Part 21 (1/2)

'You going to see the boy friend?'

'Not for half an hour or so. I've got plenty of time.'

'Where are you meeting him?'

'The Black Prince. Know it?'

'Would you like to come for a drink with me first?' He felt very nervous and excited.

'Why not?'

There was a s.p.a.ce in the yard and he backed in, up against the far left-hand wall.

'Perhaps it's not such a good idea to have a drink here,' she said.

'No, perhaps not.'

She lay back again in the seat, her skirt rising up around her thighs. Her legs were stretched out, long, inviting, slightly parted.

'You married?' she asked. He nodded. Her right hand played idly and irregularly with the gear lever, her fingers caressing the k.n.o.b. The windows were gradually misting over with their breath and he leaned over to the compartment on the near side of the dashboard. His arm brushed her as he did so and he felt a gentle forward pressure from her body. He found the duster and half-heartedly cleaned her side window. He felt the pressure of her right hand against his leg as he moved slightly across her, but she made no effort to remove it. He put his left arm around the back of her seat and she turned towards him. Her lips were full and open and tantalizingly she licked her tongue along them. He could resist her no longer and kissed her with an abrupt and pa.s.sionate abandon. Her tongue snaked into his mouth and her body turned towards him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s thrusting forward against him. He caressed her legs with his right hand, revelling in sheer animal joy as she swayed slightly and parted them with wider invitation. She broke off the long and frenzied kissing and licked the lobe of his ear and whispered, 'undo the b.u.t.tons on my blouse. I'm not wearing a bra.'

'Let's get in the back,' he said hoa.r.s.ely. His erection was enormous.

It was over all too soon, and he felt guilty of his own reactions. He wanted to get away from her. She seemed quite different now - metamorphosed in a single minute.

'I'd better go.'

'So soon?' She was slowly fastening her blouse but the spell was broken now.

'Yes. I'm afraid so.'

'You enjoyed it, didn't you?'

'Of course. You know I did.'

'You'd like to do it again some time?'

'You know I would.' He was getting more and more anxious to get away. Had he imagined someone out there? A peeping Tom, perhaps?

'You've not told me your name.'

'You've not told me yours.'

'Sylvia. Sylvia Kaye.'

'Look Sylvia.' He tried to sound as loving towards her as he could. 'Don't you think it would be better if we, you know, just thought of this as something beautiful that happened to us. Just the once.

Here tonight.'

She turned nasty and sour then. 'You don't want to see me again, do you? You're just like the rest.

Bi' of s.e.x and a blow out and you're off.' She spoke differently, too. She sounded like a common s.l.u.t, a cheap, hard pick-up from a Soho side-street. But she was right, of course - absolutely right. He'd got what he wanted. But hadn't she? Was she a prost.i.tute? He thought of his days in the army and the men who'd caught a dose of the pox He must get out of here; out of this claustrophobic car and this dark and miserable yard. He put his hand in his pocket and found a 1 note. But for some loose silver, he had no more money on him.

'A pound no'! One b.l.o.o.d.y pound no'! Chris' - you must think I'm a cheap bi' of goods. You 'ave a bi' of money on you nex' time mate - or else keep your b.l.o.o.d.y 'ands off.'

He felt a deep sense of shame and corruption. She got out of the car and he followed her.

'I'll find ou' who you b.l.o.o.d.y are, mister. I will - you see!'

What had happened then he didn't know. He remembered saying something and he vaguely remembered that she had said something back. He remembered his headlights swathing the yard and he remembered waiting for a gap in the traffic as he reached the main road. He remembered stopping to buy a double whisky and he remembered driving fast down the dual carriageway; and he remembered coming up behind a car and then swerving past it and flying through the night, his mind reeling. And on Thursday afternoon he had read in the Oxford Mail of the murder of Sylvia Kaye.

It had been foolish to write that letter, of course, but at least Peter would be out of trouble now. It was always asking for trouble - putting anything down on paper; but it had been a neat little arrangement until then. It was her suggestion anyway, and it seemed necessary. The post in North Oxford was really dreadful - 10.00 a.m. or later now - and no one seemed to mind the girls at the office getting letters. And so often he couldn't be quite sure until the last minute. Sometimes things got into a complex tangle, but more often the arrangement had worked very smoothly. They had worked out a good system between them. Quite clever really. No one even looked at the date anyway. Sometimes he had incorporated a brief message, too - like that last time. That last time ... Morse must have had his wits about him, but he hadn't been quite clever enough to see the whole picture ... He couldn't have told Morse the whole truth, of course, but he hadn't deliberately meant to mislead him. A bit, certainly.

That height business, for example ... He'd like to see Morse. Perhaps under other circ.u.mstances they could have got to know each other, become friends ...

He dozed off completely and it was dark when he awoke. The lights were dim. The silent, white figure of a nurse sat behind a small table at the far end of the ward, and he saw that most of the other patients were lying asleep. The real world rushed back at him, and Margaret was dead. Why? Why?

Was it as she said in the letter? He wondered how he could ever face life again, and he thought of the children. What had they been told?

Sharp spasms of agonizing pain leaped across his chest and he knew suddenly and with cert.i.tude that he was going to die. The nurse was with him, and now the doctor. He was drenched with sweat.

Margaret! Had she killed Sylvia or had he? What did it matter? The pains were dying away and he felt a strange serenity.

'Doctor,' he whispered.

Take it gently, Mr Crowther. You'll feel better now.' But Crowther had suffered a ma.s.sive coronary thrombosis and his chances of living on were tilted against him in the balances. 'Doctor. Will you write something for me?'

'Yes. Of course.'

To Inspector Morse. Write it down.' The doctor took his note-book out and wrote down the brief message. He looked at Crowther with worried eyes: the pulse was weakening rapidly. The machine was working, its black dials turned up to their maximum readings. Bernard felt the oxygen mask over his face and saw in a strangely lucid way the minutest details of all around him. Dying was going to be much easier than he had ever hoped. Easier than living. He knocked away the mask with surprising vigour, and spoke his last words.

'Doctor. Tell my children that I loved them.' His eyes closed and he seemed to fall into a deep sleep. It was 2.35 a.m. He died at 6.30 the same morning before the sun had risen in the straggly grey of the eastern sky and before the early morning porters came clattering along the corridors with their hospital trolleys.

Morse looked down at him. It was 8.30 a.m. and the last mortal remains of Bernard Crowther had been un.o.btrusively wheeled into the hospital mortuary almost two hours ago. Morse had liked Crowther.

Intelligent face; good-looking man really. He thought that Margaret must have loved him dearly once; probably always had, deep down. And not only Margaret. There had been someone else, too, hadn't there, Bernard? Morse looked down at the sheet of note-paper in his hand, and read it again. To Inspector Morse. I'm so sorry. I've told you so many lies. Please leave her alone. She had nothing to do with it. How could she? I killed Sylvia Kaye.'

The p.r.o.nouns were puzzling, or so they had seemed to the doctor as he wrote the brief message. But Morse understood them and he knew that Bernard Crowther had guessed the truth before he died. He looked at the dead man again: the feet were as cold as stone and he would babble no more o' green fields.

Morse turned slowly on his heel and left.

28 Friday, 22 October, a.m.

Later that same Friday morning Morse sat in his office bringing Lewis up to date with the morning's developments. ”You see, all along the trouble with this case has been not so much that they've told us downright lies but that they've told us such a tricky combination of lies and the truth. But we're nearly at the end of the road, thank G.o.d.'

'We're not finished yet, sir?'