Death is now my neighbour - Morse 12

by Colin Dexter

  'Where does that leave me - leave us?' she asked miserably.

  'We shall have to ask you to come in to make an official statement,' said Lewis. 'Now, you mean?' "That'll be best, yes.'

  'Perhaps not,' intervened Morse. 'It's not all that urgent, Miss Charles. We'll be in touch fairly soon.'

  At the door, Morse thanked her for the coffee: 'Not the best homecoming, I'm afraid.'

  'Only myself to blame,' she said, her voice tight as she looked across at the Visitors' parking lots, where the Jaguar stood.

  'Where did you go?' asked Morse.

  'I didn't go anywhere.'

  "You stayed here - in your flat?'

  'I didn't go anywhere.'

  'What was that about?' asked Lewis as he drove back along the A34 to Oxford. 'About her statement?'

  ‘I want you to be with me when we see Storrs this afternoon.'

  'What did you think of her?' 'Not a very good liar.'

  'Lovely figure, though. Legs right up to her armpits! She'd have got a job in the chorus line at the Windmill.'

  Morse was silent, his eyes gleaming again as Lewis continued:

  'I read somewhere that they all had to be the same height and the same build - in the chorus line there.' 'Perhaps I'll take you along when the case is over.' 'No good, sir. It's been shut for ages.'

  Dawn Charles closed the door behind her and walked thoughtfully back to the lounge, the suspicion of a smile about her lips.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car

  (E. B. White, One Man's Meat)

  LEWIS HAD BACKED into the first available space in Polstead Road, the tree-lined thoroughfare that leads westward from Woodstock Road into Jericho; and now stood waiting whilst Morse arose laboriously from the low passenger seat of the Jaguar.

  'Seen that before, sir?' Lewis pointed to the circular blue plaque on the wall opposite: 'This house was the home of ‘I. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) from 1896-1921.'

  Morse grunted as he straightened up his aching back, mumbling of lumbago.

  'What about a plaque for Mr Storrs, sir? "This was the home of Julian Something Storrs, Master of Lonsdale, 1996 to... 1997?'"

  Morse shrugged indifferently:

  'Perhaps just 1996.'

  The two men walked a little way along the short road. The houses here were of a pattern: gabled, red-bricked, three-storeyed properties, with ashlared, mullioned windows, the frames universally painted white; interesting and amply proportioned houses built towards the end of the nineteenth century.

  'Wouldn't mind living here,' volunteered Lewis.

  Morse nodded. 'Very civilized. Small large houses, these, Lewis, as opposed to large small houses.'

  'What's the difference?'

  'Something to do with the number of bathrooms, I think.'

  'Not much to do with the number of garages!' 'No.'

  Clearly nothing whatever to do with the number of garages, since the reason for the continuum of cars on either side of the road was becoming increasingly obvious: there were no garages here, nor indeed any room for such additions. To compensate for the inconvenience, the front areas of almost all the properties had been cemented, cobbled, gravelled, or paved, in order to accommodate the parking of motor cars; including the front of the Storrs' residence, where on the gravel alongside the front window stood a small, pale grey, D-registration Citroen, a thin pink stripe around its bodywork.

  'Someone's in?' ventured Morse.

  'Mrs Storrs, perhaps - he's got a BMW. A woman's car, that, anyway.'

  'Really?'

  Morse was still peering through the Citroen's front window (perhaps for some more eloquent token of femininity) when Lewis returned from his ineffectual ringing.

  'No one in. No answer, anyway.'

  'On another weekend break?'

  'I could ring the Porters' Lodge.'

  You do that small thing, Lewis. I'll be ...' Morse pointed vaguely towards the hostelry at the far end of the road.

  It was at the Anchor, a few minutes later, as Morse sat behind a pint of John Smith's Tadcaster bitter, that Lewis came in to report on the Storrs: away again, for the weekend, the pair of them, this time though their whereabouts not vouchsafed to the Lodge.

  Morse received the news without comment, appearing preoccupied; thinking no doubt, supposed Lewis, as he paid for his orange juice. Thinking and drinking ... drinking and thinking ... the twin activities which in Morse's view were ever and necessarily concomitant.

  Not wholly preoccupied, however.

