Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

by Colin Dexter

  "Yees. I see what you mean, sir. They'd arranged to meet at her place, perhaps, P-something Street, on the Sat urday; then on the Wednesday something cropped up "

  "She may have had the decorators in."

  "... so it had to be 'DC,' Daventry Court, or 'wher-ever.'"

  "Probably some hotel room."

  "Cost him, though. Double room'd be--what?--70, pounds 80, pounds 90 pounds "

  "Or a B&B."

  "Even so. Still about f AO, 50 pounds pence "Then he's got to pay her for her services, don't forget that."

  "How much do you think, sir?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Maybe she was worth every penny of it," Lewis sug-gested quietly.

  "Do you know, I very much doubt that," asserted Morse with surprising vehemence, now walking over to the phone, consulting the black index, and dialling a number.

  "Could be Princess Street, sir? That's just off the Cowley Road."

  Morse put his palm over the receiver and shook his head.

  "No, Lewis. It's Pater Street. Hullo?"

  "Yeah? Wha' d'ya wan'?"

  "Have I got the right number for 'K,' please?"

  "You 'ave. Bu' she ain't 'ere, is she?"

  "That's what I hoped you'd be able to tell me."

  "You another dur'y o1' man or somethin'?"

  "If I am, I'm a dirty old police inspector," replied Morse, in what he trusted was a cultured, authoritative tone. "Oh, sorry."

  "You say she's not there?"

  "She's bin away for a week in Spain. Sent me a topless photo of 'erself from Torremolinos, didn't she? Only this momin'."

  "A week, you say?"

  "Yeah. Went las' Sa'dy---back this Sa'dy."

  "Does she have a... a client in North Oxford?"

  "An' if she does?"

  "You know his name T"

  "What about her name?"

  "She in some sort of trouble?" Suddenly the voice sounded anxious, softer now--with a final "t" voiced upon that "sort."

  "I could get all this information from Kidlington Police HQ--you know that, surely? I just thought it would save a bit of time and trouble if you answered me over the phone. Then when we've finished I can thank you for your kind cooperation with the police in their enquiries." Hesitation now at the other end of the line.

  Then an answer: "Kay Blaxendale. That's 'Kay,' K-A-Y. She jus' signs herself 'K'--the letter 'K.'"

  "Is that her real name? It sounds a bit posh T'

  "It's her professional name. Her real name's Ellie "What about your name?"

  "Do you have to know?"

  "Yes."

  "Friday Banks--that's me."

  "Have you got another name?"

  "No."

  "You've got another accent though, haven't you?"

  "Pardon?"

  "When you want to, you can speak very nicely. You've got a pleasant voice. I just wonder why you try to sound so cheap and common, that's all."

  "Heh! Come off it. I may be common, mista, but I ain't cheap---I can tell yer tha'."

  "All right."

  "Tha' all?"

  "Er, do you like bluebells, Miss Banks?"

  "Bluebells, you say? Bloody bluebells?" She snorted her derision. "She does, though--Kay does. But me, I'm a red-rose girl, Inspector--if you're thinkin' of sendin' me a bunch of flowers."

  "You never know," said Morse, as he winked across at Lewis..

  "Tha' all?" she repeated.

  "Just your address, please."

  "Do you have to know?" (An aspirated "have.") "Yes."

  "It's 35 Princess Street."

  And now it was Lewis's mm, as he winked across at Morse.

  Chapter Ten

  A long time passed--minutes or years--while the two of us sat there in silence. Then I said something, asked some-thing, but he didn't respond. I looked up and I saw the moisture running down his face (EDLr^RDO GAL pounds NO, The Book of Embraces)

  Morse's face, after he had cradled the phone, betrayed a suggestion of satisfaction; but after a short while a stronger suggestion of d/ssatisfaction.

  "Ever heard of a girl called Friday, Lewis.9"

  "I've heard of that story--The Man Who Was Thursday."

  "It's a diminutive of Frideswide."

  "Right. Yes. We learnt about her at school--St. Frides-wide. Patron saint of Oxford. She cured somebody who was blind, I think."

  "Somebody, Lewis, she'd already herself struck blind in the first place."

  "Not a very nice girl, then."

  "Just like our girl."

  "Anyway, you can cross her off the list of suspects."

