At 5 p.m. he had walked down to Summertown and bought eight pint-cans of newly devised 'draught' bitter, which promised him the taste of a hand-pulled, cask-conditioned drop of ale; and two bottles of his favourite Quercy claret. For Morse -considerately out of condition still -the weight felt a bit too hefty; and outside the Radio Oxford building he halted awhile and looked behind him in the hope of seeing the oblong outline of a red double-decker coming up from the city centre. But there was no bus in sight, so he walked on. As he passed the Cotswold House he saw amongst other things the familiar white sign 'No Vacancies' on the door. He was not surprised. He had heard very well of the place, wouldn't mind staying there himself. Especially for the breakfasts.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
STRANGE had been really quite pleased with all the publicity. Seldom had there been such national interest in a purely notional Tiurder; and the extraordinary if possibly unwarranted ingenuity . hich the public had already begun to exercise on the originally rrinted verses was most gratifying - if not as yet of much concrete value. There had been two further offerings in the Letters to the Editor page in the Saturday, 11 July's issue of The Times:
From Gillian Richard Sir, Professor Gray (July 9) seems to me too lightly to dismiss one factor in the Swedish Maiden case. She is certainly, in my view, alive still, but seemingly torn between the wish to live and the wish to die. She has probably never won any poetry competition in her life, and I greatly doubt whether she is to be found as a result of her description of the natural world. But she is out there, in the natural world - possibly living rough; certainly not indoors. I would myself hazard a guess, dismissed by Professor Gray, that she is in a car somewhere, and here the poem's attribution (A. Austin 1853^87) can give us the vital clue. What about an A-registration Austin? It would be a 1983 model, yes; and might we not have the registration number, too? I suggest A 185 -then three letters. If we suppose 3=C, 8=H, and 7=G (the third, eighth, and seventh letters of the alphabet), we have A 185 CGH. Perhaps then our young lady is languishing in an ageing Metro? And if so, sir, we must ask one question: who is the owner of that car? Find her! Yours etc., GILLIAN RICHARD, 26 Hay ward Road, Oxford.
From Miss Polly Rayner Sir, I understand from your report on the disappearance a year ago of a Swedish student that her rucksack was found near the village of Begbroke in Oxfordshire. It may be that I am excessively addicted to your own crossword puzzles but surely we can be justified in spotting a couple of 'clues' here? The '-broke' of the village name is derived from the Anglo-Saxon word 'brok', meaning 'running water' or 'stream'. And since 'beg' is a synonym of 'ask', what else are we to make of the first three words in line 7: 'Ask the stream'? Indeec this clue is almost immediately COD-; firmed two lines later in the injunc-" tion 'ask the sun'. 'The Sun' is how \ the good citizens of Begbroke refer I to their local hostelry, and it is ia j and around that hostelry where ml my view the police should re-* concentrate their enquiries. Yours faithfully, POLLY RAYNER, President, Woodstock Local History Society, j Woodstock, Oxon.
That was more like it! Strange had earlier that day put suggested car registration through the HQ's traffic computer. No luck! Yet this was just the sort of zany, imaginative idea that might well unlock the mystery, and stimulate a few more such ideas the bargain. When he had rung Morse that same Saturday afternoon (he too had read the postcard!) he had not been at surprised by Morse's apparent -surely only 'apparent'? -lack of interest in taking over the case immediately. Yes, Morse still hi a few days' leave remaining -only to the Friday, mind! But, really this case was absolutely up the old boy's street! Tailor-made Morse, this case of the Swedish Maiden . . .
Strange decided to leave things alone for a while though -until the next day. He had more than enough on his plate for the minute. The previous evening had been a bad one, with the city and County police at full stretch with the (virtual) riots on Broadmoor Lea estate: car-thefts, joy-riding, ram-raids, stone throwing . . . With Saturday and Sunday evenings still to come! He felt saddened as he contemplated the incipient breakdown in law and order, contempt for authority -police, church, parents school. . . Augh! Yet in one awkward, unexplored little corner his mind, he knew he could almost understand something of it -just a fraction. For as a youth, and a fairly privileged youth at that, he remembered harbouring a secret desire to chuck a full sized brick through the window of one particularly well-appointed property ...
But yes - quite definitely, yes! - he would feel so very much happier if Morse could take over the responsibility of the case; take it away from his own, Strange's, shoulders. Thus it was that Strange had rung Morse that Saturday afternoon.
'What case?' Morse had asked. 'You know bloody well-' ‘I'm still on furlough, sir. I'm trying to catch up with the housework.' 'Have you been drinking, Morse?' ‘Just starting, sir.' 'Mind if I come and join you?' "Not this afternoon, sir. I've got a wonderful - odd, actually! - got a wonderful Swedish girl
in the flat with me just at the moment’ ‘Oh!' 'Look,' said Morse slowly, 'if there is a breakthrough in the case. If there does seem some
reason-' 'You been reading the correspondence?' ‘Id sooner miss The Archers!' ‘Do you think it's all a hoax?' Strrange heard Morse's deep intake of breath: 'No! No, I don't. It’s just that we're going to
get an awful lot of false leads and false confessions -you know that. We always do. Trouble is, it makes us look such idiots, doesn't it - if we take everything too seriously.'
Yes, Strange accepted that what Morse had just said was exactly his own view. 'Morse. Let me give you a ring tomorrow, all right? We’ve got those bloody yoiks out on Broadmoor Lea to sort ii
‘Yes, I've been reading about it while I was away.' 'Enjoy your holiday, in Lyme?' ‘Not much.' ‘Well, I'd better leave you to your . . . your "wonderful Swedish girl” wasn't it?’ ‘I wish you would.' After Morse had put down his phone, he switched his CD player on again to the Immolation Scene
from the finale of Wagner's Göiterdämmerung; and soon the pure and limpid voice of the Swedish soprano, Birgit Nilsson, resounded again through the chief inspector's flat.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When I complained of having dined at a splendid table without hearing one sentence IN THE small hours of Sunday, 12 July, Claire Osborne still lay still awake, wondering yet again about what exactly it was she wanted in life. It had been all right -it usually was 'all right'. Alan was reasonably competent, physically -and so loving. She liked him well enough, but she could never be in love with him. She had given him as much of herself as she could; but where, she asked herself, was the memorability of it all? Where the abiding joy in yet another of their brief, illicit, slightly disturbing encounters.
worthy to be remembered, he [Dr Johnson] said, 'There is seldom any such conversation' (James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson)
'To hell with this sex lark, Claire!' her best friend in Salisbury had said. 'Get a man who's interesting, that's what I say. Like Johnson! Now, he was interesting!'
'Doctor Johnson? He was a great-fat slob, always dribbling his soup down his waistcoat, and he was smelly, and never changed his underpants!'
'Never?'
'You know what I mean.'
'But everybody wanted to hear him talk, didn't they? That's what I'm saying.'
'Yeah. I know what you mean.'
‘Yeah!'
And the two women had laughed together - if with little conviction.
Alan Hardinge had earlier said little about the terrible accident: a few stonily spoken details about the funeral; about the little service they were going to hold at the school; about the unexpected helpfulness of the police and the authorities and support groups and neighbours and relatives. But Claire had not questioned him about any aspect of his own grief. She would, she knew, be trespassing upon a territory that was not, and never could be, hers . . . It was