  'I'll have a refill while you're at the bar, Lewis. Smith's please.'

  After a period of silence, Morse asked the question:

  'If somebody came to you with a letter - a photocopied letter, say - claiming your missus was having a passionate affair with the milkman - '

  Lewis grinned. 'I'd be dead worried. We've got a woman on the milk-float'

  ' - what would you do?'

  'Read it, obviously. See who'd written it'

  'Show it to the missus?'

  'Only if it was a joke.' 'How would you know that?'

  'Well, you wouldn't really, would you? Not for a start. You'd try to find out if it was genuine.'

  'Exactly. So when Storrs got a copy of that letter, a letter he'd pretty certainly not seen before—'

  'Unless Turnbull showed it to him?'

  'Doubt it A death certificate, wasn't it? He'd want to let Storrs down a bit more gently than that'

  "You mean, if Storrs tried to find out if it was genuine, he'd probably go along to the clinic ...'

  Morse nodded, like some benevolent schoolmaster encouraging a promising pupil.

  'And show it to ... Dawn Charles?'

  'Who else? She's the sort of Practice Manager there, if anybody is. And let's be honest about things. You're not exactly an expert in the Socratic skills yourself, are you? But how long did it take you to get the truth out of her? Three or four minutes?'

  'You think Storrs did it as well?'

  'Pretty certainly, I'd say. He's nobody's fool; and he's not going to give in to blackmail just on somebody's vague say-so. He's an academic; and if you're an academic you're trained to check- check your sources, check your references, check your evidence.'

  'So perhaps Storrs has been a few steps in front of us all the time.'

  Morse nodded. 'He probably rumbled our receptionist straightaway. Not many suspects there at the clinic'

  Slowly Lewis sipped his customary orange juice, his earlier euphoria fading.

  'We're not exactly galloping towards the finishing-post, are we?'

  Morse looked up, his blue eyes betraying some considerable surprise.

  'Why do you say that, Lewis? That's exactly what we are doing.'

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Saturday, 9 March

  Hombre apercebido medio combatido

  (A man well prepared has already half fought the battle)

  (Cervantes, Don Quixote)

  SOMEWHAT CONCERNED about the adequacy of the Jaguar's petrol allowance, Morse had requisitioned an unmarked police car, which just before 10 a.m. was heading south along the A34, with Sergeant Lewis at the wheel. As they approached Abingdon, Morse asked Lewis to turn on Classic FM; and almost immediately asked him to turn it off, as he recognized the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2.

  'Somebody once said, Lewis, that it was not impossible to get bored even in the presence of a mistress, and I'm sorry to say I sometimes get a little bored even in the company of Johann Sebastian Bach.'

  'Really. I thought it was rather nice.'

  'Lew-is! He may be terrific; he may be terrible - but he's never nice. Not Bach!'

  Lewis concentrated on the busy road ahead as Morse sank back into his seat and, as was ever his wont in a car, said virtually nothing for the rest of the journey.

  And yet Morse had said so many things - things upon which Lewis's mind intermittently focused again, as far too quickly he drove down t
o the Chieveley junction with the M4 ...

  Once back from Polstead Road, Friday afternoon had been very busy and, for Lewis, very interesting. It had begun with Morse asking about their present journey.

  'If you had a posh car, which way would you go to Bath?'

  'A34, M4, A46 - probably the best; the quickest, certainly.'

  'What if you had an old banger?'

  'Still go the same way, I think.'

  'What's wrong with the Burford-Cirencester way?'

  'Nothing at all, if you like a bit of scenery. Or if you don't like motorway-driving.'

  Then another question:

  'How do we find out which bank the Storrs use?'

  'Could be they have different banks, sir. Shouldn't be too difficult, though: Lloyds, Barclays, NatWest, Midland ... Shall I ring around?'

  Morse nodded. 'And try to find out how they've been spending their money recently - if it's possible.'

  'May take a bit of time, but I don't see why not. Let me find out anyway.'

  Lewis turned to go, but Morse had a further request

  'Before you do, bring me the notes you made about the Storrs' stay in Bath last weekend. I'm assuming you've typed 'em up by now?'

