Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

by Colin Dexter

  'Haven't they mentioned it yet, Morse? The pubs are open all day on Sundays now.'

  As Strange carefully balanced his bulk ori 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!'

  Morse was smiling dutifully as Strange continued: 'Making progress?'

  'Following up a few things, yes."

  'Mm ... Is your brain as bright as it used to be?'

  'I'm sure it's not'

  'Mm ... You don't look quite so bright, either."

  'We're all getting older.'

  'Worse luck!'

  'Not really, surely? "No wise man ever wished to be younger."'

  'Bloody nonsense!'

  'Not my nonsense -Jonathan Swift's.'

  Elbows on the desk, Strange rested his large head on his large hands.

  'I'm probably finishing in September, I suppose you'd heard.'

  Morse nodded. 'I'm glad they're letting you go.'

  'What the 'ell's that supposed to mean?'

  'Well, I should think Mrs Strange'll be pleased to have you around, won't she? Retirement, you know ... Getting up late and watching all the other poor sods go off to work, especially on Monday mornings. That sort of thing. It's what we all work for, I suppose. What we all wait for.'

  'You mean,' muttered Strange, 'that's what I've been flogging me guts out all this time for - thirty-two years of it? I used to do your sort of job, you know. Caught nearly as many murderers as you in me day. It's just that I used to do it a bit different, that's all. Mostly used to wait till they came to me. No problem, often as not: jealousy, booze, sex, next-door neighbour between the sheets with the missus. Motive- that's what it's all about.'

  'Not always quite so easy, though, is it?' ventured Morse, who had heard the sermon several times before.

  ' Certainly not when you 're around, matey!'

  'This case needs some very careful handling, sir. Lots of sensitive enquiries-'

  'Such as?'

  'About Owens, for a start.'

  "You've got some new evidence?'

  'One or two vague rumours, yes.'

  'Mm ... I heard a vague rumour myself this afternoon. I heard Owens' place got burgled. I suppose you've heard that, too?' He peered at Morse over his half-lenses.

  'Yes.'

  'Only one thing pinched. Hm! A clock, Morse.'

  ·Yes.'

  'We've only got one or two clock specialists on die patch, as far as I remember. Or is it just the one?'

  'The one?'

  "You've not seen him - since they let him out again?'

  'Ah, Johnson I Yes. I shall have to call round to see him pretty soon, I suppose.'

  'What about tomorrow? He's probably your man, isn't he?'

  'I'm away tomorrow.'

  'Oh?'

  'London. Soho, as a matter of fact Few things to check out.'

  'I don't know why you don't let Sergeant Lewis do all that sort of tedious leg-work.'

  Morse felt the Chief Superintendent's small, shrewd eyes upon him.

  'Division of labour. Someone's got to do it.'

  "You know,' said Strange, 'if I hadn't got a Supers' meeting in the morning, I'd join you. See the sights ... and everything.'

  'I don't think Mrs Strange'd approve.'

  'What makes you think I'd tell her?'

  'She's - she's not been all that well, has she?'

  Strange slowly shook his head, and looked down at the carpet.

  'What about you, sir?'

  'Me? I'm fine, apart from going deaf and going bald and haemorrhoids and blood pressure. Bit overweight, too, perhaps. What about you?'

  Tm fine.'

  'How's the drinking going?'

  'Going? It's going, er...'

  ' "Quickly"? Is that the word you're looking for?'

  'That's the word.'

  Strange appeared about to leave. And - blessedly! -Lewis (Morse realized) must have been aware of the situation, since he had put in no appearance.

  But Strange was not quite finished: 'Do you ever worry how your liver's coping with all this booze?'

  'We've all got to die of something, they say.'

  'Do you ever diink about that - about dying?'

  'Occasionally.'

  'Do you believe in life after death?'

  Morse smiled. 'There was a sign once that Slough Borough Council put up near one of the churches there:

  NO ROAD BEYOND THE CEMETERY.'

  "You don't think there is, then?' 'No,' answered Morse simply.

