by Colin Dexter
The second bedroom was locked.
'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.
Two and a half minutes later, Morse was taking stock of a smaller but clearly more promising room: a large book-case containing a bestseller selection from over the years; one armchair; one office chair; the latter set beneath a veneered desk with an imitation leather top, four drawers on either side, and between diem a longer drawer with two handles - locked.
'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.
Ninety seconds only this time, and clearly the locksman was running into form.
The eight side-drawers contained few items of interest: stationery, insurance documents, car documents, bank statements, pens and pencils - but in the bottom left-hand drawer a couple of pornographic paperbacks. Morse opened Topless in Torremolinos at random and read a short paragraph.
In its openly titillating way, it seemed to him surprisingly well written. And there was that one striking simile where the heroine's bosom was compared to a pair of fairy-cakes - although Morse wasn't at all sure what a fairy-cake looked like. He made a mental note of the author, Ann Berkeley Cox, and read the brief dedication on the tide page, 'For Geoff From ABC, before slipping the book into the pocket of his mackintosh.
Johnson was seated in an armchair, in the living-room, in the dark, when Morse came down the stairs holding a m anil a file.
'Got what you wanted, Mr Morse?' 'Perhaps so. Ready?'
With the house now in total darkness, the two men felt their way to the kitchen, when Morse stopped suddenly.
'The torch! Give me the torch.'
Retracing his steps to the living-room, he shone the beam along an empty mantelpiece. 'Put it back!' he said.
Johnson took the ormolu clock from his overcoat-pocket and replaced it carefully on its little dust-free rectangle.
'I'm glad you made me do that,' confided Johnson quietly. 'I shouldn't 'a done it in the first place. Anyway, me conscience'll be clear now.'
There was a streak of calculating cruelty in the man, Morse knew that. But in several respects he was a lovable rogue; even sometimes, as now perhaps, a reasonably honest one. And oddly it was Morse who was beginning to worry - about his own conscience.
He went quickly up to the second bedroom once more and slipped the book back in its drawer.
At last, as quietly as it had opened, the back door closed behind them and the pair now made their way up the grassy gradient to the gap in the slatted perimeter fence.
You've not lost your old skills,' volunteered Morse. 'Nah! Know what they say, Mr Morse? Old burglars never the - they simply steal away.'
In the darkened house behind them, on the mantelshelf in the front living-room, a little dust-free rectangle still betrayed the spot where the beautifully fashioned ormolu clock had so recently stood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When you have assembled what you call your 'facts' in logical order, it is like an oil-lamp you have fashioned, filled, and trimmed; but which will shed no illumination unless first you light it
(Saint-Exupery, The Wisdom of the Sands)
BACK IN HIS flat, Morse closed the door and shot the bolts, both top and bottom. It was an oddly needless precaution, yet an explicable one, perhaps. As a twelve-year-old boy, he remembered so vividly returning from school with a magazine, and locking all the doors in spite of his certain knowledge that no other member of the family would be home for several hours. And then, even then, he had waited awhile, relishing the anticipatory thrill before daring to open the pages.
It was just that sensation he felt now as he switched on the electric fire, poured a glass of Glenfiddich, lit a cigarette, and settled back in his favourite armchair -not this time, however, with the Naturist Journal which (all those years ago now) had been doing the rounds in Lower IVA, but with the manila file just burgled from the house in Bloxham Drive.
The cover was well worn, with tears and creases along its edges; and maroon rings where once a wine glass had rested, amid many doodles of quite intricate design. Inside the file was a sheaf of papers and cuttings, several of them clipped or stapled together, though not arranged in any chronological or purposeful sequence.
Nine separate items.
Two newspaper cuttings, snipped from one of the less inhibited of the Sunday tabloids, concerning a Lord Hardiman, together with a photograph of the aforesaid peer fishing in his wallet (presumably for Deutschmarks) outside a readily identifiable sex establishment in Hamburg's Reeperbahn. Clipped to this material was a further photograph of Lord Hardiman arm-in-arm with Lady Hardiman at a polo match in Great Windsor Park (September 1984).
