Morse handed the report back. 'I'm not at all sure I know what "calibre" means. Is it the diameter of the bullet or the diameter of the barrel?'

'Wouldn't they be the same, sir?'

Morse got up and walked wearily to the door once more.

'Perhaps so, Lewis. Perhaps so.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A Conservative is one who is enamored of existing evils, as distinguished from the Liberal, who wishes to replace them with others

(Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary)

MORSE DID NOT go straight home to his North Oxford flat that evening; nor, mirabile dictu, did he make for the nearest hostelry - at least not immediately. Instead, he drove to Bloxham Drive, pulling in behind the single police car parked outside Number 17, in which a uniformed officer sat reading the Oxford Mail.

'Constable Brogan, sir,' was the reply in answer to Morse's question.

'Happen to know if Number 1 's at home?'

'The one with the N-reg Rover, you mean?'

Morse nodded.

'No. But she keeps coming backwards and forwards all the time. She seems a very busy woman, that one.' 'Anything to report?'

'Not really, sir. We keep getting a few gawpers, but I just ask them to move along.' 'Gently, I trust'

'Very gently, sir.'

'How long are you on duty for?'

'Finish at midnight.'

Morse pointed to the front window. 'Why don't you nip in and watch the telly?' 'Bit cold in there.' You can put the gas-fire on.' 'It's electric, sir.' 'Please yourself!' 'Would that be official, sir?' 'Anything I say's official, lad.' 'My lucky night, then.'

Mine, too, thought Morse as he looked over his shoulder to see an ash-blonde alighting from her car outside Number 1.

He hastened along the pavement in what could be described as an arrested jog, or perhaps more accurately as an animated walk.

'Good evening.'

She turned towards him as she inserted her latchkey. Yes?'

'A brief word - if it's possible ... er ...' Morse fumbled for his ID card. But she forestalled the need.

'Another police sergeant, are you?' 'Police, yes.'

'I can't spare much time - not tonight. I've got a busy few hours ahead.'

'I shan't keep you long.'

She led the way through into a tastefully furbished and furnished front room, taking off her ankle-length white mackintosh, placing it over the back of the red-leather settee, and bidding Morse sit opposite her as she smoothed the pale blue dress over her hips and crossed her elegant, nylon-clad legs.

'Do you mind?' she asked, lifting a cigarette in the air.

'No, no,' muttered Morse, wishing only that she'd offered one to him.

'What can I do for you?' She had a slightly husky, upper-class voice, and Morse guessed she'd probably attended one of the nation's more prestigious public schools.

'Just one or two questions.'

She smiled attractively: 'Go ahead.'

'I understand that my colleague, Sergeant Lewis, has spoken to you already.'

'Nice man - in a gentle, shy sort of way.'

'Really? I'd never quite thought of him

'Well, you're a bit older, aren't you?'

'What job do you do?'

She opened her handbag and gave Morse her card. 'I'm the local agent for the Conservative Party.' 'Oh dear! I am sorry,' said Morse, looking down at the small oblong card:

Adele Beatrice Cecil

Conservative Party Agent

1 Bloxham Drive Kidlington, Oxon, OX5 2NY

For information please ring 01865 794768

'Was that supposed to be a sick joke?' There was an edge to her voice now.

'Not really. It's just that I've never had a friend who's a Tory, that's all.'

'You mean you didn't vote for us today?'

‘I don't live in this ward.'

'If you give me your address, I'll make sure you get some literature, Sergeant'

'Chief Inspector, actually,' corrected Morse, oblivious of the redundant adverb.

She tugged her dress a centimetre down her thighs. 'How can I help?'

'Do you know Mr Owens well?'

'Well enough.'

'Well enough to hand him a newspaper scoop?' Yes.'

'Have you ever slept with him?'

'Not much finesse about you, is there?'

'Just a minute,' said Morse softly. 'I've got a terrible job to do - just up the street here. And part of it's to ask some awkward questions about what's going on in the Close—'

'Drive.'

'To find out who knows who - whom, if you prefer it' 'They did teach us English grammar at Roedean, yes.' You haven't answered my question.' Adele breathed deeply, and her grey eyes stared across almost fiercely. 'Once, yes.'

'But you didn't repeat the experience?'

'I said "once" - didn't you hear me?' ‘You still see him?'

'Occasionally. He's all right: intelligent, pretty well read, quite good fun, sometimes - and he promised he'd vote Conservative today.'

'He sounds quite compatible.'

'Are you married, Inspector?'

'Chief Inspector.'

'Are you?'

'No.'

'Do you wish you were?'

Perhaps Morse didn't hear the question.

'Did you know Rachel James fairly well?'

'We had a heart-to-heart once in a while.'

You weren't aware of any one particular boyfriend?'

She shook her head.

'Would you say she was attractive to men?'

'Wouldn't you?'

'I only saw her the once.'

'I'm sorry.' She said it quietly. 'Please, forgive me.'

'Do you know a man called Storrs? Julian Storrs?'

'Good gracious, yes! Julian? He's one of our Vice-Presidents. We often meet at do's. In fact, I'm seeing him next week at a fund-raising dinner at The Randolph. Would you like a complimentary ticket?'

'No, perhaps not,'

'Shouldn't have asked, should I? Anyway,' she got to her feet, 'I'll have to be off. They'll be starting the count fairly soon.'

They walked to the front door.

'Er ... when you rang Mr Owens on Monday morning, just after eight o'clock you say, you did speak to him, didn't you?'

'Of course.'

Morse nodded. 'And one final thing, please. My sergeant found some French letters—'

'French letters? How old are you, Chief Inspector? Condoms, for heaven's sake.'

'As I say, we found two packets of, er, condoms in one of her bedroom drawers.'

'Big deal!'

'You don't know if she ever invited anyone home to sleep with her?' 'No, I don't.'

'I thought,' said Morse hesitantly, 'most women were on the pill these days?'

'A lot of them off it, too - after that thrombosis scare.'

‘I suppose so, yes. I'm ... I'm not really an expert in that sort of thing.'

'And don't forget safe sex.'

'No. I'll... I'll try not to.'

'Did she keep them under her nighties?'

Morse nodded sadly, and bade goodnight to Adele Beatrice Cecil.

ABC.

As he walked slowly along to the Jaguar, he felt a slight tingling behind the eyes at the thought of Rachel James, and the nightdress she'd been wearing when she was murdered; and the condoms so carefully concealed in her lingerie drawer - along with the hopes and fears she'd had, like everyone. And he thought of Auden's immortal line on A. E. Housman:

Kept tears like dirty postcards in a drawer.

As he started the Jaguar, Morse noticed the semi-stroboscopic light inside the lounge; and trusted that PC Brogan had managed to activate the heating system in Number 17 Bloxham Drive.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsopp, Bass! Names that should be on every infant's tongue!