  'Perhaps it's just as well if there isn't - you know, rewards and punishments and all that sort of thing.' 'I don't want much reward, anyway.'

  'Depends on your ambition. You never had much o' that, did you?'

  'Early on, I did.'

  You could've got to the top, you know dial.'

  'Not doing a job I enjoyed, I couldn't. I'm not a form-filler, am I? Or a committee-man. Or a clipboard-man."

  'Or a procedure-man,' added Strange slowly, as he struggled to his feet.

  'Pardon?'

  'Bloody piles!'

  Morse persisted.'What did you mean, sir?'

  'Extraordinary, you know, the sort of high-tech stuff we've got in the Force these days. We've got a machine here that even copies colour photos. You know, like die one- Oh! Didn't I mention it, Morse? I had a very pleasant little chat widi Sergeant Lewis in the photocopying room just before I came in here. By the look of tilings, you've got quite a few alternatives to go on there.'

  'Quite a lot of "choices", sir. Stricdy speaking, you only have "alternatives" if you've just got the two options.'

  'Fuck off, Morse!'

  That evening Morse was in bed by 9.45 p.m., slowly reading but a few more pages of Juliet Barker's The Brontes, before stopping at one sentence, and reading it again:

  Charlotte remarked, 'I am sorry you have changed your residence as I shall now again lose my way in going up and down stairs, and stand in great tribulation,

  contemplating several doors, and not knowing which to open.'

  It seemed as good a place to stop as any; and Morse was soon nodding off, in a semi-upright posture, the thick book dropping on to the duvet, the whisky on his bedside table (unprecedentedly) unfinished.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A time

  Older than the time of chronometers, older Than time counted by anxious worried women Lying awake, calculating the future, Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel And piece togedier the past and the future

  (T. S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages)

  THE RESULT OF one election had already been declared, with Mr Ivan Thomas, the Labour candidate, former unsuccessful aspirant to municipal honours, now preparing to assume his dudes as councillor for the Gosforth ward at Kidlington, near Oxford.

  At Lonsdale College, five miles further south, in the golden heart of Oxford, the likely outcome of another election was still very much in the balance, with the wives of the two nominees very much - and not too discreetly, perhaps - to the fore in the continued canvassing. As it happened, each of them (like Morse) was in bed - or in a bed - comparatively early that Sunday evening.

  Shelly Cornford was always a long time in the bathroom, manipulating her waxed flossing-ribbon in between and up and down her beautifully healthy teeth. When finally she came into the bedroom, her husband was sitting up against the pillows reading the Sunday Times Books Section. He watched her as she took off her purple Jaeger dress, and then unfastened her black bra, her breasts bursting free. So very nearly he said something at that point; but the back of his mouth was suddenly dry, and he decided not to. Anyway, it had been only a small incident, and his wife was probably completely unaware of how she could affect some other men - with a touch, a
look, a movement of her body. But he'd never been a jealous man.

  Not if he could help it.

  She got into bed in her Oxford blue pyjamas and briefly turned towards him.

  'Why wasn't Julian at dinner tonight?'

  'Up in Durham - some conference he was speaking at. He's back tonight - Angela's picking him up from the station, so she said.'

  'Oh.'

  'Why do you ask?'

  'No reason, darling. Night-night! Sweet dreams, my sweetie!'

  She blew a kiss across the narrow space between their beds, turned her back towards him, and snuggled her head into the green pillows.

  'Don't be too long with the light, please.'

  A few minutes later she was lying still, breathing quite rhythmically, and he thought she was asleep.

  As quietly as he could, he manoeuvred himself down beneath the bedclothes, and straightway turned off the light And tried, tried far too hard, to go to sleep himself...

  ... After evensong earlier that same evening in the College Chapel, the Fellows and their guests had been invited (as was the custom) to the Master's Lodge, where they partook of a glass of sherry before dining at 7.30 p.m. at the top-table in the main hall, the students seated on the long rows of benches below them. It was just before leaving the Master's Lodge that Denis had looked round for his wife and found her by the fireplace speaking to David Mackenzie, one of the younger dons, a brilliant mathematician, of considerable corpulence, who hastily folded the letter he had been showing to Shelly and put it away.

