Death is now my neighbour - Morse 12

by Colin Dexter

  'We know he voted Conservative, sir.'

  ' - the newspaper he took, where he usually parked his car, what his job prospects were - yes, plenty to be going on with there.'

  'Quite a list. Good job there's two of us, sir.'

  'Pardon?'

  'Hefty agenda - that's all I'm saying.'

  'Not all that much really. Far easier than it sounds. And if you get off straightaway ...' Morse looked at his wristwatch: 10.45 a.m.

  Lewis frowned. You mean you're not joining me?'

  'Not today, no.'

  'But you just said—'

  'One or two important things I've got to do after lunch.' 'Such as?'

  'Well, to be truthful, I've been told to take things a bit more gently. And I suppose I'd better take a bit of notice of my medical advisers.'

  'Of course.'

  'Don't get me wrong, mind! I'm feeling fine. But I think a little siesta this afternoon ...'

  'Siesta? That's what they have in Spain in the middle of the summer when the temperature's up in the nineties - but we're in England in the middle of winter and it's freezing outside.'

  Morse looked down at his desk, a little sheepishly, and Lewis knew that he was lying.

  'Come on, sir! It's something to do with that invite you had, isn't it? Deborah Crawford?'

  'In away.'

  "Why are you being so secretive about it? You wouldn't tell me yesterday either.'

  'Only because it needs a bit more thinking about, that's all.'

  "You and me together" - isn't that what you said?' Morse fingered the still-cellophaned cigarettes, almost desperately.

  'Si' down then, Lewis.'

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  It is the nature of an hypothesis, when once a man has conceived it, that it assimilates every thing to itself as proper nourishment, and, from the first moment of your begetting it, it generally grows the stronger by every thing you see, hear, read, or understand

  (Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy)

  'IT WASN'T DEBORAH Crawford, Lewis - it was her initials, "DC". When we found that list in the manila file, I jumped the gun. I automatically assumed that "JS" was Julian Storrs - I think I was right about that - and I assumed that "DC" was Denis Cornford - and I think I was wrong about that. As things have turned out I don't believe Owens ever knew Cornford at all, or his missus, for that matter. But he knew another "DC": the woman at Number 1 Bloxham Close - Adele Beatrice Cecil - the ABC lass Owens knew well enough to call by her nickname, "Delia". "DC". And the more I think about her, the more attractive a proposition I find it.'

  'Well, most men would, sir. Lovely looker!'

  Ignoring the pleasantry, Morse continued: 'Just consider for a minute what an important figure she is in the case. She's the prime witness, really. She's the one who sees Owens leave for work about sevenish on the morning Rachel was murdered; she's the one who rings Owens an hour or so later to tell him the police are in Bloxham Close' (again Lewis let it go) 'and gives him a headstart on all the other newshounds. That's what she says, isn't it? But she might not be telling the truth!' Lewis sat in silence.

  'Now, as I recall it, your objection to Owens himself ever being a suspect was the time-factor. You argued that he couldn't have gone to work that morning, parked his car, been seen in the newspaper offices, got in his car again, driven back to Kidlington, murdered Rachel, driven back to Osney Mead again, taken the phone-call from Delia Cecil, driven back to Kidlington again, to be on hand with his mobile and his notebook while the rest of the press are pulling their socks on. He could never have done all that in such a short space of time, you said. Impossible! And of course you were right - '

  'Thank you, sir.'

  ' - in one way; and quite wrong in another. Let's stick to our original idea that the list of initials we found was a blackmail list, and that she's on it - Delia Cecil. He's got something on her, too. So when he asks her to help him in his plan to get Rachel out of the way, she's little option but to co-operate.'

  'Have you any idea what this "plan" was, sir?'

  'That's the trouble. I've got far too many ideas.'

  'Want to try me?'

