'What's the food like here?' asked Morse.

'Why don't you try it?'

Morse appeared to consider the possibility but asked instead if there was a good fish-and-chip shop near by. There wasn't. Several customers had come in and the policemen left by the side entrance and walked into the yard. To their right, a car was sitting up on its haunches, with each of the front wheels off. Underneath the car, suitably protected from the grease and oil, and wielding a formidable wrench, lay the landlord of the Black Prince, and by his side the folding tool-box which had so recently housed a long and heavy tyre-spanner.

Unnoticed by Morse and Lewis as they left the premises, a young man had entered the c.o.c.ktail bar and ordered a tonic water. Mr John Sanders had apparently made a sufficient recovery from his bouts of shivery fever to join once more in the social life of Woodstock, if not to resume his dudes with Messrs Chalkley and Sons.

On the bus journey back Morse was deeply engrossed in a Midland Counties bus time-table and a map of North Oxford. Occasionally he looked at his watch and made a brief entry in a note-book. Lewis felt hungry. It had been a pity about the fish-and-chip shop.

21 Friday, 15 October, p.m.

A bulky envelope marked 'confidential' arrived on Morse's desk at 3.30 that afternoon - 'from the Princ.i.p.al'. He had done a very careful and thorough job - that was quite clear. There were ninety-three typewriters, it appeared, in Lonsdale College. Most of them belonged to the college and had found their various ways into the rooms of the fellows; over twenty were the personal property of members of the college. Ninety-three sheets of paper, each numbered, were neatly arranged beneath a bull-dog clip.

Two further sheets, stapled together, provided the key to the typewritten specimens, and, appropriately enough, the Princ.i.p.al's typewriter was given the no. 1 designation. Morse riffled the sheets. It was going to be a bigger job than he'd thought, and he rang the laboratory boys. He learned it would take an hour or so.

Lewis had spent most of the afternoon typing his reports and did not return to Morse's office until 4.15 p.m.

'You hoping to have the weekend off, Lewis?'

'Not if there's something you want me for, sir.'

'I'm afraid we have rather a lot to do. I think it's time we had a little confrontation, don't you?'

'Confrontation?'

'Yes. A gentle little confrontation between a certain Miss Coleby and a certain Mr Crowther. What do you think?' 'Might clear the air a bit.'

'Ye-es. Do you think the old establishment could run to four clean cups of coffee in the morning?'

'You want me to join you?'

'We're a team, Lewis, my boy. I've told you that before.' Morse rang Town and Gown and asked for Mr Palmer. 'Hew sh.e.l.l I see is calling?' It was the prim little Judith. 'Mister Plod," said Morse.

'Hold on, please, Mr Plod ... you're threw.'

'I didn't quite catch your name, sir? Palmer here.'

'Morse. Inspector Morse.' 'Oh, hullo, Inspector.' Stupid girl!

'I want to have a word with Miss Coleby. Confidential. I wonder if ...'

Palmer interrupted him. 'I'm awfully sorry, Inspector. She's not here this afternoon. She wanted to spend a long weekend in London and, well ... we do occasionally show a little er flexibility, you know.

It sometimes helps the er the smooth running ...'

'London, you say?'

'Yes. She said she was going to spend the weekend with some friends. She caught the lunch-time train.'

'Did she leave an address?'

'I'm sorry. I don't think she did. I could try to er...'

'No. Don't bother.'

'Can I take a message?'

'No. I'll get in touch with her when she comes back.' Perhaps he could see Sue again ... 'When will she be back, by the way?'

'I don't really know. Sunday evening I should think.'

'All right. Well, thank you.'

'Sorry I couldn't be ...'

'Not your fault.' Morse put down the phone with less than average courtesy.

'One of our birds has flown, Lewis.' He turned his attention to Bernard Crowther and decided to try the college first.

'Porter's Lodge.'

'Can you put me through to Mr Crowther's rooms, please?'

'Just a minute, sir.' Morse drummed the table with the fingers of his left hand. Come on!

'Are you there, sir?'- 'Yes. I'm still here.'

'No reply, I'm afraid, sir.'

'Is he in college this afternoon?'

'I saw him this morning, sir. Just a minute.' Three minutes later Morse was wondering if the wretched porter had taken a gentle stroll around the quad.

'Are you there, sir?'

'Yes, I'm still here.'

'He's away somewhere, sir, for the weekend. It's a conference of some sort.'

'Do you know when he's due back?'

'Sorry, sir. Shall I put you through to the college office?'

'No, don't bother. I'll ring again later.'

'Thank you, sir."

Morse held the phone in his hands for a few seconds and finally put it down with the greatest circ.u.mspection. 'I wonder. I wonder ...' He was lost in thought.

'It seems both of our birds have flown, sir.'

'I wonder if the conference is being held in London.'

'You don't think...?'

'I don't know what to think,' said Morse.

Nor was he sure what to think when half an hour later the findings of the laboratory were phoned through. Lewis watched the Inspector's curious reactions.

'Are you sure...? You're quite sure...? Yes. Well, many thanks. You'll bring them over? Good.

Thank you.'

'Well, Lewis, you're in for a surprise.'

'About the note?'

'Yes. About the note - the note someone wrote to the young lady who is now visiting "some friends" in London. They say they know whose typewriter it was.'

