Death Is Now My Neighbour (34 page)

'Why are
you
looking so cheerful?' asked Lewis.

But Morse made no answer, and indeed appeared to be reading the message again and again. Then he opened the letter from America.

Washington 4 March

Dear Morse,

Just read your thing in the Police Gazette. How did I know it was yours? Ah, I too was a detective! I'd have had the champag
ne myself. And I think the Faure
Requiem's a bit lightweight compared with the Verdi -in spite of the imprimatur of the Papacy. I know you've al
ways wept to Wagner but I've always k
ept to Verdi myself- and the best Xmas present I had was the Karajan recording of Don Carlos.

I know you're frightened of flying, but a visit here -especially in the spring, they say - is something not to be missed in life. We'll get together again for a jar on

my return (April) and don't leave it too long before you take your pension.

As aye, Peter (Imbert)

Morse handed the letter across to Lewis. 'The old Metropolitan Commissioner!' Morse nodded, rather proudly. 'Washington DC, that'll be, sir.' 'Where else?'

'Washington CD - County Durham, near enough.' 'Oh.'

'What's your programme today, sir?' 'Well, we've done most of the spadework—' 'Except the Harvey Clinic side of things.' 'And that's in hand, you say?'

'Seeing the woman this morning. She's just back from a few day's holiday.'

'Who's she again? Remind me.'

‘I
told you about her: Dawn Charles.'

'Mrs or Miss or Ms?'

'Not sure. But she's
the
main receptionist there. They say if anybody's likely to know what's going on, she is.' 'What time are you seeing her?'

'Ten o'clock. She's got a little flat out at Bicester on the Charles Church Estate. You joining me?'

'No, I don't think so. Something tells me I ought to see Storrs again.'

Lovingly Morse pu
t the 'Girl Reading' (Perugini,
1878)
back into her envelope, then looked through Sir Peter's letter once again. Don Carlos.

The two words stood out and stared at him, at the beginning of a line as they were, at the end of a paragraph. Not an opera Morse knew well,
Don Carlos.
Another 'DC, though. It was amazing h
ow many DCs had cropped up in th
eir enquiries - and
still
another one just now in the District of Columbia. And suddenly in Morse's mind the name of the Verdi opera merged with a name he'd just heard: the 'Don' chiming in with the 'Dawn', and the 'Carlos' with the 'Charles'.

Was it
Da
wn Charles
(Mrs or Miss or Ms) who held the key to the mystery? Did they belong to
h
er,
that pair of initials in
the
manila file?

Morse's eyes gleamed with excitement.

'I think,' he said slowly, 'Mr Julian Storrs will have to wait a
little
while. I shall be coming with you, Lewis - to Bicester.'

The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the longest way

(Samuel Butler,
Truth and Convenience)

Dawn Charles
looked nervous when she opened the door of her flat in Woodp
ecker Way and let the two detecti
ves through into the grey-carpeted lounge, where the elder of the two, the white-haired one, was already complimenting her on such an attractive residence.

'Bit unlucky though, really. I bought it at the top of the property boom for fifty-eight thousand. Only worth thirty-four now.'

'Oh dear!'

The man made her feel uneasy. And her mind went back to the previous summer when on returning from France she'd put the Green Channel sticker on the windscreen — only to be diverted into the Red Channel; where pleasa
ntly
, far too pleasa
ntly
, she'd been questioned about her time abroad, about the weather, about anything and everything - except those extra thousand cigarettes in the back of the boot. It had been as if they were just stringing her along; knowing the truth all the time.

But these men couldn't possibly know the truth, that's what she was telling herself now; and she thought she could handle things. On Radio Oxford just before Christmas she'd heard P. D. James's advice to criminal suspects: 'Keep it short! Keep it simple! Don't change a single word unless you have to!'

'Please sit down. Coffee? I've only got instant, I'm afraid.'

'We both prefer instant, don't we, Sergeant?' 'Lovely,' said Lewis, who would much have preferred tea.

Two minutes later, Dawn held a jug suspended over the steaming cups. 'Milk?'

'Please,' from Lewis. 'Thank you,' from Morse. 'Sugar?'

'Just the one teaspoonful,' from Lewis.

But a shake of the head from Morse; a slight raising of the eyebrows as she stirred two heaped teaspoonfuls into her own coffee; and an obsequious comment which caused Lewis to squirm inwardly: 'How on earth do you manage to keep such a beautiful figure -
with
all that sugar?'

She coloured sli
ghtly
. 'Something to do with the metabolic rate, so they tell me at the clinic'

'All, yes! The clinic. I'd almost forgotten.'

Again he was sounding too much like the Customs man, and Dawn was glad it was the sergeant who now took over the questioning.

A little awkwardly, a
little
ineptl
y (certainly as Morse saw things) Lewis asked about her training, her past experience, her present position, her relationships with employers, colleagues, clients
...

The scene was almost set.

She knew Storrs (she claimed) only as a patient; she'd known Turnbull (she claimed) only as a consultant; she knew Owens (she claimed) not at all.

Lewis produced the letter stating Julian Storrs' prognosis.

