The Jewel That Was Ours (33 page)

'Your wife
told
you about this?'

'She was a bit flattered, I suppose.'

‘Was she?'

'And amused. More amused than flattered, I think.'

'And you? You, Mr Downes? Were
you
amused?'

'I could have killed the bloody swine!' So suddenly, so dramatically, the manner had changed - the voice now a harsh snarl, the eyes ablaze with hatred.

'It's not all that easy actually to kill a man,' said Morse.

'It isn't?' Downes's eyes appeared perplexed.

'What exactly
did
you hit him with? When you went home for - for whatever it was?'

‘I - pardon? - you don't—'

'Just in your own words, sir, if you will. Simply what happened, that's all. The WPC here will take down what you say and then she'll read it back to you, and you'll be able to change anything you may have got wrong. No problem!'

Wha—?' Downes shook his head in anguished desperation. 'When am I going to wake up?'

'Let's just start from when you put your key - Yale lock, isn't it? - into the front door, and then when you went in . . .'

'Yes, and I got my other hearing-aid, and some notes—'

'Whereabouts do you keep the spare hearing-aid?’ 'In the bedroom.'

Morse nodded encouragement. 'Twin beds, I suppose—'

'Double bed, actually - and I keep my spare aid in a drawer of the tallboy' - he looked directly into Morse's eyes again - 'next to the handkerchiefs and the cufflinks and the arm-bands. You do want me to be
precise
about what I tell you?'

'And your wife was in the double bed there - yes, we do want you to be precise, sir.'

'Wha—? What makes you think my wife was in bed? This was at
lunchtime.’

'Where was she?'

'In the living room? I don't know! I forget. Why don't you ask
her?
He suddenly sprang to his feet. 'Look! I've got to talk to her! Now! You've no right to hold me here. I know you've got your job to do - I understand that. Some people get held on suspicion - I
know!
But I must speak to Lucy!'

His voice had become almost a screech of anger and frustration. And Morse was glad of it. So often the loss of self-control was the welcome prelude to a confession - a confession that was usually, in turn, a vast relief to the pent-up pressures of a tortured mind. And already Downes seemed calmer again as he resumed his seat, and Morse resumed his questioning.

'You understood, didn't you, the real point of Dr Kemp's phone call? No one else did - but
you
knew.' In contrast to the crescendo of fury from Downes, Morse's voice was very quiet indeed, and beside him WPC Wright was not absolutely sure that she'd transcribed his words with total accuracy.

As for Downes, he was leaning across the table. 'Could you please speak up a bit, Inspector? I didn't hear what you said, I'm afraid.'

It is likely, however, that he heard the loud knock on the door which heralded the entry of a rather harassed-looking Lewis.

'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but—'

'Not
now,
man! Can't you see—?’ 'It's very urgent, sir,' said Lewis, in a voice of hushed authority.

WPC Wright had heard what Sergeant Lewis said all right; and she glanced across at Downes. Had
he
heard? Something in his face suggested to her that he might well have done, perhaps.

But it was difficult to tell.

I do love to note and to observe

(Jonson,
Volpone)

'I just don't believe it!' declared Morse.

It had been Lewis himself who a few minutes earlier had taken the call from the Met.

'Trying to cross over the road by King's Cross Station -about five-thirty - hit by a car. From Oxford she is. A Mrs Downes: Mrs Lucy Claire Downes according to her plastics. Lonsdale Road.'

'She - is she dead?' Lewis had asked.

'ICU at St Pancras Hospital. That's all we know.'

'Was she carrying a case?'

'No more details - not yet, Sarge. Seems she just stepped off the pavement to get in front of a row of people and . . .'

Morse sat down and rested his forehead on his right hand. 'Bloody 'ell!'

'Circle Line from King's Cross to Paddington, sir -about twenty minutes, say? She must have been going for the six o'clock train, and she was probably in a dickens of a rush when . . .' Lewis had taken the news badly.

'Yes? Dickens of a rush when she
what?

'When she stepped off the pavement—'

'An intelligent woman deliberately stepping out into the London traffic - in the rush hour? Do you really believe that? Or do you think she might have been pushed? Do you hear me, Lewis?
Pushed.'

'How can you
say
that?'

For a few moments Morse sat where he was. Then he rose to his feet, slowly - his eyes glowing savagely. 'He did it, Lewis.
He
did it!' ‘But he was in
OxfordV

'No he wasn't! He wasn't waiting on the Oxford platform at all.
He'd just got off the train.
And then he saw
us.
So he turned round the second he did, and made it look as though he was waiting for the woman he'd just tried to kill - when they were walking along together
...
He loved her, you see

probably never loved anyone in the world except his Lucy. And when he saw her copulating with Kemp
...
He just couldn't get it out of his mind, not for one second. He thought he was never going to be able to get it out of his mind.' Morse shook his head. 'And I'm an idiot, Lewis. That key! The key they found under the floor-mat in the car, or wherever. I'd guessed that Downes wanted to go back to his car to hide
something,
so I played along with all that hearing-aid rubbish. And when they brought the key, I knew exactly what it was

a left-luggage locker-key. But tell me this, Lewis! How the hell did
he
get hold of that key if he hadn't met his wife?'

'That's what it is, sir? Left-luggage key? You're sure of it?' Morse nodded. 'And I'll tell you which station, unless you want to tell
me.'
'King's Cross.'

'Could be Paddington, I suppose.' 'The
bastard’
 
muttered Lewis, with an unwonted show of emotion. Morse smiled: 'You like her, don't you?' 'Lovely woman!' 'That's what Kemp thought.' 'Perhaps . . . ?' started Lewis.

'Oh, no! We shall waste no sympathy on Kemp. Look! I want you to get someone to drive you up to the hospital to see her. All right? You can get a bit of kip in the car. Then go to King's Cross and see if there's anything in locker sixty-seven. If there is, bring it back. And if you can get anything in the way of a statement - fine. If not, well, just try to see what she's got to say.'

'If she's . . . shall I say we've got
him
here?’

'Perhaps not
...
I dunno, though. Play it by ear!'

'OK, sir.' Lewis stood up and walked over to the door, where he halted. 'Have you ever thought it might have been
Mrs
Downes who killed Dr Kemp? What if when her husband came home he found Kemp already dead, and then he did all this stuff, you know, to cover up for
her?'

'Oh, yes, Lewis. I've thought of every possibility in this case. Including Lucy Downes.'

'You don't think—?'

'I think you will be
completely
safe in London. I don't think you'll be in the slightest danger of being knifed as you practise your bedside-manner sitting by a semi-conscious young woman in an intensive care unit.'

Lewis grinned weakly, and felt in his pocket to make sure that the brown envelope containing a small red key, number 67, was still there.

Janet Roscoe had finished re-reading
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
and felt just a little less certain now about her long-held view (she had earlier been an actress) that Mr Shakespeare was sometimes way below his best when it came to the writing of comedy. And she had just turned on the TV, hoping for a late news-programme, when she heard the light knock on her bedroom door. It was Shirley Brown. She had been stung by
something,
and could Janet help? But of course she
knew
Janet could help! Invited in, Shirley watched the little woman delving into her capacious handbag (a gentle little joke with the rest of the group) from whose depths had already emerged, in addition to the usual accessories, a scout-knife, an apostle spoon, and a miniature iron. And something else now: two tubes of ointment. A little bit of each (Janet maintained) could do no possible harm, unsure as Shirley was whether the offending insect had been wasp, bee, gnat, flea, or mosquito.