  'All right. They're all the same sort of plan, really -any plan to cut down that time business you're so worried about. Let me just outline a possible plan, and see what you think of it. Ready? Owens drives out to work, at ten to seven, let's say - and she follows him, in her own car. When he's parked the car, when his entry's recorded, he goes into the building, makes sure he's seen by somebody

  doesn't matter who it is - then immediately leaves via a side door and gets into her car, parked along the street in front of the offices. Back in Kidlington, he murders Rachel James, about half past seven, and doesn't return to work at all He's got a key and he goes into Delia's house

  and waits. At the appropriate time, when the police arrive, a call is made to his own office - he knows there'll be no one there! - and a message is left or isn't left on the answerphone. All that matters is that a telephonic communication is established, and gets recorded on those BT lists we all get, between her phone and Owens' phone in his office. Then all he's got to do is to emerge amid all the excitement once the murder's reported - the police, the local people, the Press, the TV ... Well?'

  You make it up as you go along, sir.'

  Morse's face betrayed some irritation. 'Of course I bloody do! That's what I'm here for. I just told you. If once we accept there could be two people involved - two cars - there are dozens of possibilities. It's like permutating your selection on the National Lottery. I've just given you one possibility, that's all.'

  'But it just couldn't—'

  'What's wrong with it? Come on! Tell me!'

  'Well, let's start with the car—'

  'Cars, plural.'

  'All right. When he's parked his car—'

  ‘I didn't say that I deliberately said parked the car, if you'd been listening. It could have been his - it could have been hers: it's the card number that's recorded there, not the car number. She could have driven his car - he could have driven hers - and at any point they could have swapped. Not much risk. Very few people around there at seven. Or eight, for that matter.'

  'Is it my turn now?' asked Lewis quietly.

  'Go on!'

  'I'm talking about Owens' car, all right? That was parked in Bloxham Drive - "Drive" please, sir - when Owens was there that morning. The street was cordoned off, but the lads let him in - because he told them he lived there. And I saw the car myself.'

  'So? He could have left it - or she could have left it -in a nearby street. Anywhere. Up on the main road behind the terrace, say. That's where JJ—'

  But Morse broke off.

  'It still couldn't have happened like you say, sir!' 'No?'

  'No! He was seen in his office, Owens was, remember? Just at the time when Rachel was being murdered! Seen by the Personnel Manager there.'

  "We haven't got a statement from him yet, though.'

  'He's been away, you know that'

  Yes, I do know that, Lewis. But you spoke to him.'

  Lewis nodded.

  'On the phone?'

  'On the phone.'

  You did it through the operator, I suppose?' Lewis nodded again.

  'Do you know who she probably put you through to?' asked Morse slowly.

  The light dawned in Lewis's eyes. 'You mean ... she could have put me through to Owens himself?'

  Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'That's what we've got to find out, isn't it? Owens was deputy Personnel Manager, we know that. He was on a management course only last weekend.'

  'Do you really think that's what happened?'

  'I dunno. I know one thing, though: it could have happened that way.'

  'But it's all so - so airy-fairy, isn't it? And you said we were going to get some facts straight first.'

  'Exactly.'

  Lewis gave up the struggle. 'I'll tell you something that would be useful: some idea where the gun is.'

  'T
he "pistol", do you mean?'

  'Sorry. But if only we knew where that was

  'Oh, I think I know where we're likely to find the pistol, Lewis.'

  PART FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Wednesday, 6 March

  A good working definition of Hell on Earth is a forced attendance for a couple of days or even a couple of hours at a Young Conservatives' Convention

  (Cassandra, in the Daily Mirror, June 1952)

  Miss ADELE CECIL (she much preferred 'Miss' to 'Ms' and 'Adele' to 'Delia') had spent the previous evening and night in London, where she had attended, and addressed, a meeting of the chairmen, chairwomen and chairpersons of the Essex Young Conservative Association. Thirty-eight such personages had assembled at Durrants, in George Street, a traditional English hotel just behind Oxford Street, with good facilities, tasteful cuisine, and comfortable beds. Proceedings had been business-like, and the majority of delegates (it appeared) had ended up in the rooms originally allocated to them.

  It was at a comparatively early breakfast in the restaurant that over her fresh grapefruit, with Full English to follow, the head-waiter had informed Adele of the telephone message, which she had taken in one of the hooded booths just outside the breakfast-room.

  'How did you know I was here?'

  'Don't you remember me? I'm a detective.'

  Yes, she remembered him - the white-haired, supercilious, sarcasdc police officer she didn't want to meet again.

  'I shan't be back in Oxford till lunch time.' 'The Trout? Half past twelve?'

  As she started on her eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and sausages, she accepted the good-natured twitting of her three breakfast companions, all male:

  'Boyfriend?'

  'Couldn't he wait?'

  'What's he got... ?'

  During her comparatively young life, Adele had been companionably attached to a couple of dozen or so men, of varying ages, with many of whom she had slept -though seldom more than once or twice, and never without some satisfactory reassurance about the availability and reliability of condoms, and a relatively recent check-up for AIDS.

  They were all the same, men. Well, most of them. Fingers fumbling for hooks at the backs of bras, or at the front these days. So why was she looking forward just a little to her lunchtime rendezvous? She wasn't really, she told herself, as she parked the Rover, crossed the narrow readjust below the bridge, and entered the bar.

  'What'll you have?'

  'Orange juice and lemonade, please.'

  They sat facing each other at a low wooden table, and Morse was immediately (and again) aware of her attractiveness. She wore a slimly tailored dark-grey outfit, with a high-necked Oxford blue blouse, her ash-blonde hair palely gleaming.

  Morse looked down at his replenished pint of London Pride.

  'Good time at the Conference?' ‘I had a lovely time,' she lied. 'I'm glad it went well,' he lied.

  'Do you mind?' She waved an unlit cigarette in the air.

  'Go ahead, please.'

  She offered the packet across.

  'Er, not for the minute, thank you.'

  'Well?'

  'Just one or two questions.'

  She smiled attractively: 'Go ahead.'

  Morse experienced a sense of paramnesia. Deja vu. You've already signed a statement - about the morning Rachel was murdered?'

  You know that, surely?'

  'And it was the truth?' asked Morse, starkly. You couldn't have been wrong?' 'Of course not!'

  You told me you "had a heart-to-heart" with Rachel once in a while. I think those were your words?' 'So?'

  'Does that mean you spoke about boyfriends — men-friends?'

  'And clothes, and money, and work—' 'Did you know she was having an affair with Julian Storrs?'

  She nodded slowly.

  'Did you mention this to Mr Owens?' Morse's eyes, blue and unblinking, looked fiercely into hers.

  And her eyes were suddenly fierce, too, as they held his. 'What the hell do you think I'd do that for?'

  Morse made no direct answer as he looked down at the old flagstones there. And when he resumed, his voice was very quiet.

  'Did you ever have an affair with Julian Storrs?'

  She thought he looked sad, as if he hadn't really wanted to ask the question at all; and suddenly she knew why she'd been looking forward to seeing him. So many hours of her life had she spent seeking to discover what lay beneath the physical looks, the sexual prowess, the masculine charms of some of her lovers; and so often had she discovered the self-same answer - virtually nothing.

  She looked long into the blazing log-fire before finally answering:

  'I spent one night with him - in Blackpool - at one of the Party Conferences.'

  She spoke so softly that Morse could hardly hear the words, or perhaps it was he didn't wish to hear the words. For a while he said nothing. Then he resumed his questioning:

  'You told me that when you were at Roedean there were quite a few daughters of service personnel there, apart from yourself?'

  'Quite a few, yes.'

  ‘Your own father served in the Army in India?' 'How did you know mat?'

  'He's in Who's Who. Or he was. He died two years ago. Your mother died of cancer twelve years ago. You were the only child of the marriage.'

  'Orphan Annie, yeah!' The sophisticated, upper-crust veneer was beginning to crack.

  You inherited his estate?'

  'Estate? Hah!' She laughed bitterly. 'He left all his money to the bookmakers.'

  'No heirlooms, no mementoes - that sort of thing?'

