Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

by Colin Dexter

  'Could I see your Railcard, sir?'

  With a sigh of resignation, the man produced his card. And the slightly flustered, spotty-faced youdi duly studied the details.

  Valid: until 07 MAY 96; Issued to: Mr J. C. Storrs.

  'How the hell does he think I got my ticket at Oxford without showing that?' asked the Senior Fellow of Lonsdale.

  'He's only doing his duty, poor lad. And he's got awful acne.'

  'You're right, yes.'

  She took his hand in hers, moving more closely again. And within a few minutes the PADDINGTON sign passed by as the train drew slowly into the long platform. In a

  DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

  rather sad voice, the Senior Conductor now made his second announcement: 'All change, please! All change! This train has now terminated.'

  They waited until their fellow-passengers had alighted; and happily, just as at Oxford, there seemed to be no one on the train whom either of them knew.

  In the Brunei Bar of the Station Hotel, Storrs ordered a large brandy (two pieces of ice) for his young companion, and half a pint of Smith's bitter for himself. Then, leaving his own drink temporarily untouched, he walked out into Praed Street, thence making his way down to the cluster of small hotels in and around Sussex Gardens, several of them displaying VACANCIES signs. He had 'used' (was that the word?) two of them previously, but this time he decided to explore new territory.

  'Double room?'

  'One left, yeah. Just the one night, is it?'

  'How much?'

  'Seventy-five pounds for the two -with breakfast'

  'How much without breakfast?'

  Storrs sensed that the middle-aged peroxide blonde was attuned to his intentions, for her eyes hardened knowingly behind the cigarette-stained reception counter.

  'Seventy-five pounds.'

  One experienced campaigner nodded to another experienced campaigner. 'Well, thank you, madam. I promise I'll call back and take the room - after I've had a look at it-if I can't find anything a little less expensive.'

  He turned to go.

  'Just a minute!... No breakfast, you say?'

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  'No. We're catching the sleeper to Inverness, and we just want a room for the day - you know? - a sort of habitation and a place.'

  She squinted up at him through her cigarette smoke.

  'Sixty-five?'

  'Sixty.'

  'OK.'

  He counted out six ten-pound notes as, pushing the register forward, she reached behind her for Key Number 10.

  It was, one may say, a satisfactory transaction.

  Her glass was empty, and without seating himself he drained his own beer at a draught.

  'Same again?'

  'Please!' She pushed over the globed glass in which the semi-melted ice-cubes still remained.

  Feeling most pleasandy relaxed, she looked around the thinly populated bar, and noticed (again!) die eyes of die middle-aged man seated across die room. But she gave no sign diat she was aware of his interest, switching her glance instead to die balding, grey-white head of die man leaning nonchalandy at the bar as he ordered dieir drinks.

  Beside her once more, he clinked dieir glasses, feeling (just as she did) most pleasantly relaxed.

  'Quite a while since we sat here,' he volunteered.

  'Couple o' mondis?'

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  'Ten weeks, if we wish to be exact*

  "Which, of course, we do, sir.'

  Smiling, she sipped her second large brandy. Feeling good; feeling increasingly good.

  'Hungry?' he asked.

  'What for?'

  He grinned. 'An hour in bed, perhaps - before we have a bite to eat?'

  'Wine thrown in?'

  Tm trying to bribe you.'

  'Well ... if you want to go to bed for a little while first...'

  'I think I'd quite enjoy that'

  'One condition, though.'

  'What?'

  "You tell me what you were going to tell me - on the train.'

  He nodded seriously. Til tell you over the wine.'

  It was, one may say, a satisfactory arrangement

  As they got up to leave, Storrs moved ahead of her to push open one of the swing-doors; and Rachel James (for such was she), a freelance physiotherapist practising up in North Oxford, was conscious of the same man's eyes upon her. Almost involuntarily she leaned her body backward, thrusting her breasts against the smooth white silk of her blouse as she lifted both her hands behind her head to tighten the ring which held her light brown hair in its pony-tail.