(Charles Stuart Calverly)

MORSE HEADED SOUTH along the Banbury Road, turning left just after the Cutteslowe Roundabout, and through the adjoining Carlton and Wolsey Roads (why hadn't the former been christened 'Cardinal'?); then, at the bottom of the Cutteslowe Estate, down the steeply sloping entry to the Cherwell, a quietly civilized public house where the quietly civilized landlord kept an ever-watchful eye on the Brakspear and the Bass. The car-phone rang as he unfastened his safety belt. Lewis.

Speaking from HQ.

'I thought I'd told you to go home! The eggs and chips are getting cold.'

Lewis, as Morse earlier, showed himself perfectly competent at ignoring a question.

'I've had a session on the phone with Ox and Cow Newspapers, sir - still at work there, quite a few of them. Owens' car-park card is number 14922 and it was registered by the barrier contraption there at 7.04 on Monday morning. Seems he's been in fairly early these last couple of months. Last week, for example, Monday to Friday, 7.37, 7.06, 7.11, 7.00, 7.18.'

'So what? Shows he can't get up that early on Monday mornings.'

"That's not all, though.'

'It is, Lewis! It's still the card you're on about - not the car! Can't you see that?'

'Please listen to me for a change, sir. The personnel fellow who looked out the car-park things for me, he just happened to be in earlyish last Monday morning himself: 7.22. There weren't many others around then, but one of the ones who was ... Guess who, sir?'

'Oh dear!' said Morse for the second time that evening.

Yep. Owens! Pony-tail 'n' all.'

'Oh.'

In that quiet monosyllable Lewis caught the depth of Morse's disappointment Yet he felt far from dismayed himself, knowing full well as he did, after so many murder investigations with the pair of them in harness, that Morse's mind was almost invariably at its imaginative peak when one of his ill-considered, top-of-the-head hypotheses had been razed to the ground - in this case by some lumbering bulldozer like himself. And so he understood the silence at the other end of the line: a long silence, like that at the Cenotaph in commemoration of the fallen.

Lewis seldom expected (seldom received) any thanks. And in truth such lack of recognition concerned him little, since only rarely did Morse show the slightest sign of graciousness or gratitude to anyone.

Yet he did so now.

"Thank you, my old friend.'

At the bar Morse ordered a pint of Bass and proceeded to drink it speedily.

At the bar Morse ordered a second pint of Bass and proceeded to drink it even more speedily - before leaving and driving out once more to Bloxham Drive, where no one was abroad and where the evening's TV programmes appeared to be absorbing the majority of the households.

Including Number 17.

The Jaguar door closed behind him with its accustomed aristocratic click, and he walked slowly through the drizzle along the street. Still the same count: six for Labour; two for the Tories; and two apparently unprepared to parade their political allegiances.

Yes! YES!

Almost everything (he saw it now so clearly) had been pushing his mind towards that crucial clue - towards the breakthrough in the case.

It had not been Owens who had murdered Rachel James - almost certainly he couldn't have done it, anyway.

And that late evening, as if matching his slow-paced walk, a slow and almost beatific smile had settled round the mouth of Chief Inspector Morse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Friday, 23 February

Thirteen Unlucky: The Turks so dislike the number that the word is almost expunged from their vocabulary. The Italians never use it in making up the numbers of their lotteries. In Paris, no house bears that number

(Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable)

As LEWIS PULLED into Bloxham Drive, he was faced with an unfamiliar sight: a smiling, expansive-looking Morse was leaning against the front gate of Number 17, engaged in a relaxed, impromptu press conference with one camera crew (ITV), four reporters (two from national, two from local newspapers - but no Owens), and three photographers. Compared with previous mornings, the turn-out was disappointing. It was 9.05 a.m.

Lewis just caught the tail-end of things. 'So it'll be a waste of time - staying on here much longer. You won't expect me to go into details, of course, but I can tell you that we've finished our investigations in this house.'

If the 'this' were spoken with a hint of some audial semi-italicization, it was of no moment, for no one appeared to notice it.

'Any leads? Any new leads?'

'To the murder of Rachel James, you mean?' 'Who else?'

'No. No new leads at all, really ... Well, perhaps one.'

On which cryptic note, Morse raised his right hand to forestall the universal pleas for clarification, and with a genial - perhaps genuine? - smile, he turned away.

'Drive me round the block a couple of times, Lewis. I'd rather all these people buggered off, and I don't think they're going to stay much longer if they see us go.'

Nor did they.

Ten minutes later the detectives returned to find the Drive virtually deserted.

'How many houses are there here, Lewis?'

'Not sure.' From Number 17 Lewis looked along to the end of the row. Two other houses - presumably Numbers 19 and 21, although the figures from the front gate of the latter had been removed. Then he looked across to the other side of the street where the last even-numbered house was 20. The answer, therefore, appeared to be reasonably obvious.

'Twenty-one.'

'That's an odd number, isn't it?'

Lewis frowned. 'Did you think I thought it was an even number?'

Morse smiled. ‘I didn't mean "odd" as opposed to "even"; I meant "odd" as opposed to "normal".' 'Oh!'

'Lew-is! You don't build a street of terraced houses with one side having ten and the other side having eleven, now do you? You get a bit of symmetry into things; a bit of regularity.'

'If you say so.'

'And I do say so!' snapped Morse, with the conviction of a fundamentalist preacher asserting the divine authority of Holy Writ.

'No need to be so sharp, sir.'

'I should have spotted it from day one! From those political stickers, Lewis! Let's count, OK?'

The two men walked along the odd-numbered side of Bloxham Drive. And Lewis nodded: six Labour; two Tory; two don't-knows.

Ten.

"You see, Lewis, we've perhaps been a little misled by these minor acts of vandalism here. We've got several houses minus the numbers originally screwed into their front gates - and their back gates. So we were understandably confused.'

Lewis agreed. 'I still am, sir.'

'How many odd numbers are there between one and twenty-one - inclusive?'

'I reckon it's ten, sir. So I suppose there must be eleven.'

Morse grinned. 'Write 'em down!' So Lewis did, in his notebook:

1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 15, 17, 19, 21.

Then counted them. ‘I was right, sir. Eleven.' 'But only ten houses, Lewis.' 'I don't quite follow.'

'Of course you do. It happens quite often in hotel floors and hotel room numbers ... and street numbers. They miss one of them out.'

Enlightenment dawned on Lewis's honest features.

'Number thirteen!'

'Exactly! Do you know there used to be people in France called "fourteeners" who made a living by going along to dinner parties where the number of guests was thirteen?'

'Where do you find all these bits and pieces?'

'Do you know, I think I saw that on the back of a matchbox in a pub in Grimsby. I've learned quite a lot in life from the back of matchboxes.'

'What's it all got to do with the case, though?'

Morse reached for Lewis's notebook, and put brackets round the seventh number. Then, underneath the first few numbers, he wrote in an arrow, pointing from left to right.

