A/N: Contrary to popular belief... I ain't dead yet. You get my apologies for the long absence, but no explanation - sorry! Warning: this fic is a little... sad. Not really depressing but just sad, in places. It's based on an album by Dreamtheater, called"Scenes From a Memory". You don't need to know the album to read the story, but I do recommend you look it up at some point.

PART 1: This Fatal Tragedy

"He's here, Sarge."

Sergeant Robbie Lewis turned around as the young PC Clifton murmured his warning quickly. Sure enough, the distinctive red Jaguar growled its way up the narrow dirt track, and parked up next to the crime scene tape that cordoned off the area. It was dusk, and the light of the day was failing, as Scene-of-Crime Officers quickly went about rigging up emergency lighting to a generator, preparing to work through the night if necessary.

Lewis approached the car with haste, knowing that his governor hated to be kept waiting and would want to know what was going on straight away, no matter what his temper. Lewis quickly suppressed his smile; Morse was dressed in his tuxedo, and had no doubt been dragged away from some concert of, to Lewis's mind, incomprehensible music.

"Sorry to interrupt your evening, sir," Lewis apologised, hastily, anticipating a bad mood.

"Don't be," Morse said, tersely, "the singer was the understudy, and she was terrible – too nervous to sing in tune. And the flautist was always two bars behind the rest of the ensemble."

"Ah. Right, sir," Lewis nodded, sympathetically, "still, I'm sorry to drag you away from your evening off."

Morse gave him a piercing look, as if doubting the sincerity of the statement, but Lewis's expression was as open and honest as ever.

"Alright, Lewis – what have we got?"

Lewis lifted the crime scene tape to allow Morse to duck beneath it. They were parked on the edge of the public entrance to Wytham Woods, a popular spot for dog walkers, lovers after a romantic tryst, and, sadly, those who were attempting to hide something from the eyes of the world… and the law.

"Murder, sir," Lewis answered, leading the way towards a spot where a photographer was taking pictures of something on the ground, as the green-suited pathologist knelt over the indistinguishable shape, "a young woman, sir."

Morse grunted by way of acknowledgment; "What do we know so far?"

"It's all pretty desperate, sir," Lewis sighed, "it looks like the killer's dead, too – suicide."

"Witnesses?"

"Only one, sir. That's him, over there, with PC Clifton," Lewis pointed, and then carried on walking, "he says that he was out walking his dog, when he heard what he described as a 'horrifying sound' – the woman screaming. He heard an argument, then a loud bang and came running to find her lying on the ground. He says he saw a man standing over her, sir. The man looked nervous, all shaky, like, and he was holding a gun in his hand. The witness – Mr Whittaker – says he tried to help, but the killer turned the weapon on himself."

They came to a stop beside the bodies. Morse swallowed, hard; he was one of the best detectives on the force, but he had never been able to harden his stomach to the sight of blood. And there was a lot of it. He forced himself to take in the scene; a young woman lay dead upon the ground, her long, curly brown hair splayed out on the floor, framing her face like a cushion as green eyes stared upwards at the sky from a pale-grey face. She was fairly young, probably mid-thirties. Her mouth was open in a fixed expression of terror, and Morse could see the hole in her chest from a close-range bullet wound. Blood spattered her face and torso and had pooled beneath her, indicating that she had fallen when shot and had not been moved from where she had died.

Lying across the unfortunate woman was a man, his body having fallen on top of hers after apparently self-inflicting a bullet wound to his right temple. His blood mixed with hers and matted in his dark hair. He was slumped face down, so Morse could not determine the man's physical appearance.

"We've no identification yet, sir," Lewis said, quietly, as Morse grimaced and turned away slightly, not wanting to look at the grisly scene for any longer than necessary, "Mr Whittaker says he thinks he shouted out in shock, and then ran to call for help. He reckons it was a 'sad close to a broken love affair', sir… he's a bit… dramatic. Sir."

"Oh, is he, now?" Morse snorted, "Does he know either of the deceased, Lewis?"

"No, sir, he says not. I think he's just trying to make sense of what he saw, sir."

"Wild theories won't help us at this stage," Morse told him, turning back, "What can you tell us, Doctor?"

The young man in the green scene-suit turned to look at Morse, nervously. Dr Russell, the usual pathologist, was on two weeks' annual leave, and her temporary replacement was terrified of the sour, white-haired, demanding detective. Fairly fresh out of medical school, Morse was highly dubious of the claim that this young lackey was all that had been available to cover for their usual competent pathologist.

"They've… um… they've been dead for about an hour at the most, Chief Inspector," he replied, quickly, licking his lips, nervously, "it… err… it seems the woman died first and then the man shot himself. The gun was still in his hand. My findings will probably be murder and suicide. An open and shut case."

"Where is it now?"

"What?"

"The gun, man, where's the gun now? It's not in his hand!"

"Forensics removed it for evidence."

"Nothing should be removed until I've said so," Morse growled at him, "there had better be some good photographs of that."

The photographer and the pathologist exchanged looks, and the photographer simply shrugged.

"I'm sure there are, Chief Inspector," the pathologist, Dr. Astbury, nodded quickly, "I'll… I'll be able to tell you more about them after I've done the autopsies."

