Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

(A. E. HOUSM^N, A Shropshire Lad, XLI)

Morse snapped Catullus to.

"You didn't hear what I just said, did you, sir?"

"Pardon? Sorry. Just pondering--just pondering."

"Is it leading us anywhere, this, er, pondering?"

"We're learning quite a bit about this girl of his, aren't we? Building up quite an interesting--" 'qhe answer's 'no' then, is it?" Morse smiled weakly. "Probably."

"Not like you, that, sir--giving up so quickly."

"No. You're right. We shall have to check up on her."

"Find out where she lives."

"What? Not much of a problem there," said Morse. "Really?"

"She came on foot, we know that. From the Banbury Road side."

"I thought you said. Mrs. Thingummy was making every-thing up?"

But Morse ignored the interjection. "Where do you think she lives?"

"Just round the comer, perhaps?"

"Doubt it. Doubt he'd meet any local girl locally, if you see what! mean."

"Well, if she did have a car, she couldn't park it in the Banbury Road, that's for certain."

"So she hasn't got a car?"

"Well, if she has she doesn't use it."

"She probably came by bus then."

"If you say so, sir."

"Number twenty-something: down the Cowley Road, through the High to Carfax, along Cornmarket and St. Giles's, then up the Banbury Road."

"Has she got a season-ticket, sir?"

"Such flippancy ill becomes yoa, Lewis."

"I'm not being flippant. I'm just confused. You'll be tell ing me next what colour her eyes are."

'3ive me a chance."

"Which street she lives in..."

"Oh, I think I know that."

Lewis grinned and shook his head. "Come on, sir, tell me!"

"Pater Street, Lewis--that's where she lives. Named after Walter Pater, you know, the fellow who described the Mona Lisa as a woman who'd learned the secrets of the grave."

"Pater Street? That's out in Cowley, isn't it?"

Morse nodded. "Mc Clure mentions Cowley in something he wrote here." Morse tapped Catullus. "And then there's this."

He handed across the postcard he'd found marking the relevant page of notes at the back of the volume--notes in-cluding a chicken-hearted comment on Glubit: "sensus obscenus. "

Lewis took the card; and after glancing at the coloured photograph, "Bluebells in Wytham Woods," turned to the back where, to the left of Mc Clure's address, he read the brief message, written boldly in black Biro: P St. out this Sat--either DC or wherever K The unsmudged postmark gave the date as August 10, 1994.

"Yees. I see what you mean, sir. They'd arranged to meet at her place, perhaps, P-something Street, on the Sat urday; then on the Wednesday something cropped up "

"She may have had the decorators in."

"... so it had to be 'DC,' Daventry Court, or 'wher-ever.'"

"Probably some hotel room."

"Cost him, though. Double room'd be--what?--70, pounds 80, pounds 90 pounds "

"Or a B&B."

"Even so. Still about f AO, 50 pounds pence "Then he's got to pay her for her services, don't forget that."

"How much do you think, sir?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Maybe she was worth every penny of it," Lewis sug-gested quietly.

"Do you know, I very much doubt that," asserted Morse with surprising vehemence, now walking over to the phone, consulting the black index, and dialling a number.

"Could be Princess Street, sir? That's just off the Cowley Road."

Morse put his palm over the receiver and shook his head.

"No, Lewis. It's Pater Street. Hullo?"

"Yeah? Wha' d'ya wan'?"

"Have I got the right number for 'K,' please?"

"You 'ave. Bu' she ain't 'ere, is she?"

"That's what I hoped you'd be able to tell me."

"You another dur'y o1' man or somethin'?"

"If I am, I'm a dirty old police inspector," replied Morse, in what he trusted was a cultured, authoritative tone. "Oh, sorry."

"You say she's not there?"

"She's bin away for a week in Spain. Sent me a topless photo of 'erself from Torremolinos, didn't she? Only this momin'."

"A week, you say?"

"Yeah. Went las' Sa'dy---back this Sa'dy."

"Does she have a... a client in North Oxford?"

"An' if she does?"

"You know his name T"

"What about her name?"

"She in some sort of trouble?" Suddenly the voice sounded anxious, softer now--with a final "t" voiced upon that "sort."

"I could get all this information from Kidlington Police HQ--you know that, surely? I just thought it would save a bit of time and trouble if you answered me over the phone. Then when we've finished I can thank you for your kind cooperation with the police in their enquiries." Hesitation now at the other end of the line.

Then an answer: "Kay Blaxendale. That's 'Kay,' K-A-Y. She jus' signs herself 'K'--the letter 'K.'"

"Is that her real name? It sounds a bit posh T'

"It's her professional name. Her real name's Ellie "What about your name?"

"Do you have to know?"

"Yes."

"Friday Banks--that's me."

"Have you got another name?"

"No."

"You've got another accent though, haven't you?"

"Pardon?"

"When you want to, you can speak very nicely. You've got a pleasant voice. I just wonder why you try to sound so cheap and common, that's all."

"Heh! Come off it. I may be common, mista, but I ain't cheap---I can tell yer tha'."

"All right."

"Tha' all?"

"Er, do you like bluebells, Miss Banks?"