'Do you think
this
photocopy was made at the clinic?' 'I didn't copy it.' 'Someone must have done.'
'I
didn't copy it'

'A
ny idea who might have done?' 'I
didn't copy it'

It was hardly a convincing performance, and she was aware that both men knew she was lying. And qui
etly
-amid a few tears, certainly, but with no hysteria - the truth came out.

Owens she had met when the Press had come along for the clinic's
25th
anniversary - he must have seen something, heard something that night, about Mr Storrs. After Mr Turnbull had died, Owens had telephoned her - they'd met in the Bird and Baby in St Giles' - he'd asked her if she could copy a letter for him - yes,
that
letter - he'd offered her
£500
- and she'd agreed -copied the letter - been paid in cash. That was it - that was all - a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that -something she'd never done before - would never have done in the normal course of events. It was just the money - nothing else - she'd desperately needed the money
...

Morse had been silent throughout the interrogation, his attention focused, it seemed, on the long, black-stockinged legs.

'Where does that leave me - leave us?' she asked miserably.

'We shall have to ask you to come in to make an official statement,' said Lewis. 'Now, you mean?' "That'll be best, yes.'

'Perhaps not,' intervened Morse. 'It's not
all
that urgent, Miss Charles. We'll be in touch fairly soon.'

At the door, Morse thanked her for the coffee: 'Not the best homecoming, I'm afraid.'

'Only myself to blame,' she said, her voice tight as she looked across at the Visitors' parking lots, where the Jaguar stood.

'Where did you go?' asked Morse.

'I didn't go anywhere.'

"You stayed here - in your flat?'

'I didn't go anywhere.'

'What was that about?' asked Lewis as he drove back along the
A34
to Oxford. 'About her statement?'

‘I
want you to be with me when we see Storrs this afternoon.'

'What did you think of her?' 'Not a very good liar.'

'Lovely figure, though. Legs right up to her armpits! She'd have got a job in the chorus line at the Windmill.'

Morse was silent, his e
yes gleaming again as Lewis conti
nued:

'I read somewhere that they all had to be the same height and the same build - in the chorus line there.' 'Perhaps I'll take you along when the case is over.' 'No good, sir. It's been shut for ages.'

Dawn Charles closed the door behind her and walked thoughtfully back to the lounge, the suspicion of a smile about her lips.

Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car

(E. B. White,
One Man's Meat)

Lewis had backed
into the first available space in Polstead Road,
the
t
ree-lined thoroughfare that leads westward from Woodstock Road into Jericho; and now stood waiting whilst Morse arose laboriously from the low passenger seat of the Jaguar.

'Seen
that
before, sir?' Lewis pointed to the circular blue plaque on the wall opposite: 'This house was the home of
‘I
.
e.
Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) from
1896-1921.'

Morse grunted as he straightened up his aching back, mumbling of lumbago.

'What about a plaque for Mr Storrs, sir? "This was the home of Julian Something Storrs, Master of Lonsdale,
1996
to
... 1997?'"

Morse shrugged indiffere
ntly
:

'Perhaps
just
199
6.'

The two men walked a
little
way along the short road. The houses here were of a pattern: gabled, red-bricked, three-storeyed properties,
with ashlared, mullioned wind
ows, the frames uni
versally painted white; interesting and amply proporti
oned houses built towards
the
end of the nineteenth century.

'Wouldn't mind living here,' volunteered Lewis.

Morse nodded. 'Very civilized. Small large houses, these, Lewis, as opposed to large small houses.'

'What's the difference?'

'Somethi
ng to do with the number of bath
rooms, I think.'

'Not much to do with the number of garages!' 'No.'

Clearly nothing whatever to do with the number of garage
s, since the reason for the conti
nuum of cars on either side of the road was becoming increasingly obvious: there
were
no garages here, nor indeed any room for such additions. To compensate for the inconvenience, the front areas of almost all the properties had been cemented, cobbled, gravelled, or paved, in order to accommodate the parking of motor cars; including the front of the Storrs' residence, where on the gravel alongside the front window stood a small, pale grey, D-registration Citroen, a thin pink stripe around its bodywork.

'Someone's in?' ventured Morse.

'Mrs Storrs, perhaps - he's got a BMW. A woman's car, that, anyway.'

'Really?'

Morse was still peering through the Citroen's front window (perhaps for some more eloquent token of femininity) when Lewis returned from his ineffectual ringing.

'No one in. No answer, anyway.'

'On another weekend break?'

'I could ring the Porters' Lodge.'

You do that small thing, Lewis. I'll be
...'
Morse pointed vaguely towards the hostelry at the far end of the road.

It was at the Anchor, a few minutes later, as Morse sat behind a pint of John Smith's Tadcaster bitter, that Lewis came in to report on the Storrs: away again, for the weekend, the pair of them, this
time
though their whereabouts not vouchsafed to the Lodge.

Morse received the news without comment, appearing preoccupied;
thinking
no doubt, supposed Lewis, as he paid for his orange juice. Thinking and drinking
...
drinking and thinking
...
the twin activities which in Morse's view were ever and necessarily concomitant.

Not wholly preoccupied, however.

'I'll have a refill while you're at the bar, Lewis. Smith's please.'

After a period of silence, Morse asked the question: