Death Is Now My Neighbour (18 page)

Johnson was seated in an armchair, in the living-room, in the dark, when Morse came down the stairs holding a m anil a file.

'Got what you wanted, Mr Morse?' 'Perhaps so. Ready?'

With the house now in total darkness, the two men felt their way to the kitchen, when Morse stopped suddenly.

'The torch! Give me the torch.'

Retracing his steps to the living-room, he shone the beam along an empty mantelpiece. 'Put it back!' he said.

Johnson took the ormolu clock from his overcoat-pocket and replaced it carefully on its
little
dust-free rectangle.

'I'm glad you made me do that,' confided Johnson qui
etly
. 'I shouldn't 'a done it in the first place. Anyway, me conscience'll be clear now.'

There was a streak of calculating cruelty in the man, Morse knew that. But in several respects he was a lovable rogue; even sometimes, as now perhaps, a reasonably honest one. And oddly it was Morse who was beginning to worry - about his own conscience.

He went quickly up to the second bedroom once more and slipped the book back in its drawer.

At last, as qui
etly
as it had opened, the back door closed behind them and the pair now made their way up the grassy gradient to the gap in the slatted perimeter fence.

You've not lost your old skills,' volunteered Morse. 'Nah! Know what they say, Mr Morse? Old burglars never
the
- they simply steal away.'

In the darkened house behind them, on the mantelshelf in the front living-room, a
little
dust-free rectangle
still
betrayed the spot where the beautifully fashioned ormolu clock had so rece
ntly
stood.

When you have assembled what you call your 'facts' in logical order, it is like an oil-lamp you have fashioned, filled, and trimmed; but which will shed no illumination unless first you light it

(Saint-Exupery,
The Wisdom of the Sands)

Back in his
flat, Morse closed the door and shot the bolts, both top and bottom. It was an oddly needless precaution, yet an explicable one, perhaps. As a twelve-year-old boy, he remembered so vividly returning from school with a magazine, and locking all the doors in spite of his certain knowledge that no other member of the family would be home for several hours. And then, even then, he had waited awhile, relishing the anticipatory thrill before daring to open the pages.

It was just that sensation he felt now as he switched on the electric fire, poured a glass of Glenfi
ddich, lit a cigarette, and settl
ed back in his favourite armchair -not
this
time, however, with the
Naturist Journal
which (all those years ago now) had been doing the rounds in Lower IVA, but with
the
manila file just burgled from the house in Bloxham Drive.

The cover was well worn, with tears and creases along its edges; and maroon rings where once a wine glass had rested, amid many doodles of quite intricate design. Inside
the
file was a sheaf of pap
ers and cutti
ngs, several of them clipped or stapled together, though not arranged in any chronological or purposeful sequence.

Nine separate items.

Two newspaper cutti
ngs, snipped from one of the less inhibited of
the
Sunday tabloids, concerning a Lord Hardiman, together with a photograph of the aforesaid peer fishing in his wallet (presumably for Deutschmarks) outside a readily identifiable sex establishment in Hamburg's Reeperbahn. Clipped to this material was a further photograph of Lord Hardiman arm-in-arm
with
Lady Hardiman at a polo match in Great Windsor Park (September
1984).

A letter (August
1979)
addressed to Owens from a firm of solicitors in Cheltenham informing the addressee that it was in possession of letters sent by him (Owens) to one of their clients (unspecified); and that some arrangement beneficial to each of the parties might possibly be considered.

A glossy, highly defined photograph showing a paunchy elderly man fondling a frightened-looking prepubescent girl, both of them naked. Pencilled on
the
back was an address in St Albans.

-
A stapled sheaf of papers showing the expenses of a director in a Surrey company manufacturing surgical appliances, with double exclamation-marks against several of the mammoth amounts claimed for foreign business trips.

-A
brief, no-nonsense letter (from a woman, perhaps?) in large, curly handwriting, leaning italic-fashion to the right 'If you contact me again I shall take your letters to the police - I've kept them all. You'll get no more money from me. You're a despi
cable human being. I've got noth
ing more to lose, not even my money.' No signature but (again) a pencilled address, this time in the margin, in Wimbledon.

-
Four sets of initials written on a small page probably torn from
the
back of a diary:

/
/ /

AM DC JS CB

Nothing more - except a small tick in red Biro against the first three.

-
Two further newspaper cuttings, paper-clipped together. The first
(The Times
Diary,
2.2.96)
reporting as follows:

After a nine-year tenure Sir Clixby Bream is retiring as Master of Lonsdale College, Oxford. Sir Clixby would, indeed should, have
retired earlier. It is only the
inability of anyone in the
College(including the classicists) to understand the Latin of the original Statutes that has prolonged Sir Clixby's term. The present Master has refused to speculate whether such an event has been the result of some
obscurity in the language of
the Statutes themselves; or
the incompetence
of his
classical colleagues, none of

whom appears to have been nominated as a possible
successor.

The second, a cutting from the
Oxford Mail
(November
1995)
of an article written by Geoffrey Owens; with a photograph alongside, the caption reading, 'Mr Julian Storrs and his wife Angela at the opening of the Polynesian Art Exhibition at the Pitt Rivers Museum.'

- A smudgy photocopy of a typed medical report, marked 'Stri
ctly
Private and Confidential', on the notepaper of a private health clinic in the Banbury Road:

Ref:

Mr J. C. Storrs

Diagnosis:

Inoperable liver cancer con-

firmed. For second opn. see letter

Dr O. V. Maxim (Churchill)

Prognosis:

Seven/eight months, or less.

Possibly(??) a year. No longer.

Patient Notes:

Honesty best in this case. Strong

personality.

Next Appt:

See book, but a s a p.

RHT

Clipped to this was a cutting from the obituary columns of one of the national dailies -
The Independent,
by the look of it - announcing the death of the distinguished cancer specialist Robert H. Turnbull.

- Finally, three photographs, paper-clipped together:

(i)
A newspaper phot
ograph of a strip-club, showing
in turn (though indis
tinguishably) individual photo
graphs of the establ
ishment's principal performers,
posted on each side
of the narrow entrance; showing
also (with complete clarity) the inviting legend:
sex
iest raunchiest show in soho.

(ii)
A full-length
,
black-and-white photograph of a
tallish
bottle
-blonde
in a dark figure-hugging gown,
the thigh-slit on the left revealing a length of shapely
leg. About the woman there seemed
little
that was less
than genuinely attractive - except the smile perhaps.

(iii)
A colour phot
ograph of the same woman seated
completely naked, apart
from a pair of extraordinarily
thin stiletto heels,
on a bar-stool somewhere – her
over
-
firm breasts s
uggesting that the smile in the
former photograph w
as not the only thing about her
that might be semi-ar
tificial. The legs, now happily
revealed in all their
lengthy glory, were those of a
young dancer - the legs of a Cyd Charisse or a Betty
Grable, much better than those in the
Naturist
Journal...

Morse closed the file, and knew what he had read: an agenda for blackmail - and possibly for murder.

Sunday, 2 5 February

He was advised by a friend, with whom he afterwards lost touch, to stay at the Wilberforce Temperance Hotel

(Geoffrey Madan,
Notebooks)

I hate those who intemperately denounce beer — and call it Temperance

(G. K. Chesterton)

Socrates, on his
last day on earth, avowed that death, if it be but one long and dreamless s
leep, was a blessing most devoutl
y to be wished. Morse, on the morning of Sunday,
25
February - without going quite so far as Socrates - could certainly look back on his own long and dreamless sleep with a rare gratitude, since the commonest features of his nights were regular visits to
the
loo, frequent draughts of water, occasional doses of Nurofen and Paracetamol, an intake of indigestion tablets, and finally (after rising once more from his crumpled bed-linen) a tumbler of Alka-Seltzer.

The Observer
was already poking thickly th
rough the
letter-box as he hurriedly prepared himself a sub
-
continental breakfast.
10.30
a.m.

It was 11.15
am-
wh
en
h
e arrived at HQ, where Lewis had already been at work for three hours, and where he was soon regaling the chief about his visit to
the
newspaper offices.

A complete picture of Owens - built up from testimonials, references, records, impressions, gossip - showed a competent, hard-working, well-respected employee. That was the good news. And the bad? Well, it seemed the man was aloof, humourless, unsympathetic. In view of the latter shortcomings (Lewis had suggested) it was perhaps puzzling to understand why Owens had been sent off on a personnel management course. Yet (as the editor had suggested) some degree of aloofness, humourlessness, lack of sympathy, was perhaps precisely what was required in such a role.

Lewis pointed to the cellophane folder in which his carefully paginated photocopies were assembled.

'And one more thing. He's obviously a bit of a hit with some of the girls there - especially the younger ones.'

'In spite of his pony-tail?'

'Because of it, more likely.'

You're not serious?'

'And you're never going to catch up with the twentieth century, are you?'

'One or two possible leads?' 'Could be.'

'Such as?'

'Well, for a start, the Personnel Manager who saw Owens on Monday. I'll get a statement from him as soon as he gets back from holiday - earlier, if you'd like.'

Morse looked dubious.
‘
Ye-es. But if somebody intended to murder Owens, not Rachel James
...
well, Owens' alibi is neither here nor there
really, is it? You're right, th
ough. Let's stick to official procedure. I've always been in favour of rules and regulations.'

As Lewis eyed his superior officer with scarce disguised incredulity, he accepted the manila file handed to him across the desk; and began to read.

Morse himself now opened the 'Life' section of
The Observer
and turned to the crossword set by Azed (for Morse, the Kasparov of cruciverbalists) and considered
1
across: 'Elephant-man has a mouth that's deformed
(6)'.
He immediately wrote in
mahout
, but then put the crossword aside, trusting that the remaining clues might pose a more demanding challenge, and decid
ing to postpone his hebdomadal tr
eat until later in the day. Otherwise, he might well have completed the puzzle before Lewis had finished with the file.

'How did you come by this?' asked Lewis finally. 'Yours not to reason how.' 'He's a blackmailer!'

Morse nodded. 'We've found no evidential motive for Rachel's murder, but
..
.'
'...
dozens of 'em for his.'

'About
nine,
Lewis - if we're going to be accurate.'

Morse opened the file, and considered the contents once more. Unlike that of the obscenely fat child-fondler, neither photograph of the leggy blonde stripper was genuinely pornographic - certainly not the wholly nude one, which seemed to Morse strangely unerotic; perhaps the one of her in
the
white dress, though
...
'Unbuttoning' had always appealed to Morse more th
an 'unbuttoned'; 'undressing' th
an 'undressed'; 'almost naked' to completely so. It was something to do with Plato's idea of process; and as a young classical scholar Morse had spent so many hours
with
that
philosopher.

'Quite a bit of leg-work there, sir."

'Yes. Lovely legs, aren't
they
?'

'No! I meant there's a lot of work to do there -research, going around.'

You'll need a bit of help, yes.'

'Sergeant Dixon - couple of his lads, too -
that
'd help.'

‘I
s Dixon
still
eati
ng the canteen out of jam doughnuts?'

Lewis nodded.
'And
he's still got his pet tortoise—' '—always a step or two in front of him, I know.'

For half an hour the detectives discussed the file's explosive material. Until just after noon, in fact 'Coffee, sir?'

'Not for me. Let's nip down to the King's Arms in Summertown.'

'Not for me,' echoed Lewis. 'I can't afford the time.' 'As you wish.' Morse got to his feet.

'Do you think you should be going out quite so much - on the booze, I mean, sir?' Lewis took a deep breath and prepared for an approaching gale, force ten. You're getting worse, not better.'

Morse sat down again.

'Let me just tell you something, Lewis. I care quite a bit about what you think of me as a boss, as a colleague, as a detective - as a
friend,
yes! But I don't give two bloody monkeys about what you
think
of me as a boozer, all right?'

'No, it's not all right,' said Lewis qui
etly
. 'As a professional copper, as far as solving murders are concerned
-'

'Is
concerned!'

' - it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter to me at all.' (Lewis's voice grew sharper now.) You do your job - you spend all your time sorting things out - I'm not worried about that. And if the Chief Constable told me you
weren't
doing your job, I'd resign myself. But he
wouldn't
say
that
- never. What he'd say - what others would say -what others
are
saying - is that you're ruining yourself. Not the Force, not the department, not the murder enquiries - nothing! -
except yourself'

'Just hold on a second, will you?' Morse's eyes were blazing.

'No! No, I won't. You talked about me as a friend, didn't you, just now? Well, as a friend I'm telling you that you're buggering up your health, your retirement, your life - everything!'

'Listen!' hissed Morse. 'I've never myself tried to tell any other man how to live his life. And I will
not
be told, at my age, how I'm supposed to live mine. Even by you.'

After a prolonged silence, Lewis spoke again.

'Can I say something else?'

Morse shrugged indiffere
ntly
.

'Perhaps it doesn't matter much to most people whether you kill yourself or not. You've got no wife, no family, no relatives, except that aunt of yours in Alnwick—'

'She's dead, too.'

'So, what the hell? What's it matter? Who cares? Well,
I
care, sir. And the missus cares. And for all I know that girl Ellie Smith,
she
cares.'

Morse looked down at his desk. 'Not any longer, no.'

'And
you
ought to care - care for yourself -just a bit.'

For some considerable while Morse refrained from making any answer, for he was affected by his sergeant's words more deeply than he would ever be prepared to admit.

Then, finally:

'What about that coffee, Lewis?' 'And a sandwich?' 'And a sandwich.'

By early afternoon Morse had put most of his cards on the table, and he and Lewis had reached an agreed
conclusion. No longer could eith
er of diem accept that Rachel James had been the intended victim: each of them now looked towards Geoffrey Owens as by far the likelier target. Pursuance of the abundant clues provided by the Owens file would necessarily involve a great deal of extra work; and fairly soon a strategy was devised, with Lewis and Dixon allocated virtually everything except the Soho slot.

"You know, I could probably fit that in fairly easily with the Wimbledon visit,' Lewis had volunteered.

But Morse was clearly unconvinced:

"The Soho angle's the most important of the lot.'

'Do you hone
stly
believe that?'

'Certainly. That's why—'

The phone rang, answered by Morse.

Owens (he learned) had phoned HQ ten minutes earlier, just after
3
p.m., to report that his property had been burgled over the weekend, while he was away.

'And you're dealing with it? .
..
Good
..
.Just the one item you say, as far as he knows?
...
I see
...
Thank you.'

Morse put down the phone; and Lewis picked up the file, looking quizzically across the desk.

But Morse shook his head. 'Not the file, no.' 'What, then?'

'A valuable
little
ormolu clock from his living-room.' 'Probably a professional, sir - one who knows his clocks.'

'Don't ask me. I know nothing about clocks.' Lewis grinned. 'We both know somebody who does though, don't we, sir?'

This world and the next — and after that
all
our troubles will be over

(Attributed to General Gordon's aunt)

No
knock. The
door opened. Strange entered.

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

As Strange carefully balanced his bulk on 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?'