'Lewis! If you were walking along the back of the houses, starting from Number 1 - she must be feeling a bit sore about the election, by the way ... Well, let's just go along there.'

The two men walked to the rear of the terrace, where (as we have seen) several of the back gates had been sadly, if not too seriously, vandalized.

'Get your list, Lewis, and as we go along, just put a ring round those gates where we haven't got a number, all right?'

At the end of the row, Lewis's original list, with its successive emendations, appeared as follows:

1, 3, 5, (7) 9, 11, 13, (15) (17) 19, (2l)

You see,' said Morse, 'the vandalism gets worse the further you get into the Close, doesn't it? As it gets further from the main road.'

Yes.'

'So just picture things. You've got a revolver and you walk along the back here in the half-light. You know the number you want. You know the morning routine, too: breakfast at about seven. All you've got to do is knock on the kitchen window, wait till you see the silhouette behind the thin blind, the silhouette of a face with one distinctive feature - a pony-tail. You walk along the back; you see Number 11; you move along to the next house -Number 13- you think! And so the house after that must be Number 15. And to confirm things, there's the pony-tailed silhouette. You press the trigger - and there you have it, Lewis! The Horseman passes by. But you've got it wrong, haven't you? Your intended victim is living at Number 15, not Number 17!'

'So,' said Lewis slowly, 'whoever stood at the kitchen window thought he - or she - was firing

Morse nodded sombrely. Yes. Not at Rachel James, but Geoffrey Owens.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Men entitled to bleat BA after their names (D. S. MacColl)

THE SENIOR COMMON Room at Lonsdale is comparatively small, and for this reason has a rather more intimate air about it than some of the spacious SCRs in the larger Oxford Colleges. Light-coloured, beautifully grained oak-panelling encloses the room on all sides, its colouring complemented by the light-brown leather sofas and armchairs there. Copies of almost all the national dailies, including the Sun and the Mirror, are to be found on the glass-topped coffee-tables; and indeed it is usually these tabloids which are flipped through first - sometimes intently studied - by the majority of the dons.

Forgathered here on the evening of Friday, 23 February (7.00 for 7.30) was a rather overcrowded throng of dons, accompanied by wives, partners, friends, to enjoy a Guest Night - an occasion celebrated by the College four times per term. A white-coated scout stood by the door with a silver tray holding thinly fluted glasses of sherry: either the pale-amber 'dry' variety or the darker brown 'medium', for it was a basic assumption in such a setting that no one could ever wish for the deeply umbered 'sweet'.

A begowned Jasper Bradley took a glass of dry, drained it at a swallow, put the glass back on to the tray, and took another. He was particularly pleased with himself that day; and with the Classical Quarterly, whose review of Greek Moods and Tenses (J. J. Bradley, 204 pp, £45.50, Classical Press) contained the wonderful lines which Bradley had now by heart:

A small volume, but one which plumbs the unfathomed mysteries of the aorist subjunctive with imaginative insights into the very origins of language.

Yes. He felt decidedly chuffed.

'How's tricks?' he asked, looking up at Donald Franks, a very tall astrophysicist, recently head-hunted from Cambridge, whose dark, lugubrious features suggested that for his part he'd managed few imaginative insights that week into the origins of the universe.

'So-so.'

'Who d'you fancy then?' 'What - of the women here?' 'For the Master's job.' 'Dunno.'

'Who'll you vote for?' 'Secret ballot, innit?'

Mr and Mrs Denis Cornford now came in, each taking a glass of the medium sherry. Shelly looked extremely attractive and perhaps a little skimpily dressed for such a chilly evening. She wore a lightweight white two-piece suit; and as she bent down to pick up a cheese-nibble her low-cut, bottle-green blouse gaped open to reveal a splendid glimpse of her beautiful breasts. 'Je-sus!' muttered Bradley.

'She certainly flouts her tits a bit,' mumbled the melancholy Franks.

‘You mean "flaunts" 'em, I think.'

'If you say so,' said Franks, slightly wounded.

Bradley moved to the far end of the room where Angela Storrs stood talking to a small priest, clothed all in black, with buckled shoes and leggings.

'All, Jasper! Come and meet Father Dooley from Sligo.’

Clearly Angela Storrs had decided she had now done her duty; for soon she drifted away - tall, long-legged, wearing a dark-grey trouser-suit with a white high-necked jumper. There was about her an almost patrician mien, her face high-cheekboned and pale, with the hair swept back above her ears and fastened in a bun behind. It was obvious to all that she had been a very attractive woman. But she was aging a little too quickly perhaps; and the fact that over the last two or three years she had almost invariably worn trousers did little to discourage the belief that her legs had succumbed to an unsightly cordage of varicose veins. If she were on sale in an Arab wife-market (in the cruel words of one of the younger dons) she would have passed her best-before date several years earlier.

‘I knew the Master many years ago - and his poor wife. Yes ... that was long ago,' mused the little priest.

Bradley was ready with the appropriate response of scholarly compassion.

'Times change, yes. Tempora mutantur: et nos mutamur in illis.'

'I think,' said the priest, 'that the line should read: Tempora mutantur: nos et mutamur in illis. Otherwise the hexameter won't scan, will it?'

'Of course it won't, sorry.'

The scout now politely requested dons - wives -partners - guests - to proceed to the Hall. And Jasper Bradley, eminent authority on the aorist subjunctive in Classical Greek, walked out of the SCR more than slightly wounded.

Sir Clixby Bream brought up the rear as the room emptied, and lightly touched the bottom of Angela Storrs standing just in front of him.

Sotto voce he lied into her ear "You're looking ravishing tonight. And I'll tell you something else - I'd far rather be in bed with you now than face another bloody Guest Night,'

'So would I!' she lied, in a whisper. 'And I've got a big favour to ask of you, too.'

'We'll have a word about it after the port.'

'Before the port, Clixby! You're usually blotto after it'

Sir Clixby banged his gavel, mumbled Benedictus benedicat, and the assembled company seated themselves, the tableplan having positioned Julian Storrs and Denis Cornford at diagonally opposite ends of the thick oak table, with their wives virtually opposite each other in the middle.

‘I love your suit!' lied Shelly Cornford, in a not unpleasing Yankee twang.

You look very nice, too,' lied Angela Storrs, smiling widely and showing such white and well-aligned teeth that no one could be in much doubt that her upper plate had been disproportionately expensive.

After which preliminary skirmish, each side observed a dignified truce, with neither a further word nor a further glance between them during the rest of the dinner.

At the head of the table, the little priest sat on the Master's right.

Just the two candidates, I hear?' he said quietly.

Just the two: Julian Storrs and Denis Cornford.'

'The usual shenanigans, I assume? The usual horse-trading? Clandestine cabals?'

'Oh no, nothing like that. We're all very civilized here.'

'How do you know that?'

'Well, you've only got to hear what people say - the way they say it'

The little priest pushed away his half-eaten guinea-fowl.

You know, Clixby, I once read that speech often gets in the way of genuine communication.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Saturday, 24 February

There never was a scandalous tale without some foundation (Richard Brinsley Sheridan, The School for Scandal)

WHILST THE GUEST NIGHT was still in progress, whilst still the port and Madeira were circulating in their time-honoured directions, an over-wearied Morse had decided to retire comparatively early to bed, where almost unprecedentedly he enjoyed a deep, unbroken slumber until 7.15 the following morning, when gladly would he have turned over and gone back to sleep. But he had much to do that day. He drank two cups of instant coffee (which he preferred to the genuine article); then another cup, this time with one slice of brown toast heavily spread with butter and Frank Cooper's Oxford Marmalade.

By 8.45 he was in his office at Kidlington HQ, where he found a note on his desk:

Please see Chief Sup. Strange a s a p

The meeting, almost until the end, was an amiable enough affair, and Morse received a virtually uninterrupted hearing as he explained his latest thinking on the murder of Rachel James.

'Mm!' grunted Strange, resting his great jowls on his palms when Morse had finished. 'So it could be a contract-killing that went cockeyed, you think? The victim gets pinpointed a bit too vaguely, and the killer shoots at the wrong pig-tail—'

'Pony-tail, sir.'

Yes - through the wrong window. Right?' Yes.'

'What about the motive? The key to this sort of mess is almost always the motive, you know that.'

You sound just like Sergeant Lewis, sir.'

Strange looked dubiously across the desk, as if a little uncertain as to whether he wanted to sound just like Sergeant Lewis.

'Well?’

'I agree with you. That's one of the reasons it could have been a case of mis-identity. We couldn't really find any satisfactory motive for Rachel's murder anywhere. But if somebody wanted Owens out of the way - well, I can think of a dozen possible motives.'

'Because he's a news-hound, you mean?'

Morse nodded. 'Plenty of people in highish places who've got some sort of skeleton in the sideboard—'

'Cupboard.'

'Who'd go quite a long way to keep the, er, cupboard firmly locked.'

'Observed openly masturbating on the M40, you mean? Weekend away with the PA? By the way, you've got a pretty little lass for a secretary, I see. Don't you ever lust after her?'

‘I seem to have lost most of my lust recently, sir.'

'We all do. It's called getting old.'

Strange lifted his large head, and eyed Morse over his half-lenses.

'Now about the case. It won't be easy, will it? You've no reason to think he's got a lot of stuff stashed under his mattress?'

'No ... no, I haven't'

"You'd no real reason for thinking he'd killed Rachel?' 'No ... no, I hadn't' 'So he's definitely out of the frame?' Morse considered the question awhile. "Fraid so, yes. I wish he weren't' 'So?'

'So I'll - we'll think of some way of approaching things.'

'Nothing irregular! You promise me that! We're just about getting over one or two unsavoury incidents in the Force, aren't we? And we're not going to start anything here. Is that clear, Morse?'

'To be fair, sir, I usually do go by the book.'

Strange pointed a thick finger.

'Well, usually's not bloody good enough for me! You -go-by - the book, matey! Understood?'

Morse walked heavily back to his office, where a refreshed-looking Lewis awaited him.

'Everything all right with the Super?'

'Oh, yes. I just told him about our latest thinking—'

'Your latest thinking.'

'He understands the difficulties. He just doesn't want us to bend the rules of engagement too far, that's all.' 'So what's the plan?'

'Just nip and get me a drink first, will you?' 'Coffee?'

Morse pondered. 'I think I'll have a pint of natural, lead-free orange juice. Iced.'

'So what's the plan?' repeated Lewis, five minutes later.

'Not quite sure, really. But if I'm right, if it was something like a contract-killing, it must have been arranged because Owens was threatening to expose somebody. And if he was—'

'Lot of "if s", sir.'

'If he was, Lewis, he must have some evidence tucked away somewhere: vital evidence, damning evidence. It could be in the form of newspaper-cuttings or letters or photographs - anything. And he must have been pretty sure about his facts if he's been trying to extort some money or some favours or whatever from any disclosures. Now, as I see it, he must have come across most of his evidence in the course of his career as a journalist. Wouldn't you think so? Sex scandals, that sort of thing.'

'Like as not, I suppose.'

'So the plan's this. I want you, once you get the chance, to go and see the big white chief at the newspaper offices and get a look at all the confidential stuff on Owens. They're sure to have it in his appointment-file or somewhere: previous jobs, references, testimonials, CV, internal appraisals, comments—'

'Gossip?'

'Anything!'

'Is that what you mean by not bending the rules too much?'

'We're not bending the rules - not too much. We're on a murder case, Lewis, remember that! Every member of the public's got a duty to help us in our enquiries.'

'I just hope the editor agrees with you, that's all.'

'He does,' said Morse, a little shamefacedly. ‘I rang him while you went to the canteen. He just wants us to do it privately, that's all, and confidentially. Owens only works alternate Saturdays, and this is one of his days off.'

‘You don't want to do it yourself?'

'It's not that I don't want to. But you're so much better at that sort of thing than I am.'

A semi-mollified Lewis elaborated: 'Then, if anything sticks out as important ... just follow it up ... and let you know?'

'Except for one thing, Lewis. Owens told me he worked for quite a while in Soho when he started. And if there's anything suspicious or interesting about that period of his life ...'

You'd like to do that bit of research yourself.'

'Exactly. I'm better at that sort of thing than you are.'

'What's your programme for today, then?'

'Quite a few things, really.'

'Such as?' Lewis looked up quizzically.

'Well, there's one helluva lot of paperwork, for a start. And filing. So you'd better stay and give me a hand for a while - after you've fetched me another orange juice. And please tell the girl not to dilute it quite so much this time. And just a cube or two more ice perhaps.' 'And then?' persisted Lewis.

'And then I'm repairing to the local in Cutteslowe, where I shall be Dying to thread a few further thoughts together over a pint, perhaps. And where I've arranged to meet an old friend of mine who may possibly be able to help us a little.'

'Who's that, sir?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Not—?'

'Where's my orange juice, Lewis?'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MARIA: NO, I've just got the two O-levels — and the tortoise, of course. But I'm fairly well known for some other accomplishments.

JUDGE: Known to whom, may I ask?

MARIA: Well, to the police for a start.

(Diana Doherty, The Re-trial of Maria Macmillan)

AT TEN MINUTES to noon Morse was enjoying his pint of Brakspear's bitter. The Chief Inspector had many faults, but unpunctuality had never been one of them. He was ten minutes early.

JJ, a sparely built, nondescript-looking man in his mid-forties, walked into the Cherwell five minutes later.