  A pony-tail ten inches long.

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  CHAPTER FIVE

  Then die smiling hookers turned their attention to our shocked reporters.

  'Don't be shy! You paid for a good time, and that's what we want to give you.' - Our men feigned jet-lag, and declined

  (Extract from the News of tke WorU, 5 February, 1995)

  GEOFFREY OWENS had a better knowledge of Soho than most people.

  He'd been only nineteen when first he'd gone to London as ajunior reporter, when he'd rented a room just off Soho Square, and when during his first few months he'd regularly walked around the area there, experiencing the curiously compulsive attraction of names like Brewer Street, Greek Street, Old Compton Street, Wardour Street... a sort of litany of seediness and sleaze.

  In those days, the mid-seventies, the striptease parlours, the porno cinemas, the topless bars - all somehow had been more wholesomely sinful, in the best sense of that word (or was it the worst'). Now, Soho had quite definitely changed for the better (or was it the worse?): more furtive and tawdry, more dishonest in its exploita-

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  tion of the lonely, unloved men who would ever pace the pavements there and occasionally stop like rabbits in the headlights.

  Yet Owens appeared far from mesmerized when in the early evening of 7 February he stopped outside Le Club Sexy. The first part of this establishment's name was intended (it must be assumed) to convey that je^ne-sais-quoi quality of Gallic eroticism; yet the other two parts perhaps suggested that the range of the proprietor's French was somewhat limited.

  'Lookin' for a bit o' fun, love?'

  The heavily mascara'd brunette appeared to be in her early twenties - quite a tall girl in her red high-heels, wearing black stockings, a minimal black skirt, and a low-cut, heavily sequined blouse stretched tightly over a large bosom - largely exposed - beneath the winking light-bulbs.

  Dejd vu.

  And, ever the voyeur, Owens was momentarily aware of all the old weaknesses.

  'Come in! Come down and join the fun!'

  She took a step towards him and he felt the long, blood-red fingernails curling pleasingly in his palm.

  It was a good routine, and one that worked with many and many a man.

  One that seemed to be working with Owens.

  'How much?'

  'Only three-pound membership, that's all. It's a private club, see - know wha' I mean?' For a few seconds she raised the eyes beneath the empurpled lids towards Elysium.

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  COLIN DEXTER

  'Is Gloria still here?'

  The earthbound eyes were suddenly suspicious - yet curious, too.

  'Who?'

  'If Gloria's still here, she'll let me in for nothing.'

  'Lots o' names 'ere, mistah: real names - stage names...'

  'So what's your name, beautiful?'

  'Look, you wanna come in? Three pound - OK?'

  You're not being much help, you know.'

  'Why don't you just fuck off?'

  "You don't know Gloria?'

  'What the 'ell do you want, mate?' she asked fiercely.

  His voice was very quiet as he replied. 'I used to live fairly close by. And she used to work here, then - Gloria did. She was a stripper - one of the best in the business, so everybody said.'

  For the second time the eyes in their lur
id sockets seemed to betray some interest

  'When was that?'

  'Twenty-odd years ago.'

  'Christ! She must be a bloody granny by now!'

  'Dunno. She had a child, though, I know that - a daughter...'

  A surprisingly tall, smartly suited Japanese man had been drawn into the magnetic field of Le Club Sexy.

  'Come in! Come down and-'

  'How much is charge?'

  'Only three pound. It's a private club, see - and you gotta be a member.'

  With a strangely trusting, wonderfully polite smile, the

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  man took a crisp ten-pound note from his large wallet and handed it to the hostess, bowing graciously as she reached a hand behind her and parted the multicoloured vertical strips which masked from public view the threadbare carpeting on die narrow stairs leading down to the secret delights.

  "You give me change, please? I give you ten pound."

  'Just tell 'em downstairs, OK''

  'Why you not give me seven pound?'

  'It'll be OK-OK?'

  'OK'

  Halfway down the stairs, the newly initiated member made a little note in a litde black book, smiling (we may say) scrutably. He was a member of a Home Office Committee licensing all 'entertainment premises' in the district of Soho.

  His expenses were generous: needed to be.

  Sometimes he enjoyed his job.

  'Don't you ever feel bad about that sort of diing?'

  'What d'you mean?'

  'He'll never get his change, will he?'

  'Like I said, why don't you just fuck off!'

  'Gloria used to feel bad sometimes - quite a civilized streak in that woman somewhere. You'd have liked her ... Anyway, if you do come across her, just say you met me, Geoff Owens, will you? She'll remember me - certain to. Just tell her I've got a litde proposition for her. She may be a bit down on her luck. You never know these days, and I wouldn't want to think she was on her uppers ... or her daughter was, for that matter.'

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  COLIN DEXTER

  "What's her daughter got to do with it?' The voice was sharp.

  Owens smiled, confidently now, lightly rubbing the back of his right wrist lightiy across her blouse.

  'Quite a lot, perhaps. You may have quite a lot to do with it, sweetheart!'

  She made no attempt to contradict him. 'In the pub' (she pointed across the street) 'half an hour, OK?'

  She watched him go, the man with a five o'clock shadow who said his name was Owens. She'd never seen him before; but she'd recognize him again immediately, the dark hair drawn back above his ears, and tied in a pony-tail about eight or nine inches long.

  Apart from the midnight 'milk-float', which gave passengers the impression that it called at almost every hamlet along the line the 11.20 p.m. was the last train from Paddington. And a panting Owens jumped into its rear coach as the Turbo Express suddenly juddered and began to move forward. The train was only half-full, and he found a seat immediately.

  He felt pleased with himself. The assignation in the pub had proved to be even more interesting than he'd dared to expect; and he leaned back and closed his eyes contentedly as he pondered the possible implications of what he had just learned...

  He jolted awake at Didcot, wondering where he was -realizing that he had missed the Reading stop completely. Determined to stay awake for the last twelve minutes of the journey, he picked up an Evening Standard

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  someone had left on flic seat opposite, and was reading the sports page when over the top of the newspaper he saw a man walking back down the carriage - almost to where he himself was sitting - before taking his place next to a woman. And Owens recognized him.

  Recognized Mr Julian Storrs of Lonsdale.

  Well! Well! Well!

  At Oxford, his head still stuck behind the Evening Standard, Owens waited until everyone else had left the rear carriage. Then, himself alighting, he observed Storrs arm-in-arm with his companion as they climbed the steps of the footbridge which led over the tracks to Platform One. And suddenly, for the second time that evening, Owens felt a shiver of excitement - for he immediately recognized the woman, too.

  How could he fail to recognize her?

  She was his next-door neighbour.

  CHAPTER Six

  Monday, 19 February

  Many is the gracious form that is covered with a veil; but on withdrawing this thou discoverest a grandmother

  (Musharrif-Uddin, Gulistan)

  PAINSTAKINGLY, in block capitals, the Chief Inspector wrote his name, E. MORSE; and was beginning to write his address when Lewis came into the office at 8.35 a.m. on Monday, 19 February.

  'What's that, sir?'

  Morse looked down at a full page torn from one of the previous day's colour supplements.

  'Special offer: two free CDs when you apply to join the Music Club Library.'

  Lewis looked dubious. 'Don't forget you have to buy a book every month with that sort of thing. Life's not all freebies, you know.'

  'Well, it is in this case. You've just got to have a look at the first thing they send you, that's all - then Send it back if you don't like it I think they even refund the postage.'

  Lewis watched as Morse completed and snipped out the application form.

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  'Wouldn't it be fairer if you agreed to have some of the books?'

  "You think so?'

  'At least one of them.'

  Intense blue eyes, slightly pained, looked innocently across the desk at Sergeant Lewis.

  'But I've already got this month's book - I bought it for myself for Christmas.'

