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

But Mrs Mabel Jarman was not to wait for long. Vaguely her mind toyed with a few idle, random
thoughts - nothing of any moment. Soon she would be home. As she was to remember later on, she
could describe Sylvia fairly well: her long, blonde hair, her careless and provocative sensuality. Of the
other girl she could recall little: a light coat, dark slacks - what colour, though? Hair - lightish brown?
'Please try as hard as you can, Mrs Jarman. It's absolutely vital for us that you remember as much as
you can ...' She noticed a few cars, and a heavy, bouncing articulated lorry, burdened with an
improbably large number of wheel-less car-bodies. Men? Men with no other passengers? She would try
so hard to recall. Yes, there had been men, she was sure of that. Several had passed her by.
At ten minutes to seven an oblong pinkish blur gradually assumed its firmer delineation. She picked
up her bag as the red Corporation bus slowly threaded its way along the stops in the grey mid-distance.
Soon she could almost read the bold white lettering above the driver's cab. What was it? She squinted
to see it more clearly: WOODSTOCK. Oh dear! She had been wrong then, when that nicely spoken young
girl had asked about the next bus. Still, never mind! They hadn't gone far. They would either get a lift
or see the bus and manage to get to the next stop, or even the stop after that. 'How long had they been
gone, Mrs Jarman?'
She stood back a little from the bus stop, and the Woodstock driver gratefully passed her by.
Almost as soon as the bus was out of sight, she saw another, only a few hundred yards behind. This
must be hers. The double-decker drew into the stop as Mrs Jarman raised her hand. At two minutes past
seven she was home.

Though a widow now, with her two children grown up and married, her pride-and-poverty semi-
detached was still her real home, and her loneliness was not without its compensations. She cooked
herself a generous supper, washed up, and turned on the television. She could never understand why
there was so much criticism of the programmes. She herself enjoyed virtually everything and often
wished she could view two channels simultaneously. At 10 o'clock she watched the main items on the
News, switched off, and went to bed. At 10.30 she was sound asleep.
It was at 10.30 p.m., too, that a young girl was found lying in a Woodstock courtyard. She had been
brutally murdered.

1 Search for a girl

1 Wednesday, 29 September

From St Giles' in the centre of Oxford two parallel roads run due north, like the prongs of a tuning
fork. On the northern perimeter of Oxford, each must first cross the busy northern ring-road, along
which streams of frenetic motorists speed by, gladly avoiding the delights of the old university city.
The eastern branch eventually leads to the town of Banbury, and thence continues its rather
unremarkable course towards the heart of the industrial midlands; the western branch soon brings the
motorist to the small town of Woodstock, some eight miles north of Oxford, and thence to Stratford-
upon-Avon.
The journey from Oxford to Woodstock is quietly attractive. Broad grass verges afford a pleasing
sense of spaciousness, and at the village of Yarnton, after only a couple of miles, a dual carriageway,
with a tree-lined central reservation, finally sweeps the accelerating traffic past the airport and away
from its earlier paralysis. For half a mile immediately before Woodstock, on the left-hand side, a grey
stone wall marks the eastern boundary of the extensive and beautiful grounds of Blenheim Palace, the
mighty mansion built by good Queen Anne for her brilliant general, John Churchill, 1st Duke of
Marlborough. High and imposing wrought-iron gates mark the main entrance to the Palace drive, and
hither flock the tourists in the summer season to walk amidst the dignified splendour of the great
rooms, to stand before the vast Flemish tapestries of Malplaquet and Oudenarde, and to see the room in
which was born that later scion of the Churchill line, the great Sir Winston himself, now lying in the