When Morse had rung at 8.30 a.m., Malcolm 'JJ' Johnson had been seated on the floor, on a black cushion, only two feet away from the television screen, watching a hard-core porn video and drinking his regular breakfast of two cans of Beamish stout - just after the lady of the household had left for her job (mornings only) in one of the fruiterers' shops in Summertown.

Accepted wisdom has it that in such enlightened times as these most self-respecting burglars pursue their trade by day; but JJ had always been a night-man, relying firmly on local knowledge and reconnaissance. And often in the daylight hours, as now, he wondered why he didn't spend his leisure time in some more purposeful pursuits. But in truth he just couldn't think of any. At the same time, he did realize, yes, that sometimes he was getting a bit bored. Over the past two years or so, the snooker table had lost its former magnetism; infidelities and fornication were posing too many practical problems, as he grew older; and even darts and dominoes were beginning to pall. Only gambling, usually in Ladbrokes' premises in Summertown, had managed to retain his undivided attention over the years: for the one thing that never bored him was acquiring money.

Yet JJ had never been a miser. It was just that the acquisition of money was a necessary prerequisite to the spending of money; and the spending of money had always been, and still was, the greatest purpose of his life.

Educated (if that be the word) in a run-down comprehensive school, he had avoided the three Bs peculiar to many public-school establishments: beating, bullying, and buggery. Instead, he had left school at the age of sixteen with a delight in a different triad: betting, boozing, and bonking - strictly in that order. And to fund such expensive hobbies he had come to rely on one source of income, one line of business only: burglary.

He now lived with his long-suffering, faithful, strangely influential, common-law wife in a council house on the Cutteslowe Estate that was crowded with crates of lager and vodka and gin, with all the latest computer games, and with row upon row of tasteless seaside souvenirs. And home, after two years in jail, was where he wanted to stay.

No! JJ didn't want to go back inside. And that's why Morse's call had worried him so. So much, indeed, that he had turned the video to 'Pause' even as the eager young stud was slipping between the sheets.

What did Morse want?

'Hello, Malcolm!'

Johnson had been 'Malcolm' until the age of ten, when the wayward, ill-disciplined young lad had drunk from a bottle of Jeyes Fluid under the misapprehension that the lavatory cleaner was lemonade. Two stomach-pumpings and a week in hospital later, he had emerged to face the world once more; but now with the sobriquet 'Jeyes' - an embarrassment which he sought to deflect, five years on, by the rather subtle expedient of having the legend 'JJ - all the Js' tattooed longitudinally on each of his lower arms.

Morse drained his glass and pushed it over the table.

'Coke, is it, Mr Morse?'

'Bit early for the hard stuff, Malcolm.'

'Haifa pint, was it?'

'Just tell the landlord "same again".'

A Brakspear it was - and a still mineral water for JJ.

'One or two of those gormless idiots you call your pals seem anxious to upset the police,' began Morse.

'Look. I didn't 'ave nothin' to do with that - 'onest!

You know me.' Looking deeply unhappy, JJ dragged deeply on a king-sized cigarette.

I'm not really interested in that. I'm interested in your doing me a favour.'

JJ visibly relaxed, becoming almost his regular, perky self once more. He leaned over the table, and spoke quietly:

'I'll tell you what. I got a red-'ot video on up at the country mansion, if you, er ...'

'Not this morning,' said Morse reluctantly, conscious of a considerable sacrifice. And it was now his turn to lean over the table and speak the quiet words:

'I want you to break into a property for me.'

'Ah!'

The balance of power had shifted, and JJ grinned broadly to reveal two rows of irregular and blackened teeth. He pushed his empty glass across the table.

'Double vodka and lime for me, Mr Morse. I suddenly feel a bit thirsty, like.'

For the next few minutes Morse explained the mission; and JJ listened carefully, nodding occasionally, and once making a pencilled note of an address on the back of a pink betting-slip.

'OK,' he said finally, 'so long as you promise, you know, to see me OK if...'

'I can't promise anything.'

'But you will?'

Yes.'

'OK, then. Gimme a chance to do a bit o' recce, OK?

Then gimme another buzz on the ol' blower, like, OK? When had you got in mind?'

'I'm not quite sure.'

'OK-that's it then.'

Morse drained his glass and stood up, wondering whether communication in the English language could ever again cope without the word 'OK'.

'Before you go .. .' JJ looked down at his empty glass.

'Mineral water, was it?' asked Morse.

'Just tell the landlord "same again".'

Almost contented with life once more, JJ sat back and relaxed after Morse had gone. Huh! Just the one bleedin' door, by the sound of it Easy. Piece o' cake!

Morse, too, was pleased with the way the morning had gone. Johnson, as the police were well aware, was one of the finest locksmen in the Midlands. As a teenager he'd held the reputation of being the quickest car-thief in the county. But his incredible skills had only really begun to burgeon in the eighties, when all manner of house-locks, burglar-alarms, and safety-devices had surrendered meekly to his unparalleled knowledge of locks and keys and electrical circuits.

In fact 'JJ' Johnson knew almost as much about burglar)' as J. J. Bradley knew about the aorist subjunctive.

Perhaps more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The faults of the burglar are the qualities of the financier (Bernard Shaw, Major Barbara)

IN FACT, MORSE'S campaign was destined to be launched that very day.

Lewis had called back at HQ at 2 p.m. with a slim folder of photocopied documents - in which Morse seemed little interested; and with the news that Geoffrey Owens had left his home the previous evening to attend a weekend conference on Personnel Management, in Bournemouth, not in all likelihood to be back until late p.m. the following day, Sunday. In this latter news Morse seemed more interested.

'Well done, Lewis! But you've done quite enough for one day. You look weary and I want you to go home. Nobody can keep up the hours you've been setting yourself.'

As it happened, Lewis was feeling wonderfully fresh; but he had promised that weekend to accompany his wife (if he could) on her quest for the right sort of dishwasher. They could well afford the luxury now, and Lewis himself would welcome some alleviation of his domestic duties at the sink.

'I'll accept your offer - on one condition, sir. You go off home, too.'

'Agreed. I was just going anyway. I'll take the folder with me. Anything interesting?'

'A few little things, I suppose. For instance—'

'Not now!'

'Aren't you going to tell me how your meeting went?' 'Not now! Let's call it a day.'

As the two detectives walked out of the HQ block, Morse asked his question casually:

'By the way, did you discover which swish hotel they're at in Bournemouth?'

Back in his flat, Morse made two phone-calls: the first to Bournemouth; the second to the Cutteslowe Estate. Yes, a Mr Geoffrey Owens was present at the conference there. No, Mr Malcolm Johnson had not yet had a chance to make his recce - of course he hadn't! But, yes, he would repair the omission forthwith in view of the providential opportunity now afforded (although Johnson's own words were considerably less pretentious).

'And no more booze today, Malcolm!'

