Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

Few girls ever spoke to him in such a fashion. But Costyn felt little resentment as he fingered the two packets of Silken Dalliance in his pocket....

Payment for his services?

"Half now; half later," that's what Mrs. Stevens had promised. And as he sat upstairs on the Cowley Road bus, Costyn savoured yet again that intoxicating cocktail of ex-citement and sensuality.

Half later... when the job was done; when the jobs (plural, perhaps) were done.

Was it terribly risky, what he'd so willingly agreed to do? Especially since she wasn't exactly sure of when she'd be calling on him. So what? Much riskier for her than for him. Not that she'd ever need to worry about him: he'd never breathe a word of it to any living soul.

Never.

And anyone who thought he would was suffering under a misapprefuckinhension.

Chapter Thirty-four

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea (SHAKESPEARE, Henry I, Part H)

0)

On Wednesday, September 7, 1994, at 11:20 A.M., Ms. Ellie Smith sat in a taxi, every half-minute or so nervously con-sulting her wristwatch and cursing herself for not having taken up Ashley Davies's often Rightly or wrongly, before walking out on him the pre-vious weekend, she'd informed him of her situation: she was twelve weeks pregnant; she was determined to have another abortion; she had an appointment at a South Bir-mingham clinic for preliminary consultation and advice.

But when Davies had rung her the previous afternoon, she'd turned down his offer of a lift--once again. He'd been quite insistent really, saying that he'd got to be in Ox-ford later the next day, anyway; and it was so quick to Brum now--M40, M42 and in his car, well, they'd do it in an hour almost; save her no end of time and trouble-- and the rail fare into the bargain.

But she'd refused.

She was going by train, catching the 9:11 A.M. from Ox-ford, due to arrive at Birmingham New Street at 10:30 ^.m., which would give her a whole hour to get to the clinic, only five miles distant from the railway station.

That was the plan.

But with the combination of a "signalling failure" just before Leamington Spa and a security scare at Coventry, the train had pounds ally rambled into New Street forty-eight minutes late--and she'd had no option but to take a taxi. Not that she need have bothered too much, for it was 11:$5 A.M. before she was called into the consulting room.

Looking back on things, Ms. Smith knew that she had been strangely impressed by the small, white-coated Paki-stani doctor--a kindly, compassionate man, with Spaniel eyes--who had gently encouraged her at least to consider the alternative: that of keeping the child she had conceived.

She felt glad that she had tried to present herself in rather more conventional guise, putting on bra and pants (both!) beneath her only presentable summer dress--and removing the rings from her nostrils. Admittedly that left her hair, still streaked with crimson like the horizon in an angry sun-set; but she felt (dare she admit it to herself?.) somehow... expiated!

She couldn't really think why.

No, she could think why.

It was something to do with being with her mum once more....

The 3:09 train from New Street, timetabled to arrive in Oxford at 4:31 },.irt., arrived virtually on time. And half an hour later Ellie Smith was back at her flat, reading the brief note contained in the white envelope ("By Hand") which she'd found propped up at the foot of her white-painted door on the third floor: Hope things went OK. Any chance of you thinking again? If there's even a remote chance of its being mine, I'll marry you and make an honest woman of you yet. Don't be cross with me for badgering you.

Ashley, with lots and lots of kisses.

As she put her key into the lock, Ellie Smith wondered whether she'd sadly misjudged Mr. Ashley Davies.

(ii)

"Thanks for coming," said a sombre Phillotson.

In vain Lewis sought to find some suitable rejoinder. "Morse on the mend?"

"Out tomorrow, so they say."

"Will he be fit enough to carry on--with the case?"

"Dunno, sir. I suppose he'll please himself whatever haly pens."

"I suppose he will, yes."

Lewis moved away, and briefly surveyed the wreaths laid out there, including a splendid display of white lilies from the Thames Valley Police HQ.

Phillotson's wife had lived a gently unspectacular life, and died at the age of forty-six. Not much of an innings, re-ally; and not too much of a memorial either, although her husband, her next of kin, and ail of her friends, would hope that the little rose-bush (Rosa rubrifolia), already happily stuck into a wodge of blackly-rich compost in the Garden of Remembrance, would thrive and prosper--and, metem-psychotically, as it were, take over.