Morse grumbled something under his breath, and Lewis could only follow him silently as the Chief Inspector crossed over to where the witness, Mr Whittaker, was waiting for them with PC Clifton. Morse gave Clifton a look; the PC glanced quickly at Lewis for confirmation, and Lewis nodded to the young man, letting him know that he was dismissed. With a quick mutter of affirmation, Clifton ducked his head and went to assist with cordoning off the tree line to the woods.

The Chief Inspector eyed their witness critically. Whittaker was of medium height, about five-foot-nine, a stocky build, and hard, blue eyes set closely together above a slightly bulbous nose and thin lips. He stood with an air of excitement, as if he could not wait to tell the story of the events he had witnessed, as if he had no insight into just how tragic the two bodies appeared to Morse.

"Mr Whittaker? My name is Chief Inspector Morse. I believe you've already met Sergeant Lewis. The Sergeant has told me that you were out walking your dog."

"Yes sir, I was, and that was when I heard this horrifying sound, a woman's scream…"

"Where is your dog now, Mr Whittaker?"

Cut off in mid-flow, Whittaker blinked in surprise; "I…uh… he ran off, Inspector. I think he was scared of the gunshots."

"You're not carrying a leash, Mr Whittaker. It's a public bylaw that all dogs should be kept on leashes in this area."

"Oh… well… uh… Wolfie never needs a leash normally. He was just frightened by the bangs and ran off."

"What kind of dog is…'Wolfie'… Mr Whittaker?"

"He's a… a Husky… look, shouldn't you be more interested in the murder than in my dog?"

"Mr Whittaker, if there's a dog on the loose, I want my officers to be aware of it," Morse replied, dryly, "and I'm sure you would appreciate having it returned to you should we find it during our investigation."

"Oh… oh, yes, of course."

"Right… now then. You said that you heard a woman scream, and you came running. Did you hear anything else?"

"Oh, yes," Whittaker smiled, giving Morse a conspiratorial look, "I ran towards the noise, thinking I might be able to help. As I got closer, I could hear them arguing – the man and the woman. She had her back to me, I was over there, see, but I could hear her crying and they were arguing, her and the man."

"Could you hear what they were saying?"

"It sounded really tragic," Whittaker's earnestness to tell his story was almost macabre, "she said that she wanted to love him, but she couldn't put up with his evil ways. 'Evil ways', that's exactly what she said, she said he'd fallen into an evil way and that she was sorry to let him down, but she couldn't love a wayward man. Like I said, he killed her and then himself, a sad close to a broken love affair, that's what I call it."

Morse's expression gave away nothing; "Did they say anything else?"

"Well, she said she'd forgive him if he tried to change, and asked if that was why he wanted to meet her here tonight."

"Their meeting was prearranged?"

"It seemed that way, Inspector. She wasn't screaming anymore, so I thought everything was fine. I wasn't about to interrupt a lover's quarrel."

"Was there a struggle between them, at all?"

"No… he said something I didn't hear, and then just… well, he took the gun out of his pocket and he shot her. Point blank, right in front of me."

"What did you do, Mr Whittaker?"

"Me? Well… I shouted out; you know, I shouted 'No', or something like that. I was behind the tree – I didn't come forwards because I thought he might shoot me as well. Then he put the gun to his head, and I realised what he was going to do. I ran forward then, to try and stop him or something, but he just… bang. Shot himself. He fell on top of the poor girl. I went over to them, realised they were both dead, and ran to call for help. I have an in-car phone, you see."

Morse's gaze barely flickered; "Thank you, Mr Whittaker. You've been most helpful. Sergeant Lewis has your contact details, I take it?"

"Aye, sir," Lewis said, as Whittaker nodded, quickly.

"Right. Well. We'll be in touch, Mr Whittaker. You can go."

"Thank you, Chief Inspector."

With that, Whittaker turned on his heel and strode off. Morse watched the man climb into an expensive-looking Mercedes, which drove off with a powerful roar, accelerating up the road and soon disappearing from view. Morse's eyes were narrow as he watched him go.

"Lewis," he said, at last, "have you ever owned a dog?"

"Oh, aye, sir," Lewis nodded, smiling slightly at the memory, "when I was a lad, we had a little Beagle – Ben, his name was. Lovely little pup, he was, real friendly like."

"Did… 'Ben'… ever run away?"

"Only once, sir," Lewis's brow furrowed slightly, as he tried to work out where this slightly unusual line of questioning was going, "I spent all night out on the heath looking for him. Me mam was worried sick – turned out the dog had gone home without us. I shouted meself hoarse looking for him."

"Man's best friend, and all…" Morse mused, "whereas our Mr Whittaker just got into the car and drove away without a second thought for his beloved pet… I don't see any evidence of a dog around here, do you, Lewis?"

"No sir. But I think PC Clifton does, sir."

"What…?"

"It looks like he's just stood in it, sir."

"Lew-iss!"

Night fell, and emergency lighting flooded the area with an off-white glow that only seemed to emphasise the darkness of the shadows. Dr Astbury gave the go-ahead for the bodies to be removed to the morgue, and the Constables held at bay the gaggle of reporters that were already arriving. Morse eyed the journalists with distaste as they talked excitedly into their microphones in front of live television cameras.

"I bet they've all been talking to Whittaker," he groused, "that man seemed to find the whole thing far to exciting for my tastes, Lewis."