  She appeared puzzled. ' What sort of thing?'

  'A pistol, possibly? A service pistol?'

  'Look! You don't seriously think I had anything to do with—'

  'My job's to ask the questions—'

  'Well, the answer's "no",' she snapped. 'Any more questions?'

  One or two clearly:

  'Where were you on Sunday morning - last Sunday morning?'

  'At home. In bed. Asleep - until the police woke me up.'

  'And then?'

  'Then I was frightened. And you want me to tell you the truth? Well, I'm still bloody frightened!'

  Morse looked at her again: so attractive; so vulnerable; and now just a little nervous, perhaps? Not frightened though, surely.

  Was she hiding something?

  'Is there anything more,' he asked gently 'anything at all, you can tell me about this terrible business?' And immediately he sensed that she could.

  'Only one thing, and perhaps it's got nothing ... Julian asked me to a Guest Night at Lonsdale last November, and in the SCR after dinner I sat next to a Fellow there called Denis Cornford. I only met him that once - but he was really nice - lovely man, really - the sort of man I wish I'd met in life.'

  'Bit old, surely?'

  'About your age.'

  Morse's fingers folded round the cellophane, and he sought to stop his voice from trembling. 'What about him?'

  ‘I saw him in the Drive, that's all. On Thursday night. About eight. He didn't see me. I'd just driven in and he was walking in front of me - no car. He kept walking along a bit, and then he turned into Number 15 and rang the bell. Geoff Owens opened the front door - and let him in.'

  You're quite sure it was him?'

  'Oh, yes,' replied Adele.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  He looked into her limpid eyes: 'I will turn this Mozart off, if you don't mind, my love. You see, I can never concentrate on two beautiful things at the same time'

  (Passage quoted by Terence Benczik in The Good and the Bad in Mills and Boon)

  WITH SUSPICIOUSLY extravagant caution Morse drove the Jaguar up towards Kidlington HQ, again conscious of seeing the name-plate of that particular railway station flashing, still unrecognizably, across his mind. At the Woodstock Road roundabout he waited patiently for a gap in the Ring-Road traffic; rather too patiently for a regularly hooting hooligan somewhere behind him.

  Whether he believed
what his ABC girl had told him, he wasn't really sure. And suddenly he realized he'd forgotten to ask her whether indeed it was she who occasionally extended her literary talents beyond her humdrum political pamphlets into the fields of (doubtless more profitable) pornography.

  But it was only for a few brief minutes that Morse considered the official confiscation of the titillatingly titled novel, since his car-phone had been ringing as he finally crossed into Five Mile Drive. He pulled over to the side of the road, since seldom had he been able to discharge two simultaneous dudes at all satisfactorily.

  It was Lewis on the line - an excited Lewis.

  Calling from the newspaper offices.

  'I just spoke to the Personnel Manager, sir. It was him!'

  'Lew-is! Your pronouns! What exactly was who?'

  'It wasn't Owens I spoke to on the phone. It was the Personnel Manager himself!'

  Morse replied only after a pause, affecting a tone of appropriate humility: ‘I wonder why I don't take more notice of you in the first place.'

  ‘You don't sound all that surprised?'

  'Little in life surprises me any longer. The big thing is that we're getting things straight at last. Well done!'

  'So your girl wasn't involved.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Did she tell you anything important?'

  'I'm not sure. We know Owens had got something on Storrs, and perhaps ... it might be he had something on Cornford as well.'

  'Cornford? How does he come into things?'

  'She tells me, our Tory lass, that she saw him going into Owens' house last Thursday.'

  'Phew!'

  'I'm just going back to HQ, and then I'll be off to see our friends the Cornfords - both of 'em - if I can park.'

  'Last time you parked on the pavement in front of the Clarendon Building.'

  'Ah, yes. Thank you, Lewis. I'd almost forgotten that.'

  'Not forgotten your injection, I hope?'

  'Oh no. That's now become an automatic part of my lifestyle,' said Morse, who had forgotten all about his lunch-time jab.