'What me - drink? On business? Never! And you better not drink, neither.'

'Two sober men - that's what the job needs,' agreed Morse.

'What time you pickin' me up then?'

'No. You're picking me up. Half past seven at my place.'

'OK. And just remember you got more to lose than I 'ave, Mr Morse.'

Yes, far more to lose, Morse knew that; and he felt a shudder of apprehension about the risky escapade he was undertaking. His nerves needed some steadying.

He poured himself a goodly measure of Glenfiddich; and shortly thereafter fell deeply asleep in the chair for more than two hours.

Bliss.

Johnson parked his filthy F-reg Vauxhall in a fairly convenient lay-by on the Deddington Road, the main thoroughfare which runs at the rear of the odd-numbered houses in Bloxham Drive. As instructed, Morse stayed behind, in the murky shadow of the embankment, as Johnson eased himself through a gap in the perimeter fence, where vandals had smashed and wrenched away several of the vertical slats, and then, with surprising agility, descended the steep stretch of slippery grass that led down to the rear of the terrace. The coast seemed clear.

Morse looked on nervously as the locksman stood in his trainers at the back of Number 15, patiently and methodically doing what he did so well. Once, he snapped to taut attention hard beside the wall as a light was switched on in one of the nearby houses, throwing a yellow rectangle over the glistening grass - and then switched off.

Six minutes.

By Morse's watch, six minutes before Johnson turned the knob, carefully eased the door open, and disappeared within - before reappearing and beckoning a tense and jumpy Morse to join him.

'Do you want the lights on?' asked Johnson as he played the thin beam of his large torch around the kitchen.

"What do you think?'

Yes. Let's 'ave 'em on. Lemme just go and pull the curtains through 'ere.' He moved into the front living-room, where Morse heard a twin swish, before the room burst suddenly into light.

An ordinary, somewhat spartan room: settee; two rather tatty armchairs; dining-table and chairs; TV set; electric fire installed in the old fireplace; and above the fireplace, on a mantelshelf patinated deep with dust, the only object perhaps which any self-respecting burglar would have wished to take - a small, beautifully fashioned ormolu clock.

Upstairs, the double-bed in the front room was unmade, an orange bath-towel thrown carelessly across the duvet; no sign of pyjamas. On the bedside table two items only: Wilbur Smith's The Seventh Scroll in paperback, and a packet of BiSoDoL Extra indigestion tablets. An old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe monopolized much of the remaining space, with coats/suits/ trousers on their hangers, and six pairs of shoes neatly laid in parallels at the bottom; and on the shelves, to the left, piles of jumpers, shirts, pants, socks, and handkerchiefs.

The second bedroom was locked.

'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.

Two and a half minutes later, Morse was taking stock of a smaller but clearly more promising room: a large book-case containing a bestseller selection from over the years; one armchair; one office chair; the latter set beneath a veneered desk with an imitation leather top, four drawers on either side, and between diem a longer drawer with two handles - locked.

'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.

Ninety seconds only this time, and clearly the locksman was running into form.

The eight side-drawers contained few items of interest: stationery, insurance documents, car documents, bank statements, pens and pencils - but in the bottom left-hand drawer a couple of pornographic paperbacks. Morse opened Topless in Torremolinos at random and read a short paragraph.

In its openly titillating way, it seemed to him surprisingly well written. And there was that one striking simile where the heroine's bosom was compared to a pair of fairy-cakes - although Morse wasn't at all sure what a fairy-cake looked like. He made a mental note of the author, Ann Berkeley Cox, and read the brief dedication on the tide page, 'For Geoff From ABC, before slipping the book into the pocket of his mackintosh.

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 quietly. '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 quietly 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 recently stood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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 Glenfiddich, lit a cigarette, and settled 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 papers and cuttings, several of them clipped or stapled together, though not arranged in any chronological or purposeful sequence.

Nine separate items.

Two newspaper cuttings, 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 despicable human being. I've got nothing 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 'Strictly 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 photograph of a strip-club, showing in turn (though indistinguishably) individual photographs of the establishment's principal performers, posted on each side of the narrow entrance; showing also (with complete clarity) the inviting legend: SEXIEST 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 photograph 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 suggesting that the smile in the former photograph was not the only thing about her that might be semi-artificial. 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

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 sleep, was a blessing most devoutly 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 through the letter-box as he hurriedly prepared himself a sub-continental breakfast. 10.30 a.m.

It was 11.15 am- when he 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, though. 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 deciding to postpone his hebdomadal treat 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 than 'unbuttoned'; 'undressing' than '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.'

‘Is Dixon still eating 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 quietly. '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 indifferently.

'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 either 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 honestly 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?'

CHAPTER THIRTY

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 mentioned 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?'

'Why are you here?'

'It's the wife,' confided Strange. 'Sunday afternoons she always goes round the house dusting everything. Including me!'

Morse was smiling dutifully as Strange continued: 'Making progress?'

'Following up a few things, yes.'

'Mm ... Is your brain as bright as it used to be?'

'I'm sure it's not.'

'Mm ... You don't look quite so bright, either.'

'We're all getting older.' 'Worse luck!'

'Not really, surely? "No wise man ever wished to be younger."'

'Bloody nonsense!'

'Not my nonsense - Jonathan Swift's.'

Elbows on the desk, Strange rested his large head on his large hands.

'I'm probably finishing in September, I suppose you'd heard.'

Morse nodded. 'I'm glad they're letting you go.'

'What the 'ell's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, I should think Mrs Strange'll be pleased to have you around, won't she? Retirement, you know ... Getting up late and watching all the other poor sods go off to work, especially on Monday mornings. That sort of thing. It's what we all work for, I suppose. What we all wait for.'

You mean,' muttered Strange, 'that's what I've been flogging me guts out all this time for - thirty-two years of it? I used to do your sort of job, you know. Caught nearly as many murderers as you in me day. It's just that I used to do it a bit different, that's all. Mostly used to wait till they came to me. No problem, often as not jealousy, booze, sex, next-door neighbour between the sheets with the missus. Motive- that's what it's all about'

'Not always quite so easy, though, is it?' ventured Morse, who had heard the sermon several times before.

'Certainly not when you're around, matey!'

"This case needs some very careful handling, sir. Lots of sensitive enquiries—'

'Such as?'

'About Owens, for a start.'

'You've got some new evidence?'

'One or two vague rumours, yes.'

'Mm ... I heard a vague rumour myself this afternoon. I heard Owens' place got burgled. I suppose you've heard that, too?' He peered at Morse over his half-lenses.

"Yes."

'Only one thing pinched. Hm! A clock, Morse.' Yes.'

"We've only got one or two clock specialists on the patch, as far as I remember. Or is it just the one?' "The one?'

You've not seen him - since they let him out again?'

'Ah, Johnson! Yes. I shall have to call round to see him pretty soon, I suppose.'