"Aye, sir," Lewis agreed, knowing that no other response was necessary.

Morse watched, from a safe distance, as the bodies were lifted into bags and carried towards the waiting hearse.

"Chief Inspector!" Dr Astbury cried out, waving to him, "I've found a note, Morse! A suicide note!"

Morse swore, and strode over to the doctor quickly.

"Keep your voice down!" Morse hissed at him, "There are cameras rolling all around us, and the last thing we want is those vultures pouncing on the evidence before we've had a chance to assess it!"

"Sorry…" Astbury did not sound at all apologetic, as he thrust a blood-stained piece of paper towards Morse, "But look! It could be a suicide letter – maybe he really did kill her and himself because he'd lost her love."

"Don't you start," Morse growled, and eyed the note with obvious distaste at the bloodstains, "Lewis…?"

"Aye, sir," Lewis quickly pulled on some latex gloves with which to safely handle the evidence, and unfolded the note, scanning it quickly; "It's just one line, sir. It says, 'I feel there's only one thing left to do. I'd sooner take my life away than live with losing you'. That's pretty clear, sir."

"Is it handwritten?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have the labs analyse it, then, just in case. Where did you find it, doctor?"

"In his right hand trouser pocket, Chief Inspector," Astbury replied, primly, rocking back on his heels and looking pleased with himself, "it concurs with my preliminary examination – that the woman was shot first and then the shooter killed himself. A fairly classic, if somewhat tragic, murder and suicide."

"I didn't see the gun in his hand, doctor," Morse said, in a low voice, "if you can prove to me that the evidence puts it there, and that he pulled the trigger both times, then I'll believe your theories. Good night."

Morse turned on his heel and headed back towards his car, ignoring the shouts of the journalists. Lewis followed, for his silver Vauxhall was parked not too far from Morse's Jaguar. Morse paused by his car.

"We won't be able to do much now until the morning," he said, in a low, quiet voice, "but something isn't right about all of this. Follow me in your car, Lewis. I need to think."

Lewis sighed, but said nothing. He had promised Val he would try to be home on time that evening to spend some time with the kids, and he had also agreed that they should cut down on unnecessary expenditure to see if they could afford a holiday later in the year. He doubted that Morse would view his beer as an 'unnecessary expenditure'. Nonetheless, he obediently followed the red Jaguar to the nearest decent pub, and bought the first round without question, used the payphone to call his wife and explain, once again, that he would be late, and then sat down to be the sounding board he knew Morse needed as much as the beer.

After a pint and a half, Morse finally stopped scowling at the table and spoke.

"There's something not right about this, Lewis," he said, at last, "it's all a bit too contrived, don't you think?"

"Like the dog walker without the dog, sir?"

"Indeed, Lewis… Mr Whittaker… he is a little bit too melodramatic."

"Far too keen to be believed, if you ask me, sir."

"Hum. Yes… and so unaffected by what he allegedly saw…"

Morse fell silent again, finished his pint, and Lewis braced himself for having to pay for another. However, the Chief Inspector seemed to take pity on him.

"Oh, let's call it a night, Lewis. Get home to your wife and remind her what you look like. We'll pick this up again in the morning."

Lewis hid his relief, as he replied; "Thank you, sir. I'll see you in the morning, then."

Morse merely grunted, as they left the pub together, and Lewis watched him walk away, towards his car. Shaking his head slightly, he climbed into his own vehicle, and gratefully headed for home.

The next morning, Lewis was surprised when Morse arrived at the station at 9:30am, only an hour after Lewis had arrived himself. However, Morse did not speak; he merely collapsed heavily into his chair and was immediately absorbed in the morning paper. Without needing to say anything, Lewis smiled to himself, got to his feet, and fetched a coffee – drop of milk, two sugars – and placed the mug on the desk. A hand emerged from behind the newspaper, picked up the mug, and disappeared behind the folds again.

Sitting back down at his desk, Lewis was able to concentrate on filling in some of the backlog of Morse's paperwork. Half an hour later, the paper was still in place, when Lewis's telephone rang.

"Chief Inspector Morse's office… oh, aye… aye… okay, I'll be right down to collect it."

Lewis hung up, and glanced across at the newspaper.

"Sir, the photographs from last night have arrived, along with the preliminary pathologist's report. I'm just going down to the front desk to collect them."

An indistinct grumble emanated from behind the sheaf of print. Morse really was not a morning person. Lewis left the office quietly, and returned fifteen minutes later with a fresh coffee for each of them, and the reports. He deposited Morse's coffee on his desk, noting that the Chief Inspector had just started the crossword puzzle. That gave him at least ten minutes to read the reports.

The pathologist's report was short and to the point – Dr Astbury had concluded that the woman had died from a single bullet wound to the chest, consistent with the calibre of bullet that would have been fired from the gun recovered from the man's body. The man had died from a self-inflicted bullet wound to the right temple. Dr Astbury had commented that the matter seemed to be a straightforward murder and suicide – a tragedy, but with nothing further that required investigation.

Lewis frowned at the report. It was shorter than usual, and there were omissions that were obvious, even to him. He decided to wait and see what Morse made of it. There was a soft thump as the newspaper landed on the desk, finally tossed aside, as Morse fixed his Sergeant with a baleful look.

"Well?"

