The Way Through The Woods (10 page)

‘Alraedy found, Mrs Hardinge. And I'm Jim O'Kane. Now do come in. won't you? And welcome to the Cotswold House.' With which splendid greeting he picked up her case and led her inside, Claire felt immediately and overwhelmingly impressed.

Brifly O'Kane consulted the bookings register, then selected a key from somewhere, and led the way up a semi-circular staircase, no trouble finding us, I trust?'

‘Your little map was very helpful.'

'Good journey?'

'No problems.'

O'Kane walked across the landing, inserted a key in Room opened the door, ushered his guest inside, followed her with the suitcase, and then, with a courteous, old-world gesture, hande her a single key – almost as if he were presenting a bouquet flowers to a beautiful girl.

'The key fits your room here
and
the front door, Mrs Hardinge’

'Fine.'

'And if I could just remind you' – his voice growing somewhat apologetic – 'this is a non-smoking guest-house… I
did
mention it when you rang.'

'Yes.' But she was frowning. 'That means – everywhere? Including the bedrooms?'

'Especially the bedrooms,' replied O'Kane, simply if reluctant!'.

Claire looked down at the single key. 'My husband's been held up in London-'

'No problem! Well, only
one
problem perhaps. We're always a
bit pushed for parking – if there are
two
cars…?'

'He'll have his car, yes. But don't worry about that. There seem to be plenty of room in the side-streets.'

O'Kane appeared grateful for her understanding, and asked if she were familiar with Oxford, with the North Oxford area. And Claire said, yes, she was; her husband knew the area well, so there was no trouble there.

Wishing Mrs Hardinge well, Mr O'Kane departed – leaving Claire to look with admiration around the delightfully designed and decorated accommodation.
En suite,
too.

O'Kane was not a judgemental man, and in any case the moralality of his guests was of rather less importance to him than the comfort. But already the signs were there: quite apart from the circumstantial evidence of any couple arriving in separate cars, over the years O'Kane had observed that almost every wedded woman arriving first would show an interest in the in-house amenities and the like. Yet Mrs Hardinge(?) had enquired about none of these… he would have guessed too (if asked) that she might well pay the bill from her own cheque-book when the couple left – about 50 per cent of such ladies usually did so. In the early days of his business career, such things had worried O'Kane a little. But not so much now. Did it matter? Did it really matter? Any couple could get a
mortgage
these days – let alone a couple nights' accommodation in a B & B. She was a pleasantly spoken, attractive woman; and as O'Kane walked down the stairs he hoped she'd have a happy time with that Significant Other who would doubtless be arriving soon, ostensibly spending the weekend away from his wife at some Oxford conference. Oxford was full of conferences…

Claire looked around her. The co-ordinated colour scheme of décor and furnishing was a sheer delight – white, champagne, cerise, mahogany – and reproductions of late-Victorian pictures graced the walls. Beside the help-yourself tea and coffee facilities stood a small fridge, in which she saw an ample supply of milk; and two glasses – and two champagne glasses. For a while she sat on the floral-printed bedspread; then went over to the window and looked out, over the window-box of busy Lizzies, geraniums, and petunias, down on to the Banbury Road. For several minutes she stood there, not knowing whether she was happy or not – trying to stop the clock, to live in the present, to grasp the moment… and to hold it.

Then – her heart was suddenly pounding against her ribs. A man was walking along the pavement towards the roundabout. He wore a pink, short-sleeved shirt, and his forearms were bronzed – as if perhaps he might recently have spent a few days beside the sea. In his left hand he carried a bag bearing the name of the local wineshop, Oddbins; in his right hand he carried a bag with the same legend. He appeared deep in thought as he made his way, fairly slowly, across her vision and proceeded up towards the roundabout.

What an amazing coincidence! – the man might have thought had she pushed open the diamond-leaded window and shouted – Remember me? Lyme Regis? Last weekend?' But that would have been to misunderstand matters, for in truth there was no coincidence at all. Claire Osborne had seen to that.

There was a soft knock on her door, and O'Kane asked if she – if either of them – would like a newspaper in the morning: it was part of the service. Claire smiled. She liked the man. She ordered
The Sunday Times.
Then, for a little while after he was gone she wondered why she felt so sad.

It was not until just before 9 p.m. that Dr Alan Hardinge arrived – explaining, excusing, but as vulnerable, as loving as ever. And -
bless him! – he had brought a bottle of Brut Imperial,
and
a bottle of Skye Talisker malt. And almost,
almost
(as she later herself) had Claire Osborne enjoyed the couple of hours they spent together that night between the immaculately laundered sheets of Room 1 in the Cotswold House in North Oxford.

Morse had arrived home at 2.30 p.m. that same day. No one, as far as he knew, was aware that he had returned (except Lewis?); yet Strange had telephoned at 4 p.m. Would Morse be happy to take on the case? Well, whether he would be happy or not, Morse was
going
to take on the case.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

'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 3.30 a.m. before she fell into a fitful slumber.