  He inserted the form into an envelope, on which he now wrote the Club's address. Then he took from his wallet a sheaf of plastic cards: Bodleian Library ticket; Lloyds payment card; RAG Breakdown Service; blood donor card; Blackwell's Bookshops; Oxford City Library ticket; phonecard ... but there appeared to be no booklet of first-class stamps there. Or of second-class.

  'You don't, by any chance, happen to have a stamp on you, Lewis?'

  'What CDs are you going for?'

  'I've ordered Janacek, the dagolitic Mass - you may not know it. Splendid work - beautifully recorded by Simon Rattle. And Richard Strauss, Four Last Songs -Jessye Norman. I've got several recordings by other sopranos, of course.'

  Of course...

  Lewis nodded, and looked for a stamp.

  It was not infrequent for Lewis to be reminded of what he had lost in life; or rather, what he'd never had in the first place. The one Strauss he knew was the 'Blue Danube' man. And he'd only recently learned there were two of those, as well - Senior and Junior; and which was which he'd no idea.

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  COLIN DEXTER

  'Perhaps you'D be in for a bit of a let-down, sir. Some of these offers - they're not exactly up to what they promise.'

  "You're an expert on these things?'

  'No ... but... take Sergeant-' Lewis stopped himself hi time. Just as well to leave a colleague's weakness cloaked in anonymity. 'Take this chap I know. He read this advert in one of the tabloids about a free video - sex video - sent hi a brown envelope with no address to say where it had come from. You know, in case the wife ...'

  'No, I don't know, Lewis. But please continue.'

  'Well, he sent for one of the choices-'

  ' Copenhagen Red-Hot Sex?'

  'No. Housewives on the Job - that was the title; and he expected, you know..."

  Morse nodded. 'Housewives "on the job" with the milkman, the postman, the itinerant button-salesmen ...'

  Lewis grinned. 'But it wasn't, no. It just showed all these fully dressed Swedish housewives washing up the plates and peeling the potatoes.'

  'Serves Sergeant Dixon right.'

  "You won't mention it, sir!'

  'Of course I won't And you're probably right. You never really get something for nothing in this life. I never
seem to, anyway.'

  'Really, sir?' .

  Morse licked the flap of the white envelope. Then licked the back of the first-class stamp that Lewis had just given him.

  The phone had been ringing for several seconds, and

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  Lewis now took the call, listening briefly but carefully, before putting his hand over the mouthpiece:

  'There's been a murder, sir. On the doorstep, really -up in Bloxham Drive.'

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  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In addition to your loyal support on the ballot paper, we shall be grateful if you can agree to display the enclosed sticker in one of your windows

  (Extract from a 1994 local election leaflet distributed by the East Oxford Labour Party)

  IT REMINDED Morse of something - that rear window of Number 17.

  As a young lad he'd been fascinated by a photograph in one of his junior school text-books of the apparatus frequently fixed round the necks of slaves in the southern states of America: an iron ring from whose circumference, at regular intervals, there emanated lengthy, fearsome spikes, also of iron. The caption, as Morse recalled, had maintained that such a device readily prevented any absconding cotton-picker from passing himself off as an enfranchised citizen.

  Morse had never really understood the caption.

  Nor indeed, for some considerable while, was he fully to understand the meaning of the neat bullet-hole in the centre of the shattered glass, and the cracks that radiated

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  from it regularly, like a young child's crayoning the rays of the sun.

  Looking around him, Morse surveyed the area from the wobbly paving-slabs which formed a pathway at the rear of the row of terraced houses stretching along the northern side of Bloxham Drive, Kidlington, Oxfordshire. About half of the thirty-odd young trees originally planted in a staggered design beside and behind this path had been vandalized to varying degrees: some of them wholly extirpated; some cruelly snapped in the middle of their gradually firming stems; others, with many of their burgeoning branches torn off, standing wounded and forlorn amid the unkempt litter-strewn area, once planned by some Environmental Officer as a small addendum to England's green and pleasant land.