"Dr Astbury has concluded that the man murdered the woman and then committed suicide, sir."

"And do you agree with the good doctor's findings, Lewis?"

"Well… I can't think of any other explanation, sir. Except… well…"

"Well, what, Lewis?"

"Well… Dr Astbury didn't test the man's hand for gunshot residue, sir. Or at least, if he did, it's not mentioned in his report. It's a little… brief, sir."

Morse silently held out his hand; Lewis therefore carried the report over and handed it to the Chief Inspector.

"Do we have any identification on our victims yet?"

"Dr Astbury is checking their dental records and fingerprints, sir – he should be calling the results through soon."

Morse grunted, as he read the pathologist's report in silence. Lewis's 'phone rang again, and he snatched it up quickly when Morse glanced at him in irritation. He listened carefully, mumbling questions into the handset and writing down the answers carefully. Hanging up the call, he found Morse staring at him expectantly.

"We've got confirmation, sir – the woman's name is Helen Allen, aged thirty-three. She's been traced to an address of a property held in joint names. It seems that the man's name… well, sir, assuming he is the joint owner of the house, the man's name is Jonathan Whittaker."

"Whittaker? As in our witness, Whittaker?"

"Could be, sir – our witness was Mr Peter Whittaker. I've asked Clifton to dig further into the records and see if there's a connection between them. But there was a connection between the two victims – they lived together, sir. I've got the address here."

"Good. Let's go."

The drive to the house was fairly uneventful; Morse elected to drive, making his usual disparaging comments about not trusting Lewis to get them there in one piece. They eventually arrived in a fairly smart-looking estate. Morse paused outside the property in question, a well-presented four-bedroom semi-detached home with a large driveway and probably expansive gardens to the rear. A car was parked on the driveway; Lewis was already writing down the license number. Morse waited, impatiently, as Lewis took a bunch of keys from an evidence bag, recovered by forensics from Helen Allen's pocket, and opened the front door.

Thankfully, the alarm system did not appear to have been switched on, and the front door was only on the latch, as if the occupiers had left in a hurry. Every instinct that Morse had was screaming at him that this was wrong.

He remarked as much to his Sergeant; "Lewis… if you were going to have a violent row with your partner, why would you travel several miles to the edge of Wytham Woods before airing your grievances? And if they only owned one car between them, how did they get there? They seem to have left in a hurry; it was a chilly night and they didn't take any coats… didn't lock the house… if you were having an argument, you'd do it at home, wouldn't you?"

"Aye, sir – my neighbours certainly do, you can hear them through the walls most Saturday nights."

"Indeed," Morse was not really listening as he glanced around the well-decorated hallway; a wide flight of stairs ran up to the second floor, while doors from the hall led into a large sitting room on one side, with a kitchen and dining room on the other.

"Right, Lewis – you take the upstairs, and I'll have a look around downstairs."

They split up to search the property; Lewis was not really sure what he was looking for, but he knew better than to ask, and simply concentrated on the task at hand, observing everything and trying to commit every detail to memory. He could hear Morse moving about downstairs. They spent over half an hour wandering around the house, pawing through the rooms. Lewis eventually came down to find Morse helping himself to Scotch from a decanter in the living room. Lewis bit back a remark; he could never fathom how his boss felt comfortable helping himself to things, despite the fact that their owners could not possibly miss them.

"What did you find out, Lewis?"

"Well," the Sergeant took a deep breath, "Whittaker and Allen appear to have had a child – a boy, from the looks of the bedroom, around the age of eight or nine I'd say. There's no sign of the kid."

"I'd deduced as much from these photographs," Morse indicated the framed prints on the mantel, "anything else?"

"It's a lovely house, sir," Lewis commented, glancing around appreciatively, "it must have cost a few bob, like. They seem like a well-off couple."

"Look into it, Lewis. And find out about the child – a well-off family like this might well have sent him to boarding school."

"Odd, isn't it, that the parents aren't married?"

"That's a rather old-fashioned view, these days, Lewis," Morse commented, dryly, "I want to know if there is a connection between Jonathan and Peter Whittaker. They're brothers, in all likelihood, but I want you to find out."

"Aye, sir. Anything else?"

"Yes. Chase up forensics – I want their report by the end of the day before Strange catches on to Astbury's conclusion that this is an open-and-shut case and decides to take us off it…"

"What the hell are you playing at, Morse?"

Chief Superintendent Strange was furious, and Morse suppressed a bitter sigh. No doubt Dr Astbury had made sure a copy of his report had been forwarded to Strange to ensure that Morse was kept on a leash.

"Sir?" More attempted to sound neutral.

"This is a straightforward case, Morse!" Strange exclaimed, sitting down heavily in his chair, and scowling heavily, "Now why the hell are you still poking around on it? Don't you have enough to do at the moment? Because, God knows, with all the recent staffing cuts, I'm sure I can find you something to do if you're having trouble keeping yourself occupied."

"Sir, this is anything but a straightforward case!" Morse protested, "our investigation has shown that the couple had a child together and the boy is missing; no-one has seen him since the shooting. And on top of that, I have one witness who denied knowing the victims and turns out to be the man's half-brother!"

Morse was privately glad that Lewis had been able to turn up at least some information before he had been abruptly summoned to Strange's office; it meant that he was at least half-equipped to face down the Chief Super.