A letter (August 1979) addressed to Owens from a firm of solicitors in Cheltenham informing the addressee that it was in possession of letters sent by him (Owens) to one of their clients (unspecified); and that some arrangement beneficial to each of the parties might possibly be considered.
A glossy, highly defined photograph showing a paunchy elderly man fondling a frightened-looking prepubescent girl, both of them naked. Pencilled on the back was an address in St Albans.
- A stapled sheaf of papers showing the expenses of a director in a Surrey company manufacturing surgical appliances, with double exclamation-marks against several of the mammoth amounts claimed for foreign business trips.
-A brief, no-nonsense letter (from a woman, perhaps?) in large, curly handwriting, leaning italic-fashion to the right 'If you contact me again I shall take your letters to the police - I've kept them all. You'll get no more money from me. You're a despicable human being. I've got nothing more to lose, not even my money.' No signature but (again) a pencilled address, this time in the margin, in Wimbledon.
- Four sets of initials written on a small page probably torn from the back of a diary:
/ / /
AM DC JS CB
Nothing more - except a small tick in red Biro against the first three.
- Two further newspaper cuttings, paper-clipped together. The first (The Times Diary, 2.2.96) reporting as follows:
After a nine-year tenure Sir Clixby Bream is retiring as Master of Lonsdale College, Oxford. Sir Clixby would, indeed should, have retired earlier. It is only the inability of anyone in the College(including the classicists) to understand the Latin of the original Statutes that has prolonged Sir Clixby's term. The present Master has refused to speculate whether such an event has been the result of some obscurity in the language of the Statutes themselves; or the incompetence of his classical colleagues, none of
whom appears to have been nominated as a possible successor.
The second, a cutting from the Oxford Mail (November 1995) of an article written by Geoffrey Owens; with a photograph alongside, the caption reading, 'Mr Julian Storrs and his wife Angela at the opening of the Polynesian Art Exhibition at the Pitt Rivers Museum.'
- A smudgy photocopy of a typed medical report, marked 'Strictly Private and Confidential', on the notepaper of a private health clinic in the Banbury Road:
Ref:
Mr J. C. Storrs
Diagnosis:
Inoperable liver cancer con-
firmed. For second opn. see letter
Dr O. V. Maxim (Churchill)
Prognosis:
Seven/eight months, or less.
Possibly(??) a year. No longer.
Patient Notes:
Honesty best in this case. Strong
personality.
Next Appt:
See book, but a s a p.
RHT
Clipped to this was a cutting from the obituary columns of one of the national dailies - The Independent, by the look of it - announcing the death of the distinguished cancer specialist Robert H. Turnbull.
- Finally, three photographs, paper-clipped together:
(i) A newspaper photograph of a strip-club, showing in turn (though indistinguishably) individual photographs of the establishment's principal performers, posted on each side of the narrow entrance; showing also (with complete
clarity) the inviting legend: SEXIEST RAUNCHIEST SHOW IN SOHO.
(ii) A full-length, black-and-white photograph of a tallish bottle-blonde in a dark figure-hugging gown, the thigh-slit on the left revealing a length of shapely
leg. About the woman there seemed little that was less than genuinely attractive - except the smile perhaps.
(iii) A colour photograph of the same woman seated completely naked, apart from a pair of extraordinarily thin stiletto heels, on a bar-stool somewhere – her over-firm breasts suggesting that the smile in the former photograph was not the only thing about her that might be semi-artificial. The legs, now happily revealed in all their lengthy glory, were those of a young dancer - the legs of a Cyd Charisse or a Betty
Grable, much better than those in the Naturist Journal...
