Endeavour Page #3

need a name and address

for your Saturday

puzzle setter, Oz.

Out of luck, then, aren't you?

He's anonymous,

like most of them.

Well, you send his fee

somewhere, presumably?

Fee?

This is Oxford.

They do it for the honor.

Look, really am fearfully busy.

I've got the stars

to do by lunch,

and I'm only at Taurus.

People don't really believe

such guff, do they?

You'd be surprised.

The Chaplain at Christ's has

just declared for reincarnation.

When's it usually delivered,

the Saturday grid?

First post Wednesday, as a rule.

We go to press Thursday.

And last week?

Funny you should ask.

Came in late.

Caused quite a flap.

In the end, a young chap

dropped it round.

Well, what did he look like?

Like a young chap.

Undergrad, suppose.

He gave it to one of the subs.

Didn't...

caught a glimpse.

Well, perhaps could speak

to this sub.

You'll have to scour

the Cairngorms, I'm afraid.

A walking holiday as of Monday.

Very well.

Well, if you remember

anything else...

Of course.

Thank you.

What did you say your name was?

Morse.

Why?

Have we met?

Don't think so.

Another life, then.

Oi.

Lott's rung in sick.

You're to fetch the guv'nor.

How am supposed to get there?

Hmm.

Oh, no DS Lott today?

Unwell, sir.

You don't say.

Now, Friday.

Must be corned beef.

Ah, what did tell you?

It comes to reliability.

The fixed motion of the heavens

has nothing on my Win.

Anything overnight?

Actually, there is something...

wanted to talk to you about, sir...

Mary Tremlett's poetry books.

Thought we'd been through that.

Know, but they're

not just hardbacks, sir.

They're first editions.

Quite valuable.

How'd you...

You've been there.

Right.

Tell me on the way.

Morning, sir.

Morning.

Just bringing Mr. Crisp

up to date, sir.

You were, were you?

Thought you were sick.

A bit liverish first thing.

Fancy.

Okay, Morse.

Back to your desk.

Wait a minute, Arthur.

Want to see what

you make of this, sir.

The lad's been having

a bit of a dig

around the Tremlett case.

Tell him.

Mary Tremlett keeps a few

poetry books by her bed.

First editions.

And she's bookmarked

certain poems

with crosswords cut

from the Oxford Mail.

The Saturday edition,

all set by someone

called Oz.

Oz?

As in The Wizard of?

Same spelling, yes.

But the thing is,

there's only ever two clues

she's filled in any puzzle.

The same two...

the first across

and the last down.

The down's invariably a number.

Five gold rings.

Six geese a-laying.

So on.

But the across clue

always refers to somewhere

in or around Oxford,

mentioned in the poems...

Fyfield, Cumnor, Godstow.

That it?

Well, no, sir, not quite.

The crossword that came out

the day she disappeared

refers to a poem

by Matthew Arnold,

"The Scholar Gypsy,"

which mentions Bagley Wood.

Bagley Wood?

The down clue

gives the number eight.

Just thought it could be

a time and place.

Possibly.

You think someone's making

secret assignations with her

through crossword clues

in the Oxford Mail?

Extraordinary, isn't it?

That's one word for it.

Begging your pardon, sir,

but I've never heard

so much codswallop.

Does seem a bit fanciful, Fred.

Farfetched, even.

Bagley Wood.

Have you signed up on that

Thrupp shooting yet?

Then I'd suggest

you see to your duties

before you start galavanting.

Bloody crosswords!

Just come through from

the information room, sir.

A body's been found

by ramblers.

Young girl, redhead.

Looks to be Mary Tremlett.

Where's this?

Kennington.

Out by Bagley Wood.

Make sure the photographer

gets this.

Back of her right hand.

It's already smudged,

but it looks to be

"FLA 17... " something.

Letter B, possibly.

Car registration?

Or flat, maybe.

Flat Seventeen B.

Then, what?

Postmortem?

Formal identification first.

Morse can run me.

You'd better keep an eye

on the search.

Organize a few snaps

of her outfit

before it goes for forensics...

get them out there.

Might jog a few memories.

Very good, sir.

Who's a clever boy, then?

Sarge.

Something here.

Subject is a

well-nourished female.

Approximately 15 years of age.

Five-foot two.

Nine stone six pounds.

So we begin with a lateral

incision across the cranium.

Peel the scalp forward.

Thus to expose the skull.

Morse.

Morse!

You'll be all right.

Actually, sir,...

don't drink.

Very commendable.

Now get that down you.

If you're going

to apologize, don't.

Your first?

Well, like that.

North Africa was mine.

Longstop Hill.

Lad by the name of Mills.

Gunner Mills.

Not a mark on him.

Thought he was asleep,

until turned him over.

Mortar.

What did miss?

Strangled.

Her own brassiere.

Struck on the back

of the head first.

Hadn't been interfered with,

according to Dr. DeBryn.

Then why take off her clothes?

Maybe the spirit was willing.

Saturday night,

he'd had a skinful.

Tried to have his way.

When he couldn't manage it...

She'd been pregnant

at some point

within the last six months.

Very professional job,

was the doctor's opinion.

So there was a boyfriend.

Our man Oz?

The search turned up

a gent's wristwatch near

to where her body was found.

The face is smashed, which

gives us a time of death...

8:
16 Saturday night.

Oh, and her stomach contents

turned up half a pint

of whelks.

Talk to her mate Valerie.

See if she's been holding back.

She might open up more to

someone nearer her own age.

Right.

Mary Tremlett told her father

she was going to the cinema

with you

Saturday afternoon.

Any idea why she'd say that?

Can understand if you've been

wanting to protect her, maybe.

Her reputation.

But as of this morning,

things have changed.

For the worse, I'm afraid.

Are you saying she's dead?

So it's important you tell me

the truth now.

Do you understand?

Where was she going

Saturday night?

Who was she seeing?

Don't know.

Look...

want to go home.

I'm upset.

I've had a shock.

You can't talk to me

when I'm upset.

Are you here about Mary?

We were best friends

before she fell in

with Valerie's crowd.

You're not part of that?

No fear.

Little tarts.

They used to rag on us

when we first started.

Only last year, Mary and Val

got really pally.

Then a couple of weeks ago,

they had a big bust-up.

Do you know what it was about?

Mary thought Valerie was

trying to steal her bloke.

They had a fight over it.

Did Mary ever mention

anyone called Oz?

A nickname maybe?

Not to me.

And who's Mary's boyfriend?

Johnny Franks.

He's a car mechanic.

Works at a garage

over Parktown.

All Valerie's gang go there.

She's an absolute beauty,

isn't she?

Nine months old,

3,000 on the clock,

and does she go?

Oh.

Mr. Samuels?

Yeah.

Call me Teddy, please.

Mister...

Detective Constable Morse.

City Police.

Oh, yeah?

What can do for you?

I'd like to speak

with one of your mechanics.

Johnny Franks.

He's not in any trouble, is he?

Know a lot of your boys.

They'll tell you

run a straight go,

and make sure

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