"Dexter, Colin - Inspector Morse 01 - Last Bus to Woodstock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dexter Colin)

Last Bus to Woodstock

Colin Dexter

Prelude

'Let's wait just a bit longer, please,' said the girl in dark-blue trousers and the light summer coat.
'I'm sure there'll one due pretty soon.'
She wasn't quite sure though, and for the third time she turned to study the time-table affixed in its
rectangular frame to Fare Stage 5. But her mind had never journeyed with any confidence in the world
of columns and figures, and the finger tracing its tentatively horizontal course from the left of the frame
had little chance of meeting, at the correct coordinate, the finger descending in a vaguely vertical line
from the top. The girl standing beside her transferred her weight impatiintly from one foot to the other
and said, 'I don' know abou' you.'
'Just a minute. Just a minute.' She focused yet again on the relevant columns: 4, 4A (not after
18.00 hours), 4E, 4X (Saturdays only). Today was Wednesday. That meant... If 2 o'clock was 14.00
hours, that meant...
"Look, sweethear', you please yourself bu' I'm going to hitch i' Sylvia's habit of omitting all final
't's seemed irritatibngly slack. 'It' in Sylvia's diction was little more than the most, indeterminate of
vowel sounds, articulated without the slightest hint of a consonantal finale. If they ever became better
friends, it was something that ought to be mentioned.
What time was it now? 6.45 p.m. That would be 18:45. Yes. She was getting somewhere at last.
'Come on. We'll get a lift in no time, you see. Tha's wha' half these fellas are looking for - a gi' of
skir'.'
And, in truth, there appeared no reason whatsoever to question Sylvia's brisk optimism. No
accommodating motorist could fail to be impressed by her minimal skirting and the lovely invitation of
the legs below.
For a brief while the two girls stood silently, in uneasy, static truce.
A middle-aged woman was strolling towards them, occasionally stopping and turning her head to gaze
down the darkening length of the road that led to the heart of Oxford. She came to a halt a few yards
away from the girls and put down her shopping bag.
'Excuse me' said the first girl. 'Do you know when the next bus is?"
'There should be one in a few minutes, love.' She peered again into the grey distance.
'Does it go to Woodstock?'
'No, I don't think so - it's just for Yarnton. It goes to the village, and then turns round and comes
back.'
'Oh.' She stepped out towards the middle of the road, craned her neck, and stepped back as a little
convoy of cars approached. Already, as the evening shaded into dusk, a few drivers had switched on
their side-lights. No bus was in sight, and she felt anxious.
'We'll be all righ',' said Sylvia, a note of impatience in her voice. 'You see. We'll be 'avin' a
giggle abou' i' in the morning."
Another car. And another. Then again the stillness of the warm autumn evening.
"Well, you can stay if you like - I'm off.' Her companion watched as Sylvia made her way towards
the Woodstock roundabout, some two hundred yards up the road. It wasn't a bad spot for the hitch-
hiker, for there the cars slowed down before negotiating the busy ring-road junction.
And then she decided. 'Sylvia, wait!'; and holding one gloved hand to the collar of her lightweight
summer coat, she ran with awkward, splay-footed gait in pursuit.
The middle-aged woman kept her watch at Fare Stage 5. She thought how many things had changed
since she was young.