"What about tomorrow? He's probably your man, isn't he?'

'I'm away tomorrow.' 'Oh?'

'London. Soho, as a matter of fact. Few things to check out.'

‘I don't know why you don't let Sergeant Lewis do all that sort of tedious leg-work.'

Morse felt the Chief Superintendent's small, shrewd eyes upon him.

'Division of labour. Someone's got to do it.'

You know,' said Strange, 'if I hadn't got a Supers' meeting in the morning, I'd join you. See the sights ... and everything.'

'I don't think Mrs Strange'd approve.' 'What makes you think I'd tell her?' 'She's - she's not been all that well, has she?' Strange slowly shook his head, and looked down at the carpet.

'What about you, sir?'

'Me? I'm fine, apart from going deaf and going bald and haemorrhoids and blood pressure. Bit overweight, too, perhaps. What about you?'

'I'm fine.'

'How's the drinking going?' 'Going? It's going, er...'

' "Quickly"? Is that the word you're looking for?' 'That's the word.'

Strange appeared about to leave. And - blessedly! -Lewis (Morse realized) must have been aware of the situation, since he had put in no appearance.

But Strange was not quite finished: 'Do you ever worry how your liver's coping with all this booze?'

'We've all got to the of something, they say.'

'Do you ever think about that - about dying?'

'Occasionally.'

'Do you believe in life after death?' Morse smiled. 'There was a sign once that Slough Borough Council put up near one of the churches there:

NO ROAD BEYOND THE CEMETERY.'

You don't think there is, then?' 'No,' answered Morse simply.

'Perhaps it's just as well if there isn't - you know, rewards and punishments and all that sort of thing.' 'I don't want much reward, anyway.'

'Depends on your ambition. You never had much o' that, did you?' 'Early on, I did.'

You could've got to the top, you know that.'

'Not doing ajob I enjoyed, I couldn't. I'm not a form-filler, am I? Or a committee-man. Or a clipboard-man.'

'Or a procedure-man,' added Strange slowly, as he struggled to his feet.

'Pardon?'

'Bloody piles!'

Morse persisted. 'What did you mean, sir?'

'Extraordinary, you know, the sort of high-tech stuff we've got in the Force these days. We've got a machine here that even copies colour photos. You know, like the one— Oh! Didn't I mention it, Morse? I had a very pleasant little chat with Sergeant Lewis in the photocopying room just before I came in here. By the look of things, you've got quite a few alternatives to go on there.'

'Quite a lot of "choices", sir. Strictly speaking, you only have "alternatives" if you've just got the two options.'

'Fuck off, Morse!'

That evening Morse was in bed by 9.45 p.m., slowly reading but a few more pages of Juliet Barker's The Brontes, before stopping at one sentence, and reading it again:

Charlotte remarked, 'I am sorry you have changed your residence as I shall now again lose my way in going up and down stairs, and stand in great tribulation, contemplating several doors, and not knowing which to open.'

It seemed as good a place to stop as any; and Morse was soon nodding off, in a semi-upright posture, the thick book dropping on to the duvet, the whisky on his bedside table (unprecedentedly) unfinished.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A time

Older than the time of chronometers, older Than time counted by anxious worried women Lying awake, calculating the future, Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel And piece together the past and the future

(‘I. S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages)

THE RESULT OF one election had already been declared, with Mr Ivan Thomas, the Labour candidate, former unsuccessful aspirant to municipal honours, now preparing to assume his dudes as councillor for the Gosforth ward at Kidlington, near Oxford.

At Lonsdale College, five miles further south, in the golden heart of Oxford, the likely outcome of another election was still very much in the balance, with the wives of the two nominees very much - and not too discreetly, perhaps - to the fore in the continued canvassing. As it happened, each of them (like Morse) was in bed - or in a bed - comparatively early that Sunday evening.

Shelly Cornford was always a long time in the bathroom, manipulating her waxed flossing-ribbon in between and up and down her beautifully healthy teeth. When finally she came into the bedroom, her husband was sitting up against the pillows reading the Sunday Times Books Section. He watched her as she took off her purple Jaeger dress, and then unfastened her black bra, her breasts bursting free. So very nearly he said something at that point; but the back of his mouth was suddenly dry, and he decided not to. Anyway, it had been only a small incident, and his wife was probably completely unaware of how she could affect some other men - with a touch, a look, a movement of her body. But he'd never been a jealous man.

Not if he could help it.

She got into bed in her Oxford blue pyjamas and briefly turned towards him.

'Why wasn't Julian at dinner tonight?'

'Up in Durham - some conference he was speaking at. He's back tonight - Angela's picking him up from the station, so she said.'

'Oh.'

'Why do you ask?'

'No reason, darling. Night-night! Sweet dreams, my sweetie!'

She blew a kiss across the narrow space between their beds, turned her back towards him, and snuggled her head into the green pillows.

'Don't be too long with the light, please.'

A few minutes later she was lying still, breathing quite rhythmically, and he thought she was asleep.

As quietly as he could, he manoeuvred himself down beneath the bedclothes, and straightway turned off the light. And tried, tried far too hard, to go to sleep himself...

... After evensong earlier that same evening in the College Chapel, the Fellows and their guests had been invited (as was the custom) to the Master's Lodge, where they partook of a glass of sherry before dining at 7.30 p.m. at the top-table in the main hall, the students seated on the long rows of benches below them. It was just before leaving the Master's Lodge that Denis had looked round for his wife and found her by the fireplace speaking to David Mackenzie, one of the younger dons, a brilliant mathematician, of considerable corpulence, who hastily folded the letter he had been showing to Shelly and put it away.

Nothing in that, perhaps? Not in itself, no. But he, Denis Cornford, knew what was in the letter. And that, for the simplest of all reasons, since Mackenzie had shown him the same scented purple sheets in the SCR the previous week; and Cornford could recall pretty accurately, though naturally not verbatim, the passage he'd been invited to consider. Clearly the letter had been, thus far, the highlight of Mackenzie's term:

Remember what you scribbled on my menu that night? Your handwriting was a bit wobbly(!) and I couldn't quite make out just that one word: ‘I’d love to take you out and make a f— of you'. I think it was

'fuss' and it certainly begins with an ‘f’. Could be naughty; could be perfectly innocent. Please enlighten me!

Surely it was ridiculous to worry about such a thing. But there was something else. The two of them had been giggling together like a pair of adolescents, and looking at each other, and she had put a hand on his arm. And it was almost as if they had established a curious kind of intimacy from which he, Denis Cornford, was temporarily excluded.

Could be naughty.

Could be perfectly innocent...

'Would you still love me if I'd got a spot on my nose?'

'Depends how big it was, my love.'

'But you still want my body, don't you,' she whispered, 'in spite of my varicose veins?'

