by Colin Dexter
Til check.'
'So that leaves Items seven and eight - both of which I leave in your capable hands, Lewis. And lastly my own little assignment in Soho, Item nine.'
'Coffee, sir?'
'Glass of iced orange juice!'
After Lewis had gone, Morse re-read Ellie's letter, deeply hurt, and wondering whether people in the ancient past had found it quite so difficult to cope with disappointments deep as his. But at least things were over; and in the long run that might make things much easier. He tore the letter in two, in four, in eight, in sixteen, and then in thirty-two - would have torn it in sixty-four, had his fingers been strong enough - before dropping the little square pieces into his wastepaper basket.
'No ice in the canteen, sir. Machine's gone kaput'
Morse shrugged indifferently and Lewis, sensing that the time might be opportune, decided to say something which had been on his mind:
'Just one thing I'd like to ask...'
Morse looked up sharply, "ifou're not going to ask me where Lonsdale is, I hope!'
'No. I'd just like to ask you not to be too hard on that new secretary of yours, that's all.'
'And what the hell's that got to do with you?'
'Nothing really, sir.'
'I agree. And when I want your bloody advice on how to handle my secretarial staff, I'll come and ask for it. Clear?'
Morse's eyes were blazing anew. And Lewis, his own temperature now rising rapidly, left his superior's office without a further word.
Just before noon, Jane Edwards was finalizing an angry letter, spelling out her resignation, when she heard the message over the intercom: Morse wanted to see her in his office.
'Si'down!'
She sat down, noticing immediately that he seemed tired, the whites of his eyes lightly veined with blood.
'I'm sorry I got so cross, Jane. That's all I wanted to say.'
She remained where she was, almost mesmerized.
Very quietly he continued: 'You will try to forgive me - please?'
She nodded helplessly, for she had no choice.
And Morse smiled at her sadly, almost gratefully, as she left
Back in the typing pool Ms Jane Edwards surrep-
titiously dabbed away the last of the slowdropping tears, tore up her letter (so carefully composed) into sixty-four pieces; and suddenly felt, as if by some miracle of St Anthony, most inexplicably happy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A recent survey has revealed that 80.5% of Oxford dons seek out the likely pornographic potential on the Internet before making use of that facility for purposes connected with their own disciplines or research. The figure for students, in the same university, is 2% lower
(Terence Benczik, A Possible Future for Computer Technology)
UNTIL THE AGE OF twelve, Morse's reading had comprised little beyond a weekly diet of the Dandy comic, and a monthly diet of the Meccano Magazine - the legacy of the latter proving considerably the richer, in that Morse had retained a lifelong delight in model train-sets and in the railways themselves. Thus it was that as he stood on Platform One at Oxford Station, he was much looking forward to his journey. Usually, he promised himself a decent read of a decent book on a trip like this. But such potential pleasures seldom materialized; hadn't materialized that afternoon either, when the punctual 2.15 p.m. from Oxford arrived fifty-nine minutes later at Paddington, where Morse immediately took a taxi to New Scotland Yard.
Although matters there had been prearranged, it was
purely by chance that Morse happened to meet Paul Condon, the Metropolitan Commissioner, in the main entrance foyer.
"They're ready for you, Morse. Can't stay myself, I'm afraid. Press conference. It's not just the ethnic minorities I've upset this time - it's the ethnic majorities, too. All because I've published a few more official crime-statistics.'
Morse nodded. He wanted to say something to his old friend: something about never climbing in vain when you're going up the Mountain of Truth. But he only recalled the quotation after stepping out of the lift at the fourth floor, where Sergeant Rogers of the Porn Squad was awaiting him.
Once in Rogers' office, Morse produced the photograph of the strip-club. And immediately, with the speed of an experienced ornithologist recognizing a picture of a parrot, Rogers had identified the premises.
'Just off Brewer Street.' He unfolded a detailed map of Soho. 'Here - let me show you.'
The early evening was overcast, drizzly and dank, when like some latter-day Orpheus Morse emerged from the depths of Piccadilly Circus Underground; whence, after briefly consulting his A-Z, he proceeded by a reasonably direct route to a narrow, seedy-looking thoroughfare, where a succession of establishments promised XXXX videos and magazines (imported), sex shows (live), striptease (continuous) - and a selection of freshly made sandwiches (various).
And there it was! Le Club Sexy. Unmistakably so, but prosaically and repetitively now rechristened Girls Girls Girls. It made the former proprietors appear comparatively imaginative.
Something - some aspiration to die higher diings in life, perhaps - prompted Morse to raise his eyes from die ground-floor level of die gaudily lurid fronts there to the architecture, some of it rather splendid, above.
Yet not for long.
'Come in out of the drizzle, sir! Lovely girls here."
Morse showed his ID card, and moved into the shelter of die tiny entrance foyer.
'Do you know herT
The young woman, black stockings and black miniskirt meeting at die top of her diighs, barely glanced at the photograph dirust under her eyes.
'No.'
'Who runs diis place? I want to see him.'
'Her. But she ain't 'ere now, is she? Why don't you call back later, handsome?'
A helmeted policeman was ambling along die opposite pavement, and Morse called him over.
'OK,' die girl said quickly. 'You bin 'ere before, right?'
'Er- one of my officers, yes.'
'Me mum used to know her, like I told die otfier fellah. Just a minute.'
She disappeared down die dingy stairs.
'How can I help you, sir?'
Morse showed his ID to die constable.
'Just keep your eyes on me for a few minutes.'
But there was no need.
Three minutes later, Morse had an address in Praed Street, no more than a hundred yards from Paddington Station where earlier, at the entrance to the Underground, he had admired the bronze statue of one of his heroes, Isambard Kingdom Brunei.
So Morse now took the Tube back. It had been a roundabout sort of journey.
She was in.
She asked him in.
And Morse, from a moth-eaten settee, agreed to sample a cup of Nescafe.
"Yeah, Angie Martin! Toffee-nosed little tart, if you know wo' I mean."
Tell me about her.'
"You're the second one, encha?'
'Er - one of my officers, yes.'
'Nah! He wasn't from the fuzz. Couldna bin! Giv me a couple o' twennies 'e did.'
'What did he want to know?'
'Same as you, like as not'
'She was quite a girl, they say.'
'Lovely on 'er legs, she was, if you know wo' I mean. Most of 'em, these days, couldn't manage the bleedin' Barn Dance.'
'But she was good?'
Yeah. The men used to love 'er. Stick fivers down 'er boobs and up 'er suspenders, if you know wo' I mean.'
'She packed 'em in?'
Yeah.'
'And then?'
'Then there was this fellah, see, and he got to know 'er and see 'er after the shows, like, and 'e got starry-eyed, the silly sod. Took 'er away. Posh sort o' fellah, if you know wo' I mean. Dresses, money, 'otels - all that sort o' thing.'
'Would you remember his name?'
'Yeah. The other fellah - 'e showed me his photo, see?'
'His name?'
'Julius Caesar, I fink it was.'
Morse showed her the photograph
of Mr and Mrs Julian Storrs.
'Yeah. That's 'im an' 'er. That's Angie.'
'Do you know why I'm asking about her?'
She looked at him shrewdly, an inch or so of grey roots merging into a yellow mop of wiry hair.
"Yeah, I got a good idea.'
'My, er, colleague told you?'
'Nah! Worked it out for meself, dint I? She was tryin' to forget wo' she was, see? She dint want to say she were a cheap tart who'd open 'er legs for a fiver, if you know wo' I mean. Bi' o' class, tho', Angie. Yeah. Real bi' o' class.'
'Will you be prepared to come up to Oxford - we'll pay your expenses, of course - to sign a statement?'
'Oxford? Yeah. Why not? Bi' o' class, Oxford, innit?'
'I suppose so, yes.'
'Wo' she done? Wo' sort of enquiry you workin' on?'
'Murder,' said Morse softly.
