But Morse hadn't kept his eyes long on the skull…

'This what you've been looking for, Morse?'

'Yes. I think that's her.'

'Her?'

'I'm certain it's a "her",' said Morse with finality.

'Do you know the last words my old mother said? She'd been baking earlier in the day – the day she died. Then she was taken to her bed, but she still wanted to see how the fruit cake was doing. And it was flat. The bloody thing forgot to rise, Morse! And she said, "You know, life's full of uncertainties". Then she closed her eyes – and died.'

'It's the girl,' repeated Morse simply.

Max made no further comment, staring guardedly on as Morse nodded to the scenes-of-crime officer and the police photograph both of whom had been standing waiting for some while. If there was anything of any import there that Morse should have seen, he was not aware of it; but he still felt nervous about the patch of ground and instructed both to keep as far as possible from the grisly finds.

After a few minutes of photographic flashing, Max stepped rather gingerly into the area, hooked a pair of ancient spectacles around his large ears, looked down at the scattered skeleton, and picked up a bone.

'Femur, Morse. Femur, femoris, neuter. The thigh bone.'

'So?'

Max placed the bone down carefully and turned to Morse 'Look, old friend, I don't very often ask you for any forensic guidedance, but just for once give me a little advice, will you? What the hell am I supposed to do with this bloody lot?'

Morse shook his head. 'I'm not sure.' But suddenly his eyes glowed as if some inner current had been activated. 'I knew she'd be here, Max’ he said slowly. 'Somehow I knew it! And I'm going find out who murdered our Swedish Maiden. And I want you to help me, Max! Help me paint a picture of what went on in this place.’

The almost Messianic fierceness with which Morse had enunciated these words would have affected most people. But not Max.

‘You're the artist, dear boy: I'm just a humble scientist.'

‘How long will you be?'

‘Looking at the bones, you mean?'

‘And the clothes… and the underclothes.'

‘Ah, yes! I remember. You've always had an interest in underclothes' He consulted his watch. 'Opening time at six? I'll see you the upstairs bar at the White Hart-'

‘No. I've got a meeting back at HQ at half-past six.'

‘Really? I thought you were in charge of this case, Morse.'

There were the four of them again: the ACC, Strange, Johnson, Morse; and for the latter, naturally, congratulations were generous. For Johnson, however, there were very mixed feelings: Morse had come up with the girl's body in a couple of days, whilst had come up with nothing in a twelve-month. That was the simple truth of the matter. It was good for the case, of course; but much good for his own morale or his rating amongst his colleagues, or for his wife… or indeed for his newly acquired mother-in-law. But when, an hour later, the meeting broke up, he shook Morse's hand and wished him well, and almost meant it.

After the ACC and Johnson had left, Strange in turn wished Morse continued success, observing that now Morse had come up with a body, all that remained for him was to come up with a murderer, so that he, Strange, would be able to get a nice little report and send it to the DPP. No problems! Then they'd kick the smart-alec defence lawyers up the arse, and stick the bugger who did it in the nick for the rest of his natural. Put a rope round his bloody neck, too, if Strange had his way.

‘Just as well we didn't hang the Birmingham Six,' said Morse quietly.

chapter twenty-seven

on the following morning, Saturday, 18 July, Morse appeared as Lewis saw things, somewhat distanced, somewhat reserved. It was customary for the chief to start, if not always to continue the case with a surfeit of confidence and exuberance, and doubtless that would soon be the way of things again; just not for moment.

'Not really all that much to go on there, sir.' Lewis nodded the two red box-files on the table.

'I've done my homework too, you know.'

'Where do we start?'

'Difficult. We ought really to wait till we hear from Max before we do too much.'

'All this DNA stuff, you mean?'

'DNA? He doesn't know what it stands for!'

'When's the report due?'

'Today some time, he said.'

'What's that mean?'

'Tonight?' Morse shrugged. But he suddenly sat forward in the black leather chair, appeared to sharpen up, took out his silver Parker pen, and began making a few minimal notes as he spoke:

'There are several people we've got to see pretty soon.'

'Who are you thinking of, sir?'

'Of whom am I thinking? Well, number one, there's the fellow who found the rucksack – Daley. We'll go through his statement with a nit-comb. I never did like the sound of him.'

'You never met him, did you?'

'Number two. There's the YWCA woman who spoke with Karin before she left for Oxford. She sounds nice.'

'But you never-'

'I spoke to her on the phone, Lewis, if you must know. She sounds nice – that's all I said. You don't mind, do you?'

Lewis smiled to himself. It was good to be back in harness.

'Number three,' resumed Morse. 'We must have a long session I with that Wytham fellow – the Lone Ranger, or whatever he's called.'

'Head forester, sir.'

'Exactly.'

'Did you like him?'

Morse turned over the palm of his right hand, and considered us inky fingers. 'He virtually told us where she was, didn't he? Told us where he would hide a body if he had to…'

‘Not likely to have told us if he'd put it there himself though, surely? Self-incrimination, that!'

Morse said nothing.

‘The witnesses who said they saw her, sir – any good going back over them?'

‘Doubt it, but… Anyway, let's put 'em down, number four. And number five, the parents-'

Just the mother, sir.'

‘- in Uppsala -'

‘Stockholm, now.'

‘Yes. We shall have to see her again.'

‘We shall have to tell her first, surely.'

‘If it is Karin, you mean?'

'You don't really have much doubt, do you, sir?'

‘No!'

‘I suppose you'll be going there yourself? To Stockholm, I mean.'

Morse looked up, apparently with some surprise. 'Or you, Lewis.’

‘Very kind of you, sir.'

‘Not kind at all. Just that I'm scared stiff of flying – you know that' But the voice was a little sad again.

‘You all right?' Lewis asked quietly

‘Will be soon – don't worry! Now, I just wonder whether Mr George Daley's still working on the Blenheim Estate.'

‘Saturday, though. More likely to be off today.'

‘Yes… And his son – Philip, was it? – the lad who had a short-birthday present of a camera, Karin Eriksson's camera. He was still at school last year.'

'Probably still is.'

'No – not precisely so, Lewis. The state schools in Oxfordshire broke up yesterday, the seventeenth.'

'How'd you know that?'

'I rang up and found out. That's how.'

'You've been having a fair old time on the phone!' said Lewis happily, as he got to his feet – and went for the car.

As he drove out along the A44 to Begbroke, Lewis's eyes drifted briefly if incuriously to his left as Morse opened an envelope, took out a single handwritten sheet of A4 and read it; not (in fact) for the first, or even the fourth, time: