‘Does it show?’

She nodded-a faint smile upon lips that were thin and completely devoid of make-up. ‘It’s the “s”s that are always difficult, isn’t it? When you’ve had too much drink, I mean-or when you begin wearing false teeth.”

Morse looked at her own, most beautifully healthy teeth. ‘How would you know about that?’

‘I sometimes drink too much.’

Morse let it go, for things were going very nicely-the conversation moving already on to a plane of easy familiarity. But it wasn’t to last.

‘What do you want, Inspector?’ A hard, no-nonsense tone had come into her voice.

So Morse told her; and she listened in silence, occasionally crossing one naked leg over the other and then covering her knees with a sharp little tug at the robe, like some puritanical parson’s wife at a vicarage tea-party. And almost from the start Morse felt the virtual certainty that “Yvonne” had now been found-found sitting here in front of him, her head slightly to one side, sweeping up her blonde hair with her left hand and reinserting a few of the multitudinous pins with her right.

When Morse had finished the first part of his tale, she reached for her handbag. ‘Do you smoke, Inspector?’

Morse patted his jacket pocket, and suspected that he must have left his own recently purchased packet in the pub.

‘Here, have one of these.’ Her bag was open now, the flap towards him; and seeing the faded gilt initials Morse knew that his silly hope was finally extinguished.

‘You’re very kind,’ he heard himself say.

Had she seen something vulnerable in this strange inspector of police? In his mien? In his eyes? On his lips? Perhaps, indeed, she had, for her voice had been more gentle, and she now stood up and lit his cigarette, unconscious (or uncaring) that her robe was partly open at the top as she leaned towards him. Then she sat back in her chair again, and told him her own side of the story, still occasionally recrossing her lovely legs, but now no longer too concerned about concealing them.

She’d known Bert Gilbert for only a few weeks. He’d come into the sauna one morning-very much in control of himself-and asked her if she’d be willing to entertain a very special client of his; yes, at the address Morse had mentioned; and, yes, with a sequel much as he’d described it. After that Gilbert had obviously taken a liking to her, spent a fair amount of money on her, and wanted to keep seeing her. Had kept seeing her. But he’d got jealous and morose, and was soon telling her that he wanted her to pack up her job and go to live with him. For her part, the whole thing had been the old familiar story of an ageing man behaving like an infatuated schoolboy-and she’d told him so.

That was all.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Morse.

Her eyes were looking down at the thickly-piled carpet: “Winifred- Winifred Stewart. Not much of a name, is it? Some people are christened with horrid names.’

‘Mm.’

She looked up. ‘What’s your name?’

‘They call me Morse: Inspector Morse.’

‘But that’s your surname.’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t want to tell me your Christian name?’

‘No.’

‘Like that, is it?’ (She was smiling.)

Morse nodded.

‘What about that drink? You’ve sobered up a bit, you know.’

But (quite amazingly) Morse had hardly heard her. ‘Do you – do you go with lots of men?’

‘Not lots, no. I’m a very expensive item.’

‘You earn a lot of money?’

‘More than you do.’ Her voice had grown harsh again, and Morse felt sad and dejected.

‘Do you get much pleasure from-er-’

‘From having sex with clients? Not much, no. Occasionally though-if you want me to be honest.’

‘I’m not sure I do,’ said Morse.

She stood up and poured herself a glass of dry Vermouth, without renewing her offer to the Chief Inspector. ‘You don’t know much about life, do you?’

‘Not much, no.’ He seemed to her to look so lost and tired now, and she guessed he must have had a busy day. But had she known it, his mind was working at a furious rate. There was something (he knew it!) that he’d been missing all the way along; something he doubted he would learn from this disturbingly attractive woman; something that she probably couldn’t tell him, anyway, even when she came (as he knew she would) to the second part of the tale she had to tell.

‘When did you last see Gilbert?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure-’

‘You say you saw him quite a few times after you entertained his special client?’

It was puzzling to Morse how the tone of her voice could vary so vastly (and so suddenly) between the gentle and jarring. It was the latter again now.

‘You mean did I go to bed with him?’

Morse nodded. And for the first time she was aware of the cold, almost merciless eyes that stared upon her, and she felt the sensation of a psychological and almost physical stripping as she answered him, her top lip quivering.

‘Yes!’

‘Was that after you’d met your second special client?’

Her startled eyes looked into his, and then down to the Wilton again. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Please tell me all about that,’ said Morse quietly.

For a few moments she said nothing; then she picked up her glass and quickly drained it.

‘Before I do-would you like to come to bed with me?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’ She stood up and loosened her belt, allowing the sides of her bathrobe to fall apart before drawing them together again and retying the belt tightly around her waist.

‘Quite sure,’ lied Morse.

So Winifred Stewart (it was now past eight o’clock) told Morse about her second special client, a Mr Westerby, who also hailed from Oxford. And Morse listened very carefully, nodding at intervals and seemingly satisfied. But he wasn’t satisfied. It was all interesting-of course it was; but it merely corroborated what he’d already known, or guessed.

‘What about that drink?’ he asked.

Mrs Angela Price looked knowingly at her husband when she I finally heard the quiet voices on the doorstep. It was a quarter to midnight, and BBC 1 had already finished its transmission.

Lewis had finally gone to bed about ten minutes before Morse found a taxi on the Richmond Road. He’d hoped that Morse would have been back before now, and had tried repeatedly to get in touch with him, both at HQ and at his home. For he had received a remarkable piece of news that same afternoon from the young porter at Lonsdale, who had received a card by second post; a card from Greece; a card from Mr Westerby.

At 2a.m., Winifred Stewart was still lying awake. The night was sultry and she wore no nightdress as she lay upon her bed, covered by a lightweight sheet. She thought of Morse, and she felt inexpressibly glad that she had met him; longed, too, with one half of her mind, that he would come to visit her again. And yet knew, quite certainly, that if he did her soul would be completely bared and she would tell him all she knew. Two thirds of the tragic tale had now been told; and if ever he began to guess the final truth… Yet, with the other half of her mind she didn’t want him back – ever – for she was now a very frightened woman.

At 3 a.m. she went to the bathroom to take some Disprin tablets.

At 4 a.m. she was still awake, and suddenly she felt the night had grown so very cold.