'I'm guessing now,' continued Morse, 'but I should think Yvonne put you on to a job - let's say a job in a West End store. The school-leavers hadn't crowded the market yet, and it was fairly easy for you. You'd need a testimonial or a reference, I realize that. But you rang Phillipson and told him the position, and he took care of that. It was your first job. No bother. No employment cards, or stamps or anything. So that was that.'

Morse turned and looked again at the chic, sophisticated creature beside him. They wouldn't recognize her back in Kidlington now, would they? They'd remember only the young schoolgirl in her red socks and her white blouse. They would always attract the men, these two - mother and daughter alike. Somehow they shared the same intangible yet pervasive sensuality, and the Lord had fashioned them so very fair.

'Is that the finish?' she asked quietly.

Morse's reply was brusque. 'No, it's not. Where were you last Monday night?'

'Last Monday night? What's that got to do with you?'

'What train did you catch the night that Baines was killed?'

She looked at him in utter astonishment now. 'What train are you talking about? I haven't-'

'Didn't you go there that night?'

'Go where?'

"You know where. You probably caught the 8.15 from Paddington and arrived in Oxford at about 9.30.'

'You must be mad, I was in Hammersmith last Monday night.'

'Were you?'

"Yes, I was. I always go to Hammersmith on Monday nights.'

'Go on.'

'You really want to know?' Her eyes grew softer again, and she shook her head sadly. 'If you must know there's a sort of ... sort of party we have there every Monday.'

'What time?'

'Starts about nine.'

'And you were there last Monday?'

She nodded, almost fiercely.

'You go every Monday, you say?'

'Yes.'

'Why aren't you there tonight?'

'I ... well, I just thought... when you rang ...' She looked at him with doleful eyes. 'I didn't think it was going to be like this.'

'What time do these parties finish?'

'They don't.'

'You stay all night, you mean.'

She nodded.

's.e.x parties?'

'In a way.'

'What the h.e.l.l's that supposed to mean?'

'You know. The visual sort of thing: films to start with...'

'Blue films?'

Again she nodded.

'And then?'

'Oh G.o.d! Come off it. Are you trying to torture yourself, or something?'

She was far too near the truth, and Morse felt miserably embarra.s.sed. He got to his feet and looked round f.e.c.klessly for his coat. 'You'll have to give me the address, you realize that.'

'But I can't. I'd-'

'Don't worry,' said Morse wearily. 'I shan't pry any more than I have to.'

He looked once more around the expensive flat. She must earn a lot of money, somehow; and he wondered if it was all much compensation for the heartache and the jealousy that she must know as well as he. Or perhaps we weren't all the same. Perhaps it wasn't possible to live as she had done and keep alive the finer, tenderer compa.s.sions.

He looked across at her as she sat at a small bureau, writing something down: doubtless the address of the bawdy house in Hammersmith. He had to have that, whatever happened. But did it matter all that much? He knew instinctively that she was there that night, among the wealthy, lecherous old men who gloated over p.o.r.nographic films, and pawed and fondled the figures of the high-cla.s.s prost.i.tutes who sat upon their knees unfastening their flies. So what? He was a lecherous old man too, wasn't he?

Very nearly, anyway. Just a sediment of sensitivity still. Just a little. Just a little.

She came over to him, and for a moment she was very beautiful again. 'I've been very patient with you, Inspector, don't you think?'

'I suppose so, yes. Patient, if not particularly cooperative.'

'Can I ask you a question?'

'Of course.'

'Do you want to sleep with me tonight?'

The back of Morse's throat felt suddenly very dry. 'No.'

"You really mean that?'

'Yes.'

'All right.' Her voice was brisker now. 'Let me be "co-operative" then, as you call it.' She handed him a sheet of notepaper on which she had written two telephone numbers.

The first one's my father's. You may have to drag him out of bed, but he's almost certainly home by now. The other one's the Wilsons, downstairs. As I told you, I was at school with Joyce. I'd like you to ring them both, please.'

Morse took the paper and said nothing.

Then there's this.' She handed him a pa.s.sport. 'I know it's out of date, but I've only been abroad once. To Switzerland, three years ago last June.'

With a puzzled frown Morse opened the pa.s.sport and the unmistakable face of Miss Yvonne Baker smiled up at him in gentle mockery from a Woolworth poly-foto. Three years last June ...

whilst Valerie Taylor was still at school in Kidlington. Well before she ... before...

Morse took off his coat and sat down once again on the divan. 'Will you ring your friends below, Yvonne? And if you're feeling very kind, can I please ask you to pour me another whisky? A stiff one.'

At Paddington he was informed that the last train to Oxford had departed half an hour earlier.

He walked into the cheerless waiting room, put his feet up on the bench, and soon fell fast asleep.

At 3.30 a.m. a firm hand shook him by the shoulder, and he looked up into the face of a bearded constable, 'You can't sleep here, sir. I shall have to ask you to move on, I'm afraid.'

'You surely don't begrudge a man a bit of kip, do you, officer?'

'I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to move on, sir.'

Morse almost told him who he was. But simultaneously the other sleepers were being roused and he wondered why he should be treated any differently from his fellow men.

'All right, officer.' Huh! 'All right': that's what Valerie would have said. But he put the thought aside and walked wearily out of the station. Perhaps he'd have more luck at Marylebone. He needed a bit of luck somewhere.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE.

Pilate saith unto him, What is truth?

John, xviii DONALD PHILLIPSON WAS a very worried man. The sergeant had been very proper, of course, and very polite: 'routine inquiries', that was all. But the police were getting uncomfortably close.

A knife that might be missing from the school canteen - that was perfectly understandable: but from his own kitchen! And it was no great surprise that he himself should be suspected of murder: but Sheila! He couldn't talk to Sheila, and he wouldn't let her talk to him: the subject of Valerie Taylor and, later, the murder of Baines lay between them like a no-man's-land, isolated and defined, upon which neither dared to venture. How much did Sheila know? Had she learned that Baines was blackmailing him? Had she learned or half-guessed the shameful reason? Baines himself may have hinted at the truth to her. Baines! G.o.d rot his soul! But whatever Sheila had done or intended to do on the night that Baines was killed was utterly unimportant, and he wished to know nothing of it. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he, Donald Phillipson, who was guilty of murdering Baines. The walls of the small study seemed gradually to be closing in around him. The c.u.mulative pressures of the last three years had now become too strong, and the tangled web of falsehood and deceit had enmeshed his very soul. If he were to retain his sanity he had to do something; something to bring a period of peace to a conscience tortured to its breaking-point; something to atone for all the folly and the sin. Again he thought of Sheila and the children and he knew that he could hardly face them for much longer. And interminably his thoughts went dancing round and round his head and always settled to the same conclusion. Whichever way you looked at it, it was he and only he who was guilty of murdering Baines.

Morning school was almost over, and Mrs Webb was tidying up her desk as he walked through.

'1 shan't be in this afternoon, Mrs Webb.' 'No. 1 realize that, sir. You never are on Tuesdays.' 'Er, no. Tuesday afternoon, of course. I'd, er ... I'd forgotten for the minute.'

It was like hearing the phone in a television play: he knew there was no need to answer it himself. He still felt wretchedly tired and he buried his head again in the pillows. Having found no more peace at Maryle-bone than at Paddington, he had finally arrived back in Oxford at 8.05 a.m., and had taken a taxi home. One way or another it had been an expensive debacle.

An hour later the phone rang again. Shrill, peremptory, now, registering at a higher level of his consciousness; and shaking his head awake, he reached for the receiver on the bedside table. He yawned an almighty "Yeah?" into the mouthpiece and levered himself up to a semi-vertical position.

'Lewis? What the h.e.l.l do you want?'

'I've been trying to get you since two o'clock, sir. It's-'

'What? What time is it now?'

'Nearly three o'clock, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you but I've got a bit of a surprise for you.'

'Huh, I doubt it.'

'I think you ought to come, though. We're at the station.'

'Who do you mean by "we"?'

'If I told you that, sir, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?'

'Give me half an hour,' said Morse.

He sat down at the table in Interview Room One. In front of him lay a doc.u.ment, neatly typed but as yet unsigned, and he picked it up and read it: 'I have come forward voluntarily to the police to make this statement, and I trust that to some extent this may weigh in my favour. I wish to plead guilty to the murder of Mr Reginald Baines, late second master of the Roger Bacon Comprehensive School, Kidlington, Oxon. The reasons I had for killing him are not, in my view, strictly relevant to the criminal proceedings, that will be brought against me, and there are certain things which everyone should have the right to hold sacrosanct. About the details of the crime, too, I wish for the present to say nothing. I am aware that the question of deliberate malice and premeditation may be of great importance, and for this reason I wish to notify my lawyer and to take the benefit of his advice.

I hereby certify that this statement was made by me in the presence of Sergeant Lewis, CID, Thames Valley Police, on the day and at the time subscribed. Your obedient servant,'

Morse looked up from the sheet of typing and turned his light-grey eyes across the table.

'You can't spell "proceedings",' he said.

'Your typist, Inspector. Not me.' Morse reached for his cigarettes and offered them across. 'No thank you, I don't smoke.'

Without dropping his eyes, Morse lit a cigarette and drew upon it deeply. His expression was a mixture of vague distaste and tacit scepticism. He pointed to the statement. 'You want this to go forward?'

'Yes.'

'As you wish.'

They sat silently, as if neither had anything further to say to the other. Morse looked across to the window, and outside on to the concrete yard. He'd made so many stupid blunders in the case; and no one was likely to thank him overmuch for making yet another. It was the only sensible solution, perhaps. Or almost the only sensible solution. Did it matter? Perhaps not. But still upon his face remained the look of dark displeasure.

'You don't like me much, do you, Inspector?'

'I wouldn't say that,' replied Morse defensively. 'It's just... It's just that you've never got into the habit of telling me the truth, have you?'

'I've made up for it now, I hope.'

'Have you? Morse's eyes were hard and piercing, but to his question there was no reply.

'Shall I sign it now?'

Morse remained silent for a while. 'You think it's better this way?' he asked very quietly. But again there was no reply, and Morse pa.s.sed across the statement and stood up. 'You've got a pen?'

Sheila Phillipson nodded, and opened her long, expensive leather hand-bag.