  Nothing in that, perhaps? Not in itself, no. But he, Denis Cornford, knew what was in the letter. And that, for the simplest of all reasons, since Mackenzie had shown him the same scented purple sheets in the SCR the previous week; and Cornford could recall pretty accurately, though naturally not verbatim, the passage he'd been invited to consider. Clearly the letter had been, thus far, the highlight of Mackenzie's term:

  Remember what you scribbled on my menu that night? Your handwriting was a bit wobbly(!) and I couldn't quite make out just that one word: 'I'd love to take you out and make a f- of you'. I think it was

  'fuss' and it certainly begins with an 'F. Could be naughty; could be perfectly innocent. Please enlighten me!

  Surely it was ridiculous to worry about such a thing. But there was something else. The two of them had been giggling together like a pair of adolescents, and looking at each other, and she had put a hand on his arm. And it was almost as if they had established a curious kind of intimacy from which he, Denis Comford, was temporarily excluded.

  Could be naughty.

  Could be perfectly innocent...

  'Would you still love me if I'd got a spot on my nose?'

  'Depends how big it was, my love.'

  'But you still want my body, don't you," she whispered, 'in spite of my varicose veins?'

  Metaphorically, as he lay beside her, Sir Clixby sidestepped her full-frontal assault as she turned herself towards him.

  "You're a very desirable woman, and what's more you know it!' He moved his hands down her naked shoulders and fondled the curves of her bosom.

  'I hope I can still do something for you,' she whispered. 'After all, you've promised to do something for me, haven't you?'

  Perhaps Sir Clixby should have been a diplomat:

  'Do you know something? I thought the Bishop was never going to finish tonight, didn't you? I shall have to

  have a word with the Chaplain., God knows where he found him?'

  She moved even closer to the Master. 'Come on! We haven't got all night. Julian's train gets in at ten past ten.'

  Two of the College dons stood speaking together on the cobblestones outside Lonsdale as the clock on Saint Mary the Virgin struck ten o'clock; and a sole undergraduate passing through the main gate thought he heard a brief snatch of their conversation:

  'Having a woman like her in the Lodge? The idea's undiinkable!'

  But who the woman was, the passer-by was not to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Monday, 26 February

  How shall I give thee up, O Ephraim? How shall I cast thee off, O Israel?

  (Hoj^ch.II.v.8)

  AT 8.45 A.M. THERE were just the two of them, Morse and Lewis, exchanging somewhat random thoughts about the case, when the young blonde girl (whom Strange had already noticed) came in with the morning post. She was a very recent addition to the typing pool, strongly recommended by the prestigious Marlborough College in the High, her secretarial skills corroborated by considerable evidence, including a Pitman Shorthand Certificate for 120 wpm.

  "Your mail, sir. I'm ...' (she looked frightened) 'I'm terribly sorry about the one on top. I just didn't notice.'

  But Morse had already taken the letter from its white envelope, the latter marked, in the top left-hand corner, 'Strictly Private and Personal'.

  Hullo Morse

  Tried you on the blower at Christmas but they said you were otherwise engaged probably in the boozer.

  I'm getting spliced. No, don't worry! I'm not asking you for anything this time!! He's nice and he's got a decent job and he says he loves me and he's okay in bed so what the hell. I don't really love him and you bloody well know why that is, don't you, you miserable stupid sod. Because I fell in love with you and I'm just as stupid as you are. St Anthony told me to tell you something but I'm not going to. I want to put my arms round you and hug you tight. God help me! Why didn't you look for me a bit harder Morse? Ellie

  No address.

  Of course, there was no address.

  'Did you read this?" Morse spoke in level tones, looking up at his secretary with unblinking eyes.

  'Only till... you know, I realized ...'

  "You shouldn't have opened it.'

  'No, sir,' she whispered.

  "You can type all right?'

  She nodded.

  'And you can take shorthand?'

  She nodded, despairingly.

  'But you can't read?'

