessarily theatrical. Why couldn't he be a straight policeman for once in his life? Still, he had a couple of trump cards, and one never knew. He prepared to play the first.

   'I'll give you one more chance, Maguire, but this time I want the truth—all of it.'

   'I've told you . . .'

   'Let's get one thing straight,' said Morse. I'm interested in Valerie Taylor—that's all. I'm not worried about any of those other things . . .' He left the words in the air, and a flash of alarm glinted in the boy's eyes.

   'What other things? I don't know what you're talking about.'

   'We've been to your flat today, lad.'

   'So?'

   'Mrs. Gibbs doesn't seem too happy, does she, about one or two things . . .?'

   'Old cow.'

   'She didn't have to
tell us
anything, you know.'

   'What am I supposed to have done? Come on—let's have it.'

   'How long have you been on drugs, lad?'

   It hit him solidly between the eyes, and his effort at recovery was short of convincing. 'What drugs?'

   'I just told you, lad. We've been to your flat today.'

   'And I suppose you found some pot. So what? Just about everybody smokes pot here.'

   'I'm not talking about everybody.' Morse leaned forward and let him have it. 'I'm talking about you, lad. Smoking pot's illegal, you know that, and I could frogmarch you out of here and ship you to the nearest police station—remember that! But I've just told you, lad, I'm quite prepared to let it ride. Christ, why do you have to make it so hard for yourself? You can go back to your bloody flat and pump yourself with heroin for all I care. I'm just not bothered, lad—not if you cooperate with me. Can't you get that into your thick skull?'

   Morse let it sink in a minute before continuing. 'I want to know just one thing—what you told Inspector Ainley, that's all. And if I can't get it out of you here, I'll take you in and I'll get it out of you somewhere else. Please yourself, lad.'

   Morse picked up his overcoat from the seat beside him and draped it across his knees. Maguire stared dejectedly at the table-top and played nervously with a bottle of tomato ketchup. There was indecision in his eyes, and Morse timed what he hoped was his second trump card perfectly.

   'How long had you known
that
Valerie was pregnant?' he asked quietly.

   Bull's-eye. Morse replaced his coat on the seat beside him, and Maguire spoke more freely. 'About three weeks before.'

   'Did she tell anyone else?'

   Maguire shrugged his shoulders. 'She was a real sexy kid—everyone was after her.'

   'How often did you go to bed with her?'

   'Ten—dozen times, I suppose.'

   'The truth, please, lad.'

   'Well, three or four times, maybe. I don't know.'

   'Where was this?'

   'My place.'

   'Your parents know?'

   'No. They were out working.'

   'And she said you were the father?'

   'No. She wasn't like that. Said I could have been, of course.'

   'Did you feel jealous?' Morse had a suspicion that he did, but Maguire made no answer. 'Was she very upset?'

   'Just scared.'

   'What of? Scandal?'

   'More scared of her mum, I think.'

   'Not her dad?'

   'She didn't say so.'

   'Did she talk about running away?'

   'Not to me.'

   'Who else might she have spoken to?' Maguire hesitated. 'She had another boyfriend, didn't she,' persisted Morse, 'apart from you?'

   'Pete?' Maguire could relax again. 'He didn't even touch her.'

   'But she might have spoken to him?' Maguire was amused, and Morse felt that his questioning had lost its impetus. 'What about her form tutor? She might have gone to her, perhaps?'

   Maguire laughed openly. 'You don't understand.'

   But suddenly Morse realized that he was beginning to understand, and as the dawn was slowly breaking in his mind, he leaned forward and fixed Maguire with grey eyes, hard and unblinking.

   'She could have gone to the headmaster, though.' He spoke the words with quiet, taut emphasis, and the impact upon Maguire was dramatic. Morse saw the sudden flash of burning jealousy and knew that gradually, inch by inch, he was moving nearer to the truth about Valerie Taylor.

Morse took a taxi to Southampton Terrace where he found a patient Lewis awaiting him. The car was ready and they were soon heading out along the M40 towards Oxford. Morse's mind was simultaneously veering in every direction, and he lapsed into uncommunicative introversion. It wasn't until they left the three-lane motorway that he broke the long silence.

   'Sorry you had such a long wait, Lewis.'

   'That's all right, sir. You had a long wait, too.'

   'Yes,' said Morse. He made no mention of his return to the Penthouse. He must have gone down a good deal already in his sergeant's estimation; he had certainly sunk quite low enough in his own.

   It was five miles outside Oxford that Lewis exploded the minor bombshell.

   'I was having a talk with Mrs. Gibbs, sir, while you were with Mr. Maguire.'

   'Well?'

   'I asked her why he'd been such a nuisance.'

   'What did she say?'

   'She told me that until recently he'd had a girl in the flat.'

   'She
what?

   'Yes, sir. Almost a month, she said.'

   'But why the hell didn't you tell me before, man? You surely realize . . .?' He glared at Lewis, incredulous and exasperated, and sank back in despair behind his safety belt.

His stubborn conviction that Valerie was no longer alive would (one had thought) have been sorely tested when he looked back into his office at 8.00 p.m. Awaiting him was a report from the forensic laboratory, short and to the point.

   'Sufficient similarities to warrant positive identification. Suggest that investigation proceed on firm assumption that letter was written by signatory, Miss Valerie Taylor. Please contact if detailed verification required.'