'And whose was it?"

'That's what's puzzling me. We've never heard of him before! He's a Mr Peter Newlove.'

'And who's Mr Peter Newlove?'

'It's time we found out.' He rang Lonsdale College for the second time that afternoon and found the same slow-motion porter presiding over the Lodge.

'Mr Newlove, sir? No, I'm afraid he's not in college. Just let me check in the book ... No, sir.' He's away till Monday. Can I take a message? No? All right. Goodbye, sir.'

'Well, that's that,' said Morse. 'All our birds have flown. And I don't see much point in staying here, do you?' Lewis didn't.

'Let's just tidy up all this mess,' said Morse.

Lewis gathered together the papers on his side of the table - the photographs of Sylvia Kaye and the carefully drawn diagrams of the yard at the Black Prince, annotated in thin, spidery writing with details of everything found therein. He looked again at the close-ups of the murdered girl lying there, and felt a paternally protective urge to cover the harsh nakedness of her beautiful body.

'I'd like to get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who did this,' he muttered.

'What's that?' Morse took the photographs from him.

'He must be a s.e.x maniac, don't you think, sir? Tearing off her clothes like that and leaving her for anyone and everyone to see. G.o.d, I wish I knew who he was!'

'Oh, I don't think there's much difficulty about that,' said Morse.

Lewis looked at him incredulously. 'You mean you know?'

Morse nodded slowly, and locked away the file on Sylvia Kaye.

3 Search for a killer

22 Sunday, 17 October

Sue saw David off on the Birmingham train at 7.13 on Sunday evening. She told him what a marvellous weekend it had been - and so it had. On Sat.u.r.day they had gone to the cinema, had a delicious Chinese meal and generally luxuriated in being together. Most of Sunday they had spent in Headington at the home of David's parents, pleasant, warm-hearted people, sensible enough to leave the two young love-birds alone for the greater part of the day. They hoped to marry some time next autumn, after David had finished his post-graduate year of research in metallurgy at the University of Warwick. He was hopeful (for he had taken a 'first') of getting a lectureship somewhere, and Sue encouraged him: she would rather be married to a lecturer than to an industrial chemist, or whatever metallurgists became. She thought that was the only thing about David of which she couldn't wholeheartedly approve - his choice of metallurgy. It had something to do with her own schooldays and the distaste she'd always felt amid the smells and silver slivers of the metalwork shop. There was something, too, about the hands of people who worked with metal: a sort of ingrained griminess, however patiently they were scrubbed.

The train lingered at Oxford station for several minutes and Sue kissed David fully and freely as he leaned from the window of an empty carriage.

'It's been lovely seeing you again, darling,' said David.

'Super.'

'You enjoyed it, didn't you?'

'Of course I did.' She laughed gaily. "Why on earth did you ask that?'

David smiled. ''It's just nice to know, that's all.' They kissed again, and Sue walked along with him for a few yards as the train pulled out.

'See you in a fortnight. Don't forget to write.'

'I won't,' said Sue. 'Bye.' She waved until the train had left the platform and she watched it curving its way towards the north, the red light on the rear coach bobbing and winking in the gathering darkness.

She walked slowly back down the platform, along the subway and up to the barrier on the other side.

She gave in her platform ticket and made her way to Carfax. Here she had to wait for half an hour before a number 2 bus came along, and it was eight o'clock before she got off in North Oxford. She crossed the road and with her head down walked along Charlton Road and thought about the last two days. She could never have told David about Wednesday night. There was nothing to tell anyway, was there? Just a minor peccadillo. She supposed most people had their foolish moments - even engaged people - and there were some things that just could not be told. Not that David would have been jealous; he wasn't that sort, at all - mild, equable, balanced David. Perhaps she wouldn't mind if he were a bit jealous. But she knew, or thought she knew, that he wasn't; she could spot jealousy a mile off. She thought of Morse. She really had been very naughty at the Sheridan with Doctor Eyres, and Morse had been jealous - rabidly, furiously jealous. She'd secretly enjoyed making him jealous until ...

Well, she wasn't going to think of him any more ... But she'd never cried over David ... She wondered if Morse believed her when she said she would be crying herself to sleep on Wednesday night. She hoped he had, for it was true. There she went again, starting with David and finishing with him. He'd probably not given her another thought... David! He was her man. Married to David she would be happy at last. Marriage. A big step, they all said. But she was twenty-three now ... She hoped Morse had given her another thought... Forget him!

But she was not to be allowed to forget him. As she reached the house she saw the Lancia outside.

Her heart pounded against her ribs and a wave of involuntary joy coursed through her blood. She let herself in and went straight to the living-room. There he was, sitting talking to Mary. He stood up as she came in. 'Hullo.'

'Hullo,' she said weakly.

'I really called to see Miss Coleby, but I gather she may not be back yet for a while. So I've been having a delightful little chat with Mary here.'

Mary indeed! Dumpy, freckled, little man-eater! Why don't you go, Mary? Mary, why don't you leave us alone - just for a few minutes? Please! She felt viciously jealous. But Mary seemed very taken with the charming Inspector and showed no signs of imminent surrender. Sue, still wearing her summer coat, sat on the arm of a chair, trying to resist the wave of desperation that threatened to engulf her.