"Can you prove his direct involvement?" demanded Strange.

"Not at this stage," Morse admitted, but rallied quickly, "I need more time, sir – Astbury and the others have already written off this case as a done deal. The pathology was rushed and the forensics work was shoddy. They looked at that scene and saw what they wanted to see, not what was actually there."

"And what was there, Morse? What do you think you saw that no-one else did?"

"I saw a witness who lied to my face and didn't care one jot for having apparently seen two brutal deaths. I saw a dog walker with no dog. I saw an apparently loving young couple get mysteriously travel several miles from home before allegedly having a blazing row and both ending up dead. I saw an empty house with a missing child, and I have dozens of questions without answers."

Strange frowned at him for a long moment, but Morse held his gaze defiantly. After what seemed like an eternity, Strange shook his head.

"No, Morse. Our resources are stretched thin enough at the moment without you being wrapped up in an investigation into a case that's already been concluded."

"But, sir – the missing child…"

"Can be handed over to a junior officer, Morse. I'm ordering you to close this case, and close it today, is that understood?"

Morse suppressed a growl, as he responded, as civilly as he could; "Yes, sir."

Strange gave him a hard look, and then nodded his head towards the door indicating that Morse was dismissed. Without a further word, Morse turned on his heel and stalked out. It was all he could do not to slam the door.

Storming into his office, he dropped, fuming, into his chair. He barely noticed that there was a steaming cup of tea ready and waiting for him, even as he seized up the mug. Lewis was watching him silently, looking slightly wary of Morse's temper.

"Well, Lewis, it seems that the Chief Super has been persuaded by Dr Astbury that this is a straightforward, open-and-shut case," Morse announced, at last, "I've been ordered to close the case today, and had the matter of the missing child over to a junior officer…"

Morse trailed off, and a rare, small smile crept across his face, the scowl rapidly lifting; "Lewis… how would you feel about leading the investigation into a missing child?"

"Sir?"

"Chief Superintendent Strange somehow believes that investigating the disappearance of the dead couple's child is a waste of my time. He feels that it would be better suited to a more junior officer. Well, Lewis, you're a junior officer, in line for promotion – it's about time you had some cases to your own name, isn't it?"

Lewis couldn't quite believe what he was hearing; "But what about you, sir?"

"Strange be damned, Lewis – I'm going to work out who really killed that couple, and I'll bet my monthly beer allowance it was Peter Whittaker."

"I'm not sure how you're going to prove that, sir," Lewis said, uneasily, "forensics was sketchy at best, and the pathologist recorded a verdict of murder and suicide; the coroner's inquest has been listed for tomorrow…"

"Leave that to me, Lewis. Have you turned up anything else?"

"Only one thing, sir – the car at the Whittaker-Allen place belonged to Helen Allen. According to the DVLA, Jonathan Whittaker owned a Mercedes, but it wasn't on the driveway when we visited."

"Peter Whittaker drove a Mercedes away from the scene," Morse mused, "Interesting…right, Lewis. You focus on the child; I'll find out what really happened to the parents, understood?"

"Aye, sir."

"Right. Let's go and see Whittaker. He might be able to shed some light on both matters."

Peter Whittaker's house was the marked opposite of Jonathan Whittaker's. It was in a down-at-heel estate in the shadow of an imposing tower block of flats, a shabby-looking two-up, two-down affair. The paint was peeling on the front door, while the front yard was overgrown with weeds, and littered with rubbish. The Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. Morse strode up to the front door, hammering on it hard. He heard someone swear, loudly, and then the door opened. Whittaker peered at him from behind the security chain, before his eyes widened slightly and he opened the door quickly.

"Chief Inspector – Sergeant – come in!" he gestured, quickly, "Please excuse the mess; I've not long moved in and I'm still unpacking."

Morse noted that the hallway was completely devoid of furniture, and the carpet on the stairs appeared to be brand new. However, the scene changed when they stepped into the adjoining lounge. Morse glanced around quickly; in the chaos of the living room, it was hard to tell whether the man was packing or unpacking. Whittaker quickly cleared three chairs, and invited them to sit. Morse slumped casually into an armchair, facing Whittaker on the sofa, as Lewis perched attentively on the edge of the second armchair, notepad and pencil in hand.

"Did you have some more questions for me, Inspector?" Whittaker asked, keenly, "I thought you would have closed the case by now – I thought my description of events would have cleared up any mystery. Do you need me to tell the story again?"

"No, thank you, Mr Whittaker – I've read it several times already in the local papers," Morse replied, dryly, "I was hoping that you would be able to tell me why you didn't think to inform us that the male victim was your half-brother, Jonathan Whittaker?"

"Because I didn't know, that's why," something shifted in Whittaker's expression, as his eyes narrowed and his voice hardened, "Jonathan and I weren't particularly close. I hadn't seen him for years; I simply didn't recognise him. It was only when I read about it in the papers that I realised who he was."

"And the dead woman – Helen Allen – did you know her as well?"

"No. As I said, Jonathan and I weren't close. He wouldn't have introduced us."

Lewis glanced up from scribbling down notes, and muttered a quick, "Sir?"

Morse frowned, not liking being interrupted; "What is it, Lewis?"

"The picture on the mantle there, sir," Lewis pointed with his pen, "if I'm not mistaken, sir, that's Helen Allen."

"So it is…" Morse got to his feet, and picked up the framed photograph, "and I believe, Mr Whittaker, that this is you with your arm around her…"

Whittaker gave Lewis a poisonous glare, and then turned to look up at Morse, who was standing over him.

"Alright," Whittaker grunted, after a moment, "I did know Helen. It was a long time ago. She and I were engaged. We broke up when she met my half-brother and realised that he was the one with the good looks and the money. He stole her away from me."

"And that made you angry, didn't it?" Morse prodded him.

"Of course it did!" Whittaker snapped at him, "Why do you think I haven't spoken to the bastard for the past ten years?"

"But then you came to Oxford," Morse was telling the story himself now, making the deductive leaps quickly, "you saw the luxury your brother and your ex-fiancée were living in, when this was all you could afford. You got angry, all over again, and you decided to take revenge. You got them to meet you at Wytham Woods that night…"

"And did what, Morse? Persuaded him to shoot her and then himself? Who's going to believe that?" Whittaker had dropped all pretence at politeness, as his tone went cold and he leaned back in his armchair, fixing Morse with a stare; "You can suspect all you like, Morse, but everyone knows my half-brother killed Helen and then himself."

"What happened to their son?" Lewis asked, quickly.

"What son?" Whittaker shot back, folding his arms, "I didn't know they had one."

"I suspect that you do, Mr Whittaker," Morse replied, tersely, "Where is the child?"

"I don't know anything about a child," Whittaker replied, bluntly, "now, you can either arrest me or leave, Morse. I've assisted with your enquiries and told you what happened in detail; I am a witness to an unfortunate event, and will not be accused in my own home."

Morse suppressed his anger at the man's sneering tone. It was true; he had no evidence to back up what he was saying. He knew, beyond reason, that Whittaker had somehow killed Helen Allen and Jonathan Whittaker and staged it to look like suicide, but he had no hope of proving it without a confession or some damning new evidence that he knew Strange would not allow him to expend the time or the resources searching for. Whittaker seemed to know what he was thinking, and gave a bark of a laugh.

"Get out, Morse," he said, contemptuously, "get out while you've still got some shreds of dignity left."

With little other choice, and several unanswered questions relating to the missing child and the absent Mercedes, Morse beckoned to Lewis. The two of them left the house in silence. They climbed into Morse's car, and the Chief Inspector took a deep breath, fighting to keep calm.

"Damned if that man was unpacking; it looked more like he was packing up to leave," he said, at length, starting up the engine and pulling away, "Lewis, find out if Jonathan Whittaker left a will, and, if so, who would benefit by it. Did you see anything that stood out to you in there?"

"You mean aside from the photograph, sir?" Lewis frowned, "I saw one of the boxes had a dolly in it – some kids toys, like – but they looked like toys for a little girl."

"Yes. I saw that too – but no other sign of the child."

"Could be at school, sir."

"Indeed. Look into it, Lewis – I wasn't about to put the question to that lying bastard. Anything else stand out to you?"

Lewis racked his brains, but drew a total blank; "No, sir, sorry. What did you see?"

"A complete absence of dog hair, Lewis… no leashes, dog toys, dog bowls… there was nothing in that house that suggested a dog has ever lived there."

"The dog walker with no dog… aye, sir, you're right – he didn't even ask us if we'd found the dog, did he?"

"No, he did not," Morse confirmed, as he drove, "He did it, Lewis, I know he did it."

"But… how, sir? And why?"

"If I could answer those two questions, Lewis, I would have arrested Whittaker on the spot," Morse growled, "Strange told me to close the case today. What time is it?"

"Ten past two, sir. After lunchtime."

Morse ignored the hint; "Well, then, that means that 'today' isn't quite over yet. I'm going to drop you back at the station; find out all you can about Peter Whittaker. I want to take another look at the crime scene…"

Morse returned to the station nearly three hours later, a dark expression fixed on his face and just the slightest whiff of beer about him. Lewis glanced up at him and said nothing, but just went to make the coffee.

"I've done some digging, sir," he ventured, at last, when it became clear that Morse had no intention of divulging where he had been all afternoon, "Peter Whittaker has lived in that house for the past eleven years. You were right, sir – he was packing up to go, not unpacking. But get this, sir – he used to own the place jointly with Helen Allen… except that she was actually called Helen Whittaker."

"She was his wife?"

"Apparently so, sir," Lewis looked pleased with himself for having uncovered this fact, "and there's more, sir. They had a daughter together – Jennifer Whittaker. She'd be ten years old by now."

Morse grunted in acknowledgement; this fact was less interesting to him; "What about the will, Lewis?"

"Jonathan Whittaker didn't leave a will. I've spoken to that solicitor friend of yours, sir – he says in the absence of any other claimant, the estate would go to their son and to Peter Whittaker. He's already taken out letters of administration."

"He's the executor of their estate?" Morse exclaimed, "He didn't waste any time… he was packing up to move into their house, wasn't he?"

"Looks like it, sir," Lewis agreed, "and there's one other thing, sir. I've checked with the Courts – there's no evidence that Helen ever divorced Peter. They were still married, sir – probably explains why she never married Jonathan."

"Indeed," Morse mused, "what about the daughter? Helen's first child…"

"Yes, sir. It looks like she stayed with her dad… but… I've checked with the school. She hasn't been seen for a couple of days. The school says they called her dad and was told she's staying with family down South for a couple of weeks."

"Any trace of this alleged family?"

"No sir," Lewis shook his head, sadly; "I think she's gone missing as well, sir. Two missing kiddies…"

Morse, for all his usual gruffness, could not help but hear to note of sadness in his Sergeant's voice, and had to remind himself that the young man was a father as well.

"Well, there's little we can do without a formal missing persons report, but keep looking into it, Lewis," the Chief Inspector told him, and then gave a loud sigh; "damn it, Lewis… we've no leads, no evidence, and, as far as everyone else seems to be concerned, no bloody case. Worst, we've no time – Strange is going to pull the plug at the end of the day…"

His musings were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Lewis gave him an apologetic look, and snatched up the telephone quickly; "Chief Inspector… oh, hello, sir… y…yes, he's… yes sir…"

Morse watched as Lewis winced, holding the handset away from his ear as the caller bellowed down the telephone at the Sergeant. Morse was getting to his feet even as Lewis was putting down the phone, his expression a mix of sympathy and trepidation. Morse spared him the discomfort.

"I take it Strange wants to see me?"

"Right away, sir…"

"Fine. Wait here for me, Lewis, we'll probably be going straight out when I come back."

"Aye, sir."

Lewis did not need to ask where they would be going – Morse's inference was obvious.

"Threatening witnesses now, Morse? This is unacceptable, even for you!" Strange snapped at him, ignoring the young PC who was delivering the customary tea and biscuits, "Peter Whittaker wants to make a formal complaint about you – it was only because I told him that the case was being closed that I was able to talk him down."

"You can't close this case, sir," Morse protested, vehemently, "not while there are two missing children still out there somewhere…"

"And I told you to hand that over to a more junior officer!"

"I did, sir. Sergeant Lewis is in charge of the investigation."

Strange gave him a long-suffering look; "Under your incessant supervision, no doubt. No, Morse, it will not do. Dr Astbury is a capable young man and has given his findings. The coroner will record a verdict of murder-suicide."

"I'll be attending, sir. I'll object. There are too many loose ends and that witness is lying."

"You can't prove it, Morse. I am ordering you to drop this case and drop it now. You will not attend the Coroner's Court tomorrow, and if you do, I'll have your badge. That will be all, Morse, do you hear me?"

"There are two missing children involved here, sir – a ten year old girl and an eight year old boy. We can't simply give up on them!"

"You will hand their cases over to the missing persons team as I thought I had clearly ordered you to do earlier," Strange told him, firmly, "you will not have any further contact with Peter Whittaker in relation to this matter, and you will not use Lewis as your proxy to disobey my orders further, Morse."

"You cannot simply close the investigation," Morse tried again, making a great effort to control his temper, "Sir – of all things – we have a witness closely tied with the victims and who stood to benefit by their deaths. His reason for being in the area at the time of the incident was a contrived lie. His own daughter, and her half-brother, are both missing. There are too many unanswered questions here, and you know it. You cannot, in good conscience, simply close the investigation and expect me to walk away!"

Strange sighed, fixing Morse with a steady gaze.

"We do not have the time or resources to investigate deaths where the coroner makes a ruling on the circumstance that leaves no room for suspicion," he said, eventually, in an even tone, "the higher-ups will have my head on a plate if they found out I let a senior Chief Inspector continue investigating a case that was, to all intents and purposes, an open-and-shut matter… What does Lewis think?"

Morse blinked; he should have anticipated that question, as Strange seemed to be asking it more often. Morse knew the young man was in line for sitting his Inspector's exams and seeking promotion, and that Strange was encouraging that, but… and there was the lingering 'but'. Morse had no desire to lose Lewis any sooner than necessary.

He took a deep breath; "Lewis… well, Lewis is concerned about the children, sir. As am I. As to the circumstances around the deaths… well, he has the same questions that I do, though he can't see what could have happened…"

"Go on, then, Morse – tell me your theory."

"I think Whittaker either drove them out there or had them meet him. There was only one car in the car park and that was a Mercedes that Whittaker drove away. Jonathan Whittaker owned a Mercedes that we now can't trace. Peter Whittaker was consumed with rage, jealousy and greed for his brother's wealth. He killed Helen first, possibly because she refused to come back to him as her husband. He then executed Jonathan, and put the gun in his hand to make it look like suicide. He planted a fake suicide note in Jonathan's pocket. Then he called us in, and told us a pack of lies – most of which we've already disproved – except for the important one… which is what really happened out in Wytham Woods that night."

Strange stared at him for a long moment, and sighed; "What do you expect me to do, Morse? The coroner will record his verdict in the morning and I cannot allow you to embarrass this station by objecting to the verdict or trying to stall for time. Nor can I allow you to waste your time – and Lewis's – by continuing to actively investigate the matter."

Morse sighed, feeling deflated. Strange was right, and despite his reservations about the verdict, he had no evidence to prove anything else. He considered his response, and met Strange's gaze.

"At least let me keep the file open, sir," Morse said, at length, "let me leave it under the active investigation tab, and I'll keep an eye on things. Sooner or later, some new evidence will come to light – or, even better, one or both of those missing children will be found. They may have witnessed something… Whittaker's the guilty party here, I know it. Don't give up on those children, sir."