Morse closed the file, and knew what he had read: an agenda for blackmail - and possibly for murder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sunday, 2 5 February
He was advised by a friend, with whom he afterwards lost touch, to stay at the Wilberforce Temperance Hotel
(Geoffrey Madan, Notebooks)
I hate those who intemperately denounce beer — and call it Temperance
(G. K. Chesterton)
SOCRATES, ON HIS last day on earth, avowed that death, if it be but one long and dreamless sleep, was a blessing most devoutly to be wished. Morse, on the morning of Sunday, 25 February - without going quite so far as Socrates - could certainly look back on his own long and dreamless sleep with a rare gratitude, since the commonest features of his nights were regular visits to the loo, frequent draughts of water, occasional doses of Nurofen and Paracetamol, an intake of indigestion tablets, and finally (after rising once more from his crumpled bed-linen) a tumbler of Alka-Seltzer.
The Observer was already poking thickly through the letter-box as he hurriedly prepared himself a sub-continental breakfast. 10.30 a.m.
It was 11.15 am- when he arrived at HQ, where Lewis had already been at work for three hours, and where he was soon regaling the chief about his visit to the newspaper offices.
A complete picture of Owens - built up from testimonials, references, records, impressions, gossip - showed a competent, hard-working, well-respected employee. That was the good news. And the bad? Well, it seemed the man was aloof, humourless, unsympathetic. In view of the latter shortcomings (Lewis had suggested) it was perhaps puzzling to understand why Owens had been sent off on a personnel management course. Yet (as the editor had suggested) some degree of aloofness, humourlessness, lack of sympathy, was perhaps precisely what was required in such a role.
Lewis pointed to the cellophane folder in which his carefully paginated photocopies were assembled.
'And one more thing. He's obviously a bit of a hit with some of the girls there - especially the younger ones.'
'In spite of his pony-tail?'
'Because of it, more likely.'
You're not serious?'
'And you're never going to catch up with the twentieth century, are you?'
'One or two possible leads?' 'Could be.'
'Such as?'
'Well, for a start, the Personnel Manager who saw Owens on Monday. I'll get a statement from him as soon as he gets back from holiday - earlier, if you'd like.'
Morse looked dubious. ‘Ye-es. But if somebody intended to murder Owens, not Rachel James ... well, Owens' alibi is neither here nor there really, is it? You're right, though. Let's stick to official procedure. I've always been in favour of rules and regulations.'
As Lewis eyed his superior officer with scarce disguised incredulity, he accepted the manila file handed to him across the desk; and began to read.
Morse himself now opened the 'Life' section of The Observer and turned to the crossword set by Azed (for Morse, the Kasparov of cruciverbalists) and considered 1 across: 'Elephant-man has a mouth that's deformed (6)'. He immediately wrote in MAHOUT, but then put the crossword aside, trusting that the remaining clues might pose a more demanding challenge, and deciding to postpone his hebdomadal treat until later in the day. Otherwise, he might well have completed the puzzle before Lewis had finished with the file.
'How did you come by this?' asked Lewis finally. 'Yours not to reason how.' 'He's a blackmailer!'
Morse nodded. 'We've found no evidential motive for Rachel's murder, but.. .' '... dozens of 'em for his.'
'About nine, Lewis - if we're going to be accurate.'
Morse opened the file, and considered the contents once more. Unlike that of the obscenely fat child-fondler, neither photograph of the leggy blonde stripper was genuinely pornographic - certainly not the wholly nude one, which seemed to Morse strangely unerotic; perhaps the one of her in the white dress, though ... 'Unbuttoning' had always appealed to Morse more than 'unbuttoned'; 'undressing' than 'undressed'; 'almost naked' to completely so. It was something to do with Plato's idea of process; and as a young classical scholar Morse had spent so many hours with that philosopher.
'Quite a bit of leg-work there, sir."
'Yes. Lovely legs, aren't they?'
'No! I meant there's a lot of work to do there -research, going around.'
You'll need a bit of help, yes.'
'Sergeant Dixon - couple of his lads, too - that'd help.'
‘Is Dixon still eating the canteen out of jam doughnuts?'
Lewis nodded. 'And he's still got his pet tortoise—' '—always a step or two in front of him, I know.'
For half an hour the detectives discussed the file's explosive material. Until just after noon, in fact 'Coffee, sir?'
'Not for me. Let's nip down to the King's Arms in Summertown.'
'Not for me,' echoed Lewis. 'I can't afford the time.' 'As you wish.' Morse got to his feet.
'Do you think you should be going out quite so much - on the booze, I mean, sir?' Lewis took a deep breath and prepared for an approaching gale, force ten. You're getting worse, not better.'
Morse sat down again.
'Let me just tell you something, Lewis. I care quite a bit about what you think of me as a boss, as a colleague, as a detective - as a friend, yes! But I don't give two bloody monkeys about what you think of me as a boozer, all right?'
'No, it's not all right,' said Lewis quietly. 'As a professional copper, as far as solving murders are concerned -'
'Is concerned!'
' - it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter to me at all.' (Lewis's voice grew sharper now.) You do your job - you spend all your time sorting things out - I'm not worried about that. And if the Chief Constable told me you weren't doing your job, I'd resign myself. But he wouldn't say that - never. What he'd say - what others would say -what others are saying - is that you're ruining yourself. Not the Force, not the department, not the murder enquiries - nothing! - except yourself'
'Just hold on a second, will you?' Morse's eyes were blazing.
'No! No, I won't. You talked about me as a friend, didn't you, just now? Well, as a friend I'm telling you that you're buggering up your health, your retirement, your life - everything!'
'Listen!' hissed Morse. 'I've never myself tried to tell any other man how to live his life. And I will not be told, at my age, how I'm supposed to live mine. Even by you.'
After a prolonged silence, Lewis spoke again.
'Can I say something else?'
Morse shrugged indifferently.
'Perhaps it doesn't matter much to most people whether you kill yourself or not. You've got no wife, no family, no relatives, except that aunt of yours in Alnwick—'
'She's dead, too.'
'So, what the hell? What's it matter? Who cares? Well, I care, sir. And the missus cares. And for all I know that girl Ellie Smith, she cares.'
Morse looked down at his desk. 'Not any longer, no.'
'And you ought to care - care for yourself -just a bit.'
For some considerable while Morse refrained from making any answer, for he was affected by his sergeant's words more deeply than he would ever be prepared to admit.
/>
Then, finally:
'What about that coffee, Lewis?' 'And a sandwich?' 'And a sandwich.'
By early afternoon Morse had put most of his cards on the table, and he and Lewis had reached an agreed conclusion. No longer could either of diem accept that Rachel James had been the intended victim: each of them now looked towards Geoffrey Owens as by far the likelier target. Pursuance of the abundant clues provided by the Owens file would necessarily involve a great deal of extra work; and fairly soon a strategy was devised, with Lewis and Dixon allocated virtually everything except the Soho slot.
"You know, I could probably fit that in fairly easily with the Wimbledon visit,' Lewis had volunteered.
But Morse was clearly unconvinced:
"The Soho angle's the most important of the lot.'
'Do you honestly believe that?'
'Certainly. That's why—'
The phone rang, answered by Morse.
Owens (he learned) had phoned HQ ten minutes earlier, just after 3 p.m., to report that his property had been burgled over the weekend, while he was away.
'And you're dealing with it? . .. Good .. .Just the one item you say, as far as he knows? ... I see ... Thank you.'
Morse put down the phone; and Lewis picked up the file, looking quizzically across the desk.
But Morse shook his head. 'Not the file, no.' 'What, then?'
'A valuable little ormolu clock from his living-room.' 'Probably a professional, sir - one who knows his clocks.'
'Don't ask me. I know nothing about clocks.' Lewis grinned. 'We both know somebody who does though, don't we, sir?'
CHAPTER THIRTY
This world and the next — and after that all our troubles will be over
(Attributed to General Gordon's aunt)
No KNOCK. THE door opened. Strange entered.
'Haven't they mentioned it yet, Morse? The pubs are open all day on Sundays now.'
As Strange carefully balanced his bulk on the chair opposite, Morse lauded his luck that Lewis had taken the Owens material down the corridor for photocopying.
'Just catching up on a bit of routine stuff, sir.'
'Really?'
'Why are you here?'
'It's the wife,' confided Strange. 'Sunday afternoons she always goes round the house dusting everything. Including me!'