  'All done. Maybe a few spelling mistakes - a few grammatical lapses - beautifully typed, though.'

  It had taken Lewis only ten minutes to discover that Mr Julian Storrs and Mrs Angela Storrs both banked at Lloyds. But there had been far greater difficulty in dealing with Morse's supplementary request.

  The Manager of Lloyds (Headington Branch) had been fully co-operative but of only limited assistance. It was very unusual of course, but not in cases such as this unethical, for confidential material concerning clients to be disclosed. But Lewis would have to contact Lloyds Inspection Department in Bristol.

  Which Lewis had promptly done, again receiving every co-operation; also, however, receiving the disappointing news that the information required was unlikely as yet to be fully ready. With credit-card facilities now almost universally available, the volume of transactions was ever growing; and with receipt-items sometimes irregularly forwarded from retail outlets, and with a few inevitable checks and delays in processing and clearance - well, it would take a little time.

  'Later this afternoon?' Lewis had queried hopefully.

  'No chance of that, I'm afraid.'

  'Tomorrow morning?'

  Lewis heard a deep sigh at the other end of the line. 'We don't usually ... It is very urgent, you say?'

  *

  The phone had been ringing in Morse's office (an office minus Morse) and Lewis had taken the brief call. The post-mortem on Shelly Cornford confirmed death from carbon-monoxide poisoning, and completely ruled out any suspicion of foul play.

  A note on yellow paper was Sellotaped to the desk:

  Lewis!

  -Just off to the Diab. Centre (3.45)

  Yr notes on Bath most helpful, but try to get Sarah Siddons right - two d's, please.

  Good job we're getting a few facts straight before jumping too far ahead. Reculer pour mieux sauter!

  We'll be jumping tomorrow a.m. tho' - to Bath. Royal Crescent informs me the Storrs - Herr und Frau - are staying there again!

  -I need yr notes on Julian Storrs.

  - Ring me at home - after the Archers.

  M

  And on the side of the desk, a letter from the Thame and District Diabetic Association addressed to Det. Chief Inspector Morse:

  Dear sir,

  Welcome to the Club! Sorry to be so quick off the mark but news travels fast in diabetic circles.

  We meet on the first Thursday of each month 7.30-9 p.m. in the Town Hall in Thame and we shall be delighted if you can come to speak to us. We can offer no fee but we can offer a warm-hearted and grateful audience.

  During this last year we have been fortunate to welcome several very well-known people. For example our last six speakers have been Dr David Matthews, Lesley Hallett, Professor Harry Keane, Angela Storrs, Dr Robert Turner, and Willie Rushton.

  Please try to support us if you can. For our 1996/7 programme we are still looking for speakers for October '96 and February '97. Any hope of you filling one of these slots?

  I enclose SAE and thank you for your kind consideration. ..

  But Lewis read only the first few lines, for never, except in the course of a criminal investigation, had he wittingly read a letter meant for the eyes of another person ...

  From the passenger seat Morse had still said nothing until Lewis, after turning off the M4 at Junction 18 on to the A46, was within a few miles of Bath.

  'Lewis! If you had a mistress - '

  'Not the milk-lady, sir. She's far too fat for me.'

  ' - and, say, you were having a weekend away together and you told your missus that you were catching the train but in fact this woman was going to pick you up in her car somewhere - The Randolph, say

  Yes, sir?' (Was Morse getting lost)

  'Would you still go to the railway station? Would you make sure she picked you up at the railway station - not The Randolph?'

  'Dunno, sir. I've never—'

  ‘I know you haven't,' snapped Morse. 'Just think, man!' So Lewis thought. And thought he saw what Morse was getting at.

  You mean it might make you feel a bit better in your own mind - feel a bit less guilty, like - if you did what you said you'd be doing - before you went?' (Was Lewis getting lost?)

  'Something like that,' said Morse unenthusiastically as a sign welcomed the two detectives to the Roman City of Bath.

  As soon as Lewis had stopped outside the Royal Crescent Hotel, Morse rang through on the mobile phone to the Deputy Manager, as had been agreed. No problem, it appeared. The Storrs had gone off somewhere an hour or so earlier in the BMW. The coast was clear; and Morse got out of the car and walked round to the driver's window.

  'Good luck in Bristol!'

  Lewis raised two crossed fingers of his right hand, like the logo of the National Lottery, as Morse continued:

  'If you find what I hope you're going to find, the battle's half won. And it's mostly thanks to you.'

  'No! It was you who figured it all out'

  'Wouldn't have done, though, without all those visits of yours to Soho.'

  'Pardon, sir?'

  To see the chorus line, Lewis! The chorus line at the Windmill.'

  'But I've never—'

  '"Legs right up to her armpits," you said, right? And that was the second time you'd used those words, Lewis. Remember?'

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast table

  (Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of the Seven Gables)

  MORSE STOOD FOR some while on the huge slabs that form the wide pavement stretching along the whole extent of the great 500-foot curve of cinnamon-coloured stone, with its identical facades of double Ionic columns, which comprise Bath's Royal Crescent. It seemed to him a breathtaking architectural masterpiece, with the four-star hotel exactly at its centre: Number 16.

  He walked between the black spiked railings, through the white double-doors, into the black-and-white floor-tiled, high-ceilinged entrance hall, and then to reception, where he was immediately ushered into the beige-carpeted, pine-furnished office of the Deputy Manager, just beyond.

  Sara Hickman was from Leicestershire, a tall, slimly attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with green eyes (just like Sister McQueen) and dark curly hair. She was dressed in a business-like suit; she spoke in a business-like manner; and so very clearly was she part of an extremely business-like hotel, since manifold awards -RAC Blue Ribbons, AA Rosettes, Egon Ronay Stars - vied with each other for space around the walls.

  After hesitating, finally capitulating, over the offer of coffee, Morse soon found himself listening very carefully.

  Sara had (she told him) been able to re-interview almost all of the service personnel who had been on duty the previous weekend, most of whom
, as it happened, were performing similar duties that present weekend. But there seemed little to add, at least in general terms, to the details earlier communicated by the Manager himself to the Thames Valley Police. One minor correction: the room the Storrs had slept in was a Standard Twin, not a Standard Double; and in fact the couple had asked for the same room again, if it was available. Which, by some strange coincidence, it was: the only Standard Twin still available in the hotel that weekend. Registration? She passed to Morse the card dated the previous Saturday, 2.3.96: Guest's Name; Address; Telephone No.; Arrival Date; Departure Date; Nationality; Payment Type; Passport No.; Signature; Car Reg. No. - and more. All filled in with a neat, feminine, slightly forward-leaning script, in black Biro; and signed 'Angela Storrs'. It would be comparatively easy to check, of course; but Morse had little or no doubt that the signature was genuine.

  'The Manager told my sergeant, when he rang about last weekend, that we might be able to see some itemized bills?'

  Sara Hickman smiled.

  'I thought somehow you might ask for them,' she said, and now read aloud from a small sheaf of bills in front of her.

  'Last Saturday night they ate at Table twenty-six, in the far corner of the restaurant. He had the Carpaccio of Beef, Truffled Noodles, and Parmesan, for his starter; for his main course, the Seabass served with Creamed Celeriac and Fennel Liqueur; Passion Fruit Mousse for sweet. She wasn't quite so adventurous, I'm afraid: Consomme; with Baked Plaice and Green Salad for her main course; and then cream-crackers and Edam - the waiter particularly remembers her asking for the Edam.'

  'Good low-fat cheese they tell me,' mumbled Morse, recalling his own hard-nosed dietitian's homily in the Geoffrey Harris Ward. And he was smiling vaguely to himself as the Deputy Manager continued:

  'Now, Sunday morning. Mr Storrs had ordered breakfasts for the two of them over the phone the previous night - at about eleven, half past - can't be sure. He said he thought he was probably too late with the form, but he obviously had it in front of him - the night-porter remembers that. He said he'd have a Full English for himself, no kidney though, with the tomato well grilled, and two fried eggs. Said his wife would go for a Continental: said she'd like cereal, Ricicles, if we'd got some - Chief Inspector, we've got a bigger selection of cereals than Sainsbury's! - some brown toast and honey, the fresh-fruit compote, and orange juice. Oh, yes' (Sara checked the form again) 'and hot chocolate.'