  "How do you make that out, Lewis?"

  $0 Colin De×ter "Unless you still think that girl on the phone's a phoney, too."

  "No. I don't think that. Not now."

  "Well, she said Mclure's girlfriend was in Spain when he was murdered, didn't she?"

  "It's impolite to eavesdrop on telephone conversations." Lewis nodded. "Interesting, too. I felt sure you were going to ask her to send you the photo--you know, the top less photo from Torremolinos.'

  "Do you know," said Morse quietly, "I think, looking back on it, I should have done exactly that. I must be get ting senile."

  "You can still cross her off your list," maintained an sympathetic Lewis.

  "Perhaps she was never on it in the first place. You see, I don't think it was a woman who murdered Mc Clure."

  "We shall still have to see her, though."

  "Oh yes. But the big thing we've got to do is learn more about Mc Clure. The more we learn about the murdered man, the more we learn about the murderer."

  Music to Lewis's ears. "But no firm ideas yet, sir?"

  "What?" Morse walked over to the front window, but his eyes seemed not so much to be looking out as looking in.

  "I once went to hear a panel of writers, Lewis, and I re-member they had to answer an interesting question about titles--you know, how important a title is for a book."

  "The Wind in the W///ovs--that's my favourite."

  "Anyway, the other panellists said it was the most diffi-cult thing of the lot, pounds ding a good title. Then this last woman, she said it was no problem for her at all. Said she'd got half a dozen absolutely dazzling titles--but she just hadn't got any books to go with them. And it's the same with me, Lewis, that's all. I've got plenty of ideas al ready, but nothing to pin 'em to."

  "Not yet."

  "Not yet," echoed Morse.

  "Do you think Phillotson had any ideas--ideas he didn't tell us about?"

  "For Christ's sake, forget Phillotson! He wouldn't know what to do if some fellow walked into his nearest nick with a knife dripping with blood and said he'd just murdered his missus."

  At least that's something you're never likely to do, thought Lewis. But the thought was not translated into words.

  "Now," continued Morse, "just tell me about this second great discovery of yours."

  "Just give me ten more minutes--nearly ready."

  Morse ambled somewhat aimlessly around the rooms so splendidly cited 'by Messrs. Adkinson: Sitting/Dining-Room; Fully Fitted Modem Kitchen; Cloaks/Shower Room; Guest Bedroom; Master Bedroom Suite; Luxury Bathroom.

  But nothing, it appeared, was able to hold his attention for long; and soon he returned to the murder room.

  For Lewis, this brief period of time was profitable. His little dossier--well, three items held together by a paper-clip--was now, he thought, complete. Interesting. He was pleased with himself; masted that Morse would be pleased with him, too.

  Not that Morse had looked particularly pleased with any-thing these last few minutes; and Lewis watched him taking a few more books from the shelves, seemingly in random manner, opening each briefly at the title page, then shaking it quite vigorously from the spine as if expecting something to fall out. And even as Lewis watched, something did fall out from one of them---nothing less than the whole of its pages. But Lewis's cautious amusement was immediately sti-fled by a vicious scowl f
rom Morse; and nothing was said.

  In fact, over only one of the title pages had Morse lin-gered for more than a few moments: THE GREAT PLAGUE AT ATHENS Its Effect on the Course and Conduct of the Peloponnesian War BY FELIX FULLERTON MCCLURE, M. A., D. PHIL. Student of Wolsey College, Oxford Correction.

  Late Student of Wolsey College, Oxford...

  At 5:45 P.M. PC Roberts knocked, and entered in response to Morse's gruff behest.

  "Super just rang through, sk---"

  "'Rang' through," muttered Morse.

  "---and wanted me to tell you straightaway. It's Mrs. Phillotson, sir. She died earlier this afternoon. Seems she had another emergency op... and well, she didn't pull through. He didn't tell me any more. He just wanted you to know, he said."

  Roberts left, and Lewis looked on as Morse slowly sat down in the brown leather armchair, staring, it seemed, at the design on the carpet--the eyes, usually so fierce and piercing, now dull and defeated; a look of such self-loathing on his face as Lewis had never seen before.

  It was five minutes later that Lewis made an offer which (as he knew) could hardly be refused.

  "Fancy a beer, sir? The King's Arms down the road's open--Open All Day, it says outside."

  But Morse shook his head, and sat there in continued si-lence.

  So for a while Lewis pretended to complete an already completed task. Perhaps he should have felt puzzled? But no. He wasn't puzzled at all.

  Tomorrow was Thursday....

  And the next day was Friday....

  Strange how they'd both cropped up already that day: the Man Who Was Thursday and the Girl Who Was Friday. Yet at this stage of the case, as they sat together in Daventry Court, neither Morse nor Lewis had the vaguest notion of how crucial one of the two was soon to become.

  Chapter Eleven

  You; my Lady, certainly don't dye your hair to deceive the others, nor even yourself; but only to cheat your own image a little before the looking-glass (Lu IGI PIRANDELLO, Henry IV)

  When for a second time she had put down the phone Eleanor Smith stared at her own carpet, in this case threadbare, tastelessly floral affair that stopped, at eacl wall, about eighteen inches short of the chipped skirting boards.

  The callstdn't been unexpected. No. Ever since sheh read of Mc Clure's murder in the Oxford Mail she'd half ex pected, half feared that the police would be in touch. Twice at least twice, she remembered sending him a postcard; am once a letter--a rambling, adolescent letter written just afte they'd first met when she'd felt particularly lonely on dark and cloudy day. And knowing Felix, even a bit, sh thought he'd probably have kept anything she might hav, sent him.

  Their first meeting for a drink together had been in th Chapters Bar of The Randolph. Good, that had been. N, pretences then, on either side. But he'd gently refused t. consider her a "courtesan" if only for the reason (as he' smilingly informed her) that anagrammatically, and appro priately, the word gave rise to "a sore Yes, quite good really, that first evening--that first nighl in fact--together. Above all perhaps, from her point o view, it had marked a nascent interest in crossword puzzles, which Felix had later encouraged and patiently fostered....

  They'd found her telephone number in his flat--of course they had. Not that it was any great secret. Not ex-actly an ex-directory, exclusive series of digits. A number, rather, that in the early days had been slipped into half the BT phone-boxes in East Oxford, on a card with an amateur-ishly drawn outline of a curvaceous brunette with bouncy boobs. Her! But it was there; there in that telephone-thing of his on the desk. She knew that, for she'd seen it there.

  Odd, really. She'd b. ave expected someone with such a fine brain as Felix to have committed her five-figure number to a permanent place in bis memory. Seemingly not, though. Poor old Felix.

  She'd never loved anyone in life really-except her mum. But among her clients, that rather endearing, kindly, caring sort of idiot, Felix, had perhaps come nearer than anyone.

  He'd never mentioned any enemies. But he must have had at least one--that much was certain. Not that she could help. She knew nothing. If she had known something, she'd have volunteered the information before now.

  Or would she?

  The very last thing she wanted was to get involved with the police. With her job? Come off it! And in any case there was no point in it. The last time she'd been round to Felix's apartment had been three weeks ago, when he'd cooked steak for the two of them, with a bottle of vintage claret to wash it down; and two bottles of expensive cham pagne, one before... things; and one after.

  Poor old Felix.

  A very nice person in the very nasty world in which she'd lived these last few years.

  Easy enough fooling the fuzz! Just said she wasn't there, hadn't she? Just said she was in Spain. Just said there'd been this photo of a bare-breasted tourist in Torremolinos. Been a bit of a problem if that second copper'd asked for the photo, though. But he'd sounded all right--they'd both sounded all right. Just not very bright, that's all. Would they check up on her? But what if they did? They'd soon under stand why she'd told a few fibs. It was a joke. Bit of fun. No one wanted to get involved in a murder enquiry.

  And whatever happened she cou Mn't be a suspect. Felix had been murdered on Sunday August 28th, hadn't he? And on that same Sunday she'd left Oxford at 6:30 ^.M. (yes!) on a coach-trip to Boumemouth. Hadn't got back, either, until 9:45 P.M. So there! And thirty-four witnesses could testify to that. Thirty-five, if you included the driver. Nothing to worry about, then--nothing at all.

  And yet she couldn't help worrying: WOTying about who, in his senses, would want to murder such an inoffen-sive fellow as Felix.

  Or in her senses...

  Was there some history, some incident, some background in Felix's life about which she knew nothing? Sure to be, really. Not that he'd ever hinted-- Then it struck her.

  There was that one thing. Just over a year ago, late May (or was it early June?) when that undergraduate living on Felix's staircase had jumped outof his third-floor win-dow--and broken his neck.

  "That undergraduate"? Who was she fooling?

  Poor Matthew!

  Not that she'd had anything to do with that, either. Well, she'd fervently prayed that she hadn't. After all, she'd only met him once, when Felix had become so furiously jealous. Jealousy!

  At his age--forty-one years older than she was. A grand-father, almost. A father, certainly. Yet one of the very few clients who meant anything to her in that continuum of car-nality which passed for some sort of purpose in her present life.

  Yes, a father-figure.

  A foster-father, perhaps.

  Not a bloody step-father, though! Christ, no.

  She looked at herself in the mirror of the old-fashioned dressing-table. The pallor of her skin looked ghastly; and her dark hair, streaked with a reddish-orange henna dye, looked lustefiess--and cheap. But she felt cheap all over. And as she rested her oval face on her palms, the index fin ger of each hand stroking the silver rings at either side of her nostrils, her sludgy-green eyes stared back at her with an expression of dullness and dishonesty.

  Dishonesty?

  Yes. The truth was that she probably hadn't given a sod for Mc Clure, not really. Come to think of it, he'd been get-ting something of a nuisance: wanting to monopolise her; pressuring her; phoning at inconvenient moments--once at a very inconvenient moment. He'd become far too obses-sive, far too possessive. And what was worse, he'd lost much of his former gaiety and humour in the process. Some men were like that.

  Well, hard luck!

  Yes, if she were honest with herself, she was glad it was all over. And as she continued to stare at herself, she was suddenly aware that the streaks of crimson in her hair were only perhaps a physical manifestation of the incipient streaks of cruelty in her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  To mn away from trouble is a form of cowardice and, while it is tree that the suicide braves death, he does it not for some noble object but to escape some ill (Am STOTt, Ni
comachean Ethics)

  Morse had finished the previous evening with four pints of Best Bitter (under an ever-tightening waist-belt) at the King's Arms in Banbury Road; and had followed this with half a bottle of his dearly beloved Glenfiddich (in his pyja-mas) at his bachelor flat in the same North Oxford.

  Unsurprisingly, therefore, he had not exactly felt as fil a Stradivarius when Lewis had called the following mc ing; and it was Lewis who now drove out to Leicester. It was Lewis who had to drive out to Leicester.

  As the Jaguar reached the outskirts of that city, Mc was looking again through the items (four of them now, three) which Lewis had seen fit to salvage from Mc Clu apartment, and which---glory be!--Morse had instal agreed could well be of importance to the case. Certa they threw light upon that murky drink-drugs-sex sc which had established itself in some few parts of Ox University. First was a cutting from the Oxford Mail d: Tuesday, June 8, 1993 (fourteen months earlier): DRUG LINK WITH DREAM SON'S SUICIDE At an inquest held yesterday, the, Coroner, Mr. Art Hoskins, recorded a verdict of suicide on the deat Mr. Matthew Rodway, a third-year undergraduate teac English at Oxford.

  Rodway's body had been discovered by one of the lege scouts in the early hours of Friday, May 21, al foot of his third-floor window in the Drinkwater Qua Wolsey College.

  There was some discrepancy in the statements read at the inquest, with suggestions made that Mr. Rod may perhaps have fallen accidentally after a fairly drinking-party in his rooms on Staircase G.

  There was also clear evidence, however, that Mr. way had been deeply depressed during the prev weeks, apparently about his prospects in his forthcor Finals examination.

  What was not disputed was that Rodway had refuge among one or two groups where drugs were ularly taken in various forms.

  Dr. Felix Mc Clure, one of Rodway's former was questioned about an obviously genuine but u ished letter found in Rodway's rooms, containing sentence "I've had enough of all this."

  Whilst he stoutly maintained that the words them-selves were ambivalent in their implication, Dr. Mc Clure agreed with the Coroner that the most likely explanation of events was that Rodway had been driven to take his own life.

  Pathological evidence substantiated the fact that Rodway had taken drugs, on a regular basis, yet there ap-peared no evidence to suggest that he was a suicidal type with some obsessive death-wish.