Mission accomplished Morse walked across Praed Street and into the complex of Paddington Station, where he stood under the high Departures Board and noted the time of the next train: Slough, Maidenhead, Reading, Didcot, Oxford.
Due to leave in forty minutes.
He retraced his steps to the top of the Underground entrance, crushed a cigarette-stub under his heel, and walked slowly down towards the ticket-office, debating the wisdom of purchasing a second Bakerloo line ticket to Piccadilly Circus - from which station he might take the opportunity of concentrating his attention on the ground-floor attractions of London's Soho.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible
(Jean Kerr, Where Did You Put fie Aspirin?)
WITH A LECTURE A.M. and a Faculty Meeting early p.m., Julian Storrs had not been able to give Lewis much time until late p.m.; but he was ready and waiting when, at 4 o'clock precisely, the front doorbell rang at his home, a large red-bricked property in Polstead Road, part of the Victorian suburb that stretches north from St Giles' to Summertown.
Lewis accepted the offer of real coffee, and the two of them were soon seated in armchairs opposite each other in the high-ceilinged living-room, its furniture exuding a polished mahogany elegance, where Lewis immediately explained the purpose of his call.
As a result of police investigations into the murder of Rachel James, Storrs' name had moved into the frame; well, at least his photograph had moved into the frame.
Storrs himself said nothing as he glanced down at die twin passport photograph that Lewis handed to him.
'That is you, sir? You and Ms James?'
Storrs took a deep breath, then exhaled. *Yes.'
"You were having an affair with her?'
'We__yes, I suppose we were.'
'Did anybody know about it?'
Td hoped not.'
'Do you want to talk about it?'
Storrs talked. Though not for long...
He'd first met her just over a year earlier when he'd pulled a muscle in his right calf following an ill-judged decision to take up jogging. She was a physiotherapist, masseuse, manipulator - whatever they called such people now; and after the first two or three sessions they had met together outside the treatment room. He'd fallen in love with her a bit - a lot; must have done, when he considered the risks he'd taken. About once a month, six weeks, they'd managed to be together when he had some lecture to give or meeting to attend. Usually in London, where they'd book a double room, latish mom-ing, in one of the hotels behind Paddington, drink a bottle or two of champagne, make love together most of the afternoon and - well, that was it.
'Expensive sort of day, sir? Rail-fares, hotel, champagne, something to eat..."
'Not really expensive, no. Off-peak day returns, one of the cheaper hotels, middle-range champagne, and we'd go to a pub for a sandwich at lunchtime. Hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty pounds - that would cover it.'
"You didn't give Ms James anything for her services?'
'It wasn't like that I think - I hope - she enjoyed
being with me. But, yes, I did sometimes give her something. She was pretty short of money - you know, her mortgage, HP commitments, the rent on the clinic.'
'How much, sir?'
'A hundred pounds. Little bit more sometimes, perhaps.'
'Does Mrs Storrs know about this?'
'No - and she mustn't!' For the first time Lewis was aware of the sharp, authoritative tone in the Senior Fellow's voice.
'How did you explain spending so much?'
'We have separate accounts. I give my wife a private allowance each month.'
Lewis grinned diffidently. You could always have said they were donations to Oxfam.'
Storrs looked down rather sadly at the olive-green carpet. 'You're right That's just the sort of depths I would have sunk to.'
'Why didn't you get in touch with us? We made several appeals for anybody who knew Rachel to come forward. We guaranteed every confidence.'
'You must understand, surely? I was desperately anxious not to get drawn into things in any way.'
'Nothing else?' .
'What do you mean?'
'Was someone trying to blackmail you, sir, about your affair with her?'
'Good God, no! What on earth makes you think that?'
Lewis drank the rest of his never-hot now-cold real coffee, before continuing quiedy:
'I don't believe you, sir.'
And slowly the truth, or some of it, was forthcoming.
Storrs had received a letter about a fortnight earlier from someone - no signature - someone giving a PO Box address; someone claiming to have 'evidence' about him which would be shouted from the rooftops unless a payment was duly made.
'Of?' asked Lewis.
'Five thousand pounds.'
'And you paid it?'
'No. But I was stupid enough to send a thousand, in fifty-pound notes.'
'And did you get this "evidence" back?'
Storrs again looked down at the carpet, and shook his head.
"You didn't act very sensibly, did you, sir?'
'In literary circles, Sergeant, that is what is called "litotes".'
'Did you keep the letter?'
'No,' lied Storrs.
'Did you keep a note of the PO Box number?'
'No,' lied Storrs.
'Was it care of one of the local newspapers?'
·Yes.'
'Oxford Mail?'
'Oxford Times.'
The living-room door opened, and there entered a darkly elegant woman, incongruously wearing a pair of
sunglasses, and dressed in a black trouser-suit - 'Legs right up to the armpits', as Lewis was later to report.
Mrs Angela Storrs briefly introduced herself, and picked up the empty cups.
'Another coffee, Sergeant?'
Her voice was Home Counties, rather deep, rather pleasing.
'No thanks. That was lovely.'
Her eyes smiled behind the sunglasses - or Lewis thought they smiled. And as she closed the living-room door softly behind her, he wondered where she'd been throughout the interview. Outside the door, perhaps, listening? Had she heard what her husband had said? Or had she known it all along?
Then the door quietly opened again.
'You won't forget you're out this evening, darling? You haven't all that much time, you know.'
Lewis accepted the cue and hurried on his questioning apace:
'Do you mind telling me exactly what you were doing between seven a.m. and eight a.m. last Monday, sir?'
'Last Monday morning? Ah!' Lewis sensed that Julian Storrs had suddenly relaxed - as if the tricky part of the examination was now over - as if he could safely resume his wonted donnish idiom.
'How I wish every question my students asked were susceptible to such an unequivocal answer! You see, I was in bed with my wife and we were having sex togedier. And why do I recall this so readily, Sergeant? Because such an occurrence has not been quite so common these
past few years; nor, if I'm honest wi
th you, quite so enjoyable as once it was.'
'Between, er, between seven and eight?' Lewis's voice was hesitant.
'Sounds a long time, you mean? Huh! You're right More like twenty past to twenty-five past seven. What I do remember is Angela - Mrs Storrs - wanting the news on at half past. She's a great Today fan, and she likes to know what's going on. We just caught the tail-end of the sports news - then the main headlines on the half-hour.'
'Oh!'
'Do you believe me?'
'Would Mrs Storrs remember ... as clearly as you, sir?'
Storrs gave a slightly bitter-sounding laugh. 'Why don't you ask her? Shall I tell her to come through? I'll leave you alone."
'Yes, I think that would be helpful.'
Storrs got to his feet and walked towards the door.
'Just one more question, sir.' Lewis too rose to his feet. 'Don't you think you were awfully naive to send off that money? I think anyone could have told you you weren't going to get anything back - except another blackmail note.'
Storrs walked back into the room.
'Are you a married man, Sergeant?'
'Yes.'
'How would you explain - well, say a photograph like the one you showed me?'
Lewis took out the passport photo again.
'Not too difficult, surely? You're a well-known man, sir - quite a distinguished-looking man, perhaps? So let's just say one of your admiring undergraduettes sees you at a railway station and says she'd like to have a picture taken with you. You know, one of those "Four colour photos in approximately four minutes" places. Then she could carry the pair of you around with her, like some girls carry pictures of pop stars around.'
Storrs nodded. 'Clever idea! I wish I'd thought of it Er... can I ask you a question?'
·Yes?'
'Why are you still only a sergeant?'
Lewis made no comment on the matter, but asked a final question:
*You're standing for the Mastership at Lonsdale, I understand, sir?'
Te-es. So you can see, can't you, why all this business, you know... ?'
'Of course.'
Storrs' face now suddenly cleared.
'There are just the two of us: Dr Cornford - Denis Cornford - and myself. And may the better man win!'
He said it lightly, as if the pair of them were destined to cross swords in a mighty game of Scrabble - and called through to Angela, his wife.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