As Strange sagged back in his chair, Morse knew he had won. It was a hollow victory, but it meant that he could at least keep the matter open, and monitor the missing persons investigation… and hope… beyond all hope…

"Alright, Morse, have it your way," Strange sighed, raising a hand in submission, "keep the file open, if it makes you happy. But stay out of the way of the missing persons investigation, stay away from the coroner, and stay away from Peter Whittaker until you have some solid evidence approved by me, understood?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Chief Superintendent Strange watched as Morse left his office, and shook his head slowly. The man was the best detective he had, and one of the most difficult. If anyone could get a result, it was Morse – he simply never gave up. With another sigh, he reached for his cup of tea – cold, already. Oh well… turning to the piles of paperwork on his desk, Strange had soon pushed the matter from his mind.

Lewis had driven to the pub in Morse's car. Morse had chosen one of his favourite pubs; an out-of-the way old inn beside the Oxford canal, in a picturesque setting with a beer garden to the rear, overlooking the waters. It was quiet, as it was still early evening, and there were not too many people about. Morse sat in his favourite spot, out in the beer garden, in a quiet corner to one side near the building, beneath the shade of an old, twisted oak tree. Lewis wordlessly fetched the drinks, deciding to indulge in a pint for himself for a change. He knew he would be driving back and could only have the one, but in the face of Morse's despondent mood, he was not sure a glass of orange juice would be sufficient solace.

Morse had drained his pint and was half-way through the second one – Lewis was barely a quarter of the way through his – when the Chief Inspector finally spoke.

"We'll never get him, Lewis."

Startled from a reverie, Lewis glanced across at Morse quickly, as the older man stared out across the canal, a distant look on his face.

"Sir?" he prompted.

"I know that he did it – but we'll never prove it. One of those children – or both of them – saw something, I'm sure of it. And I'll bet he's killed them, but I can't prove a damned thing," Morse said, bitterly, pausing only to take a mouthful of ale, "now he'll be living the high life on his dead brother's estate, and he's laughing at us, Lewis. He's laughing at me."

"He'll make a mistake one day, sir," Lewis tried to be reassuring, "those kiddies… well, I'm sure they're not dead."

Morse was not to be placated; "Don't get soft on me, Lewis – just because you're a family man. No, those children are dead and probably buried somewhere in Wytham Woods. Unless a body turns up, Peter Whittaker is free to do as he damn well pleases."

"We'll keep an eye on him, sir. Soon enough, he'll get what he deserves," Lewis responded, too used to Morse's moods to take much stock in his comments, "everyone does, in the end."

"With any luck, Lewis," Morse conceded, slightly, "It's… it's a good beer, this. Nice pub, too…"

Lewis nodded in agreement, knowing that he did not need to speak. And, as such, they merely sat, and drank, and watched the sun go down, knowing that there was nothing they could do to prevent the travesty of justice to happen on the morrow. Peter Whittaker would walk away free, and his brother, Jonathan, would be branded a murderer and a suicide, his name and memory forever tarnished.

Moths passed by, and turned into years. Sometime later, a little older, a lot wiser, and grieving more than he ever thought possible, the newly-promoted Inspector Lewis stood again in the grounds of the pub. Val, his wife, was stood at his side, her arm resting lightly on his elbow, a comforting, solid presence. In his hands he held a small container. With great care, he handed this to the corpulent man who stood nearby, waiting to receive it.

"Sir," he said, quietly.

"Lewis," Strange inclined his head slightly.

Lewis removed his black suit jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the waiting shovel. The small, very select group of onlookers stood in reverential silence as he worked quickly, clearing the weeds from a patch of the ground, before cutting out a square of grass and digging down to a depth of about a foot. The twisted oak curled out above him, and he was occasionally forced to dig around a root, working as close as he was to the tree. Eventually, he straightened up, and Strange held out the box to him.

Lewis took it gently, swallowing hard against the turmoil of emotions. He carried it over to the hole he had dug, and placed it carefully in the ground.

"Just like you wanted, sir," he whispered, quietly, "no service, no memorial, no prayers or fancy words. Just this. You, and us, and a pub, eh? … Rest in peace, sir."

He straightened up, reached for the shovel, and began to replace the earth he had just excavated. If anyone watching saw a tear slide down his face, he hoped that they would charitably call it sweat from the exertions, or at least glance the other way. He carefully replaced the patch of grass, and straightened up, wiping his hand across his eyes and brow, as Strange offered him a sad smile, nodding his head approvingly.

Someone else approached; a woman, in a black leather trench coat. She was carefully balancing three pints in her hands. Lewis reached out and took one, but she held out a second one towards him as well; "The ground looks dry, mate. You should water him in a bit, I reckon."

"I think he'd like that," Dr Hobson agreed, as she and Val joined them.

"Aye," Lewis said, hoarsely, "aye, he would, at that."

He went back over to the freshly dug earth, took a quick sip from his pint, and then slowly, carefully, he poured the full pint over the ground.

"Have a drink on us, sir," he murmured, and then straightened up.

Retrieving his jacket, he slipped it on, placed his arm around the waist of his wife, and went back to the wake. Behind them, they left all that remained beneath the old oak in the beer garden – Morse's final resting place.