Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

A door, forming the side entrance to the Black Prince, led out into the courtyard and from here Morse stepped gingerly out and looked around. He counted thirteen cars jammed tight into the limited space, but he could have missed one or two, for the cars furthest away were little more than dark hulks against the high back wall, and he wondered by what feats of advanced-motoring skill and precision their inebriated owners could ever negotiate the vehicles unscathed through the narrow exit from the yard. Carefully he shone his torch around and slowly perambulated the yard. The driver of the last car parked on the left-hand side of the yard had presciently backed into the narrow lot and left himself a yard or so of room between his nearside and the wall; and stretched along this space was the sprawling figure of a young girl. She lay on her fight side, her head almost up against the omer of the walls, her long blonde hair now cruelly streaked with blood. It was immediately clear that she had been killed by a heavy blow across the back of the skull, and behind the lady lay a fiat heavy tyro-spanner, about one and a half inches across and some eighteen inches in length--the type of spanner with its undulating ends so common in the days before the inauguration of instant tyre repairs. Morse stood for a few min-utes, gazing down at the ugly scene at his feet. The murdered girl wore a minimum of clothing--a pair of wedge-heeled shoes, a very brief dark-blue mini-skirt and a white blouse. Nothing else. Morse shone his torch on the upper part of the body. The left-hand side of the blouse was ripped across; the top two buttons were unfastened and the third had bn wrenched away, leaving the full breasts almost totally exposed. Morse flashed his torch around and immediately spotted the missing button--a small, white, mother-of-pearl disc winking up at him from the cobbled ground. How he hated sex murders! He shouted to the constable standing at the entrance to the yard.

"Yes, sir?"

"We need some arc-lamps."

"It would help, I suppose, sir."

"Get some."

"Me, sir?

"Yes, you!"

"Where shall I get... T'

"How the hell do I know," bellowed Morse.

By a quarter to midnight Lewis had finished his task and he reported to Morse, who was sitting with The Tmes in the manager's office, drinking what looked very much like whisky.

"Ah, Lewis." He thrust the paper across. "Have a look at 14 down.

Appropriate, eh?" Lewis looked at 14 down: Take itt bachelor? It cou M do (3). He saw what Morse had written into the completed diagram: BRA.

What was he supposed to say? He had never worked with Morse before.

"Good clue, don't you think?"

Lewis, who had occasionally managed the Daily Mirror coffee-time crossword, was out of his depth, and felt much puzzled.

"I'm afraid I'm not very hot on crosswords, sir."

'"Bachelor'--that's BA and 'take' is the letter 'r'; recipe in Latin.

Did you never do any Latin?"

"No, sir."

"Do you think I'm wasting your time, Lewis?"

Lewis was nobody's fool and was a man of some honesty and integrity. "yes, sir."

An engaging smile crept across Morse's mouth. He thought they would get on well together.

"Lewis, 1 want you to work with me on this case." The sergeant looked straight at Morse and into the hard, grey eyes. He heard himself say he would be delighted.

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