  'As I said, sir...' The tears were starting.

  'I heard what you said. Now just you listen to what I'm saying. This sort of thing will never happen again!'

  'I promise, sir, it'll-'

  'Listen!' Morse's eyes suddenly widened with an almost manic gleam, his nostrils flaring with suppressed fury as he repeated hi a slow, soft voice: 'It won't happen

  again - not if you want to work for me any longer. Is that clear? Never. Now get out,' he hissed, 'and leave me, before I get angry with you.'

  After she had left, Lewis too felt almost afraid to speak.

  'What was all that about?' he asked finally.

  'Don't you start poking your bloody nose-' But the sentence went no further. Instead, Morse picked up the letter and passed it over, his saddened eyes focused on the wainscoting.

  After reading the letter, Lewis said nothing.

  'I don't have much luck widi the ladies, do I?'

  'She's still obviously wearing the pendant.'

  'I hope so,' said Morse; who might have said rather more, but there was a knock on the door, and DC Learoyd was invited into the sanctum.

  Morse handed over the newspaper cuttings concerning Lord Hardiman, together with the photograph, and explained Learoyd's assignment:

  'Your job's to find out all you can. It doesn't look all that promising, I know. Hardly blackmail stuff these days, is it? But Owens thinks it is. And that's the point. We're not really interested in how many times he's been knocking on the doors of the knocking-shops. It's finding the nature of his connection with Owens.'

  Learoyd nodded his understanding, albeit a little unhappily.

  'Off you go, then.'

  But Learoyd delayed. 'Whereabouts do you think would be a good place to start, sir?'

  Morse's eyeballs turned ceilingward.

  'What about looking up His Lordship in Debrett's Peerage, mm? It might just tell you where he lives, don't you think?'

  'But where can I find a copy?'

  'What about that big bui
lding in the centre of Oxford - in Bonn Square. You've heard of it? It's called the Central Library.'

  Item 2 in the manila file, as Lewis had discovered earlier that morning, was OBE (Overtaken By Events, in Morse's shorthand). The Cheltenham firm of solicitors had been disbanded in 1992, its clientele dispersed, to all intents and purposes now permanendy incommunicado.

  Item 3 was to be entrusted into the huge hands of DC Elton, who now made his entrance; and almost immediately his exit, since he passed no observations, and asked no questions, as he looked down at the paunchy paedo-philiac from St Albans.

  'Leave it to me, sir.'

  'And while you're at it, see how the land lies here.' Morse handed over the documentation on Item 4 - the accounts-sheets from the surgical appliances company in Croydon.

  'Good man, that,' commented Lewis, as the door closed behind die massive frame of DC Elton.

  'Give me Learoyd every time!' confided Morse. 'At least he's got the intelligence to ask a few half-witted questions.'

  'I don't quite follow you.'

  'Wouldn't you need a bit of advice if you called in at some place selling surgical appliances? With Elton's great beer-gut they'll probably think he's called in for a temporary truss.'

  Lewis didn't argue.

  He knew better.

  Also OBE, as Lewis had already discovered, was Item 5. The address Owens had written on the letter was - had been - that of a home for the mentally handicapped in Wimbledon. A Social Services inspection had uncovered gross and negligent malpractices; and the establishment had been closed down two years previously, its management and nursing staff redeployed or declared redundant. Yet no prosecutions had ensued.

  'Forlorn hope,' Lewis had ventured.

  And Morse had agreed. 'Did you know that "forlorn hope" has got nothing to do with "forlorn" or "hope"? It's all Dutch: "Verloren hoop" - "lost troop".'

  'Very useful to know, sir.'

  Seemingly oblivious to such sarcasm, Morse contemplated once more the four sets of initials that comprised Item 6:

  AM DC JS CB

  with those small ticks in red Biro set against the first three of them.

  'Any ideas?' asked Lewis.

  '"Jonathan Swift", obviously, for "JS". I was only talking about him to the Super yesterday.'

  'Julian Storrs?'

  Morse grinned. 'Perhaps all of 'em are dons at Lonsdale."