Metaphorically, as he lay beside her, Sir Clixby sidestepped her full-frontal assault as she turned herself towards him.

"You're a very desirable woman, and what's more you know it!' He moved his hands down her naked shoulders and fondled the curves of her bosom.

'I hope I can still do something for you,' she whispered. 'After all, you've promised to do something for me, haven't you?'

Perhaps Sir Clixby should have been a diplomat:

'Do you know something? I thought the Bishop was never going to finish tonight, didn't you? I shall have to have a word with the Chaplain. God knows where he found hind'

She moved even closer to the Master. 'Come on! We haven't got all night. Julian's train gets in at ten past ten.'

Two of the College dons stood speaking together on the cobblestones outside Lonsdale as the clock on Saint Mary the Virgin struck ten o'clock; and a sole undergraduate passing through the main gate thought he heard a brief snatch of their conversation:

'Having a woman like her in the Lodge? The idea's unthinkable!'

But who the woman was, the passer-by was not to know.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Monday, 26 February

How shall I give thee up, O Ephraim? How shall I cast thee off, O Israel?

(Hosea, ch. II, v. 8)

AT 8.45 A.M. THERE were just the two of them, Morse and Lewis, exchanging somewhat random thoughts about the case, when the young blonde girl (whom Strange had already noticed) came in with the morning post. She was a very recent addition to the typing pool, strongly recommended by the prestigious Marlborough College in the High, her secretarial skills corroborated by considerable evidence, including a Pitman Shorthand Certificate for 120 wpm.

Your mail, sir. I'm ...' (she looked frightened) 'I'm terribly sorry about the one on top. I just didn't notice.'

But Morse had already taken the letter from its white envelope, the latter marked, in the top left-hand corner, 'Strictly Private and Personal'.

Hullo Morse

Tried you on the blower at Christmas but they said you were otherwise engaged probably in the boozer.

I'm getting spliced. No, don't worry! I'm not asking you for anything this time!! He's nice and he's got a decent job and he says he loves me and he's okay in bed so what the hell. I don't really love him and you bloody well know why that is, don't you, you miserable stupid sod. Because I fell in love with you and I'm just as stupid as you are. St Anthony told me to tell you something but I'm not going to. I want to put my arms round you and hug you tight. God help me! Why didn't you look for me a bit harder Morse?

Ellie

No address.

Of course, there was no address.

'Did you read this?' Morse spoke in level tones, looking up at his secretary with unblinking eyes. 'Only till... you know, I realized ...' ‘You shouldn't have opened it.' 'No, sir,' she whispered. 'You can type all right?' She nodded.

'And you can take shorthand?' She nodded, despairingly. 'But you can't read?' 'As I said, sir ...' The tears were starting. 'I heard what you said. Now just you listen to what I'm saying. This sort of thing will never happen again!' 'I promise, sir, it'll—'

'Listen!' Morse's eyes suddenly widened with an almost manic gleam, his nostrils flaring with suppressed fury as he repeated in a slow, soft voice: 'It won't happen

again - not if you want to work for me any longer. Is that clear? Never. Now get out,' he hissed, 'and leave me, before I get angry with you.'

After she had left, Lewis too felt almost afraid to speak.

'What was all that about?' he asked finally.

'Don't you start poking your bloody nose—' But the sentence went no further. Instead, Morse picked up the letter and passed it over, his saddened eyes focused on the wainscoting.

After reading the letter, Lewis said nothing.

‘I don't have much luck with the ladies, do I?'

'She's still obviously wearing the pendant'

'I hope so,' said Morse; who might have said rather more, but there was a knock on the door, and DC Learoyd was invited into the sanctum.

Morse handed over the newspaper cuttings concerning Lord Hardiman, together with the photograph, and explained Learoyd's assignment:

Your job's to find out all you can. It doesn't look all that promising, I know. Hardly blackmail stuff these days, is it? But Owens thinks it is. And that's the point. We're not really interested in how many times he's been knocking on the doors of the knocking-shops. It's finding the nature of his connection with Owens.'

Learoyd nodded his understanding, albeit a little unhappily.

'Off you go, then.'

But Learoyd delayed. 'Whereabouts do you think would be a good place to start, sir?' Morse's eyeballs turned ceilingward.

'What about looking up His Lordship in Debrett's Peerage, mm? It might just tell you where he lives, don't you think?'

'But where can I find a copy?'

'What about that big building in the centre of Oxford - in Bonn Square. You've heard of it? It's called the Central Library.'

Item 2 in the manila file, as Lewis had discovered earlier that morning, was OBE (Overtaken By Events, in Morse's shorthand). The Cheltenham firm of solicitors had been disbanded in 1992, its clientele dispersed, to all intents and purposes now permanently incommunicado.

Item 3 was to be entrusted into the huge hands of DC Elton, who now made his entrance; and almost immediately his exit, since he passed no observations, and asked no questions, as he looked down at the paunchy paedophiliac from St Albans. 'Leave it to me, sir.'

'And while you're at it, see how the land lies here.' Morse handed over the documentation on Item 4 - the accounts-sheets from the surgical appliances company in Croydon.

'Good man, that,' commented Lewis, as the door closed behind the massive frame of DC Elton.

'Give me Learoyd every time!' confided Morse. 'At least he's got the intelligence to ask a few half-witted questions.'

'I don't quite follow you.'

'Wouldn't you need a bit of advice if you called in at some place selling surgical appliances? With Elton's great beer-gut they'll probably think he's called in for a temporary truss.'

Lewis didn't argue.

He knew better.

Also OBE, as Lewis had already discovered, was Item 5. The address Owens had written on the letter was - had been - that of a home for the mentally handicapped in Wimbledon. A Social Services inspection had uncovered gross and negligent malpractices; and the establishment had been closed down two years previously, its management and nursing staff redeployed or declared redundant Yet no prosecutions had ensued.

'Forlorn hope,' Lewis had ventured.

And Morse had agreed. 'Did you know that "forlorn hope" has got nothing to do with "forlorn" or "hope"? It's all Dutch: "Verloren hoop" - "lost troop".'

'Very useful to know, sir.'

Seemingly oblivious to such sarcasm, Morse contemplated once more the four sets of initials that comprised Item 6:

/ / /

AM DC JS CB

with those small ticks in red Biro set against the first three of them.

'Any ideas?' asked Lewis.

"Jonathan Swift", obviously, for "JS". I was only talking about him to the Super yesterday.' 'Julian Storrs?'

Morse grinned. 'Perhaps all of 'em are dons at Lonsdale.' 'I'll 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. 'You'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. 'Sit 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 surreptitiously dabbed away the last of the slow-dropping 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 minor-ides 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! he 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 the higher things in life, perhaps - prompted Morse to raise his eyes from the ground-floor level of the 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 the tiny entrance foyer. 'Do you know her?'

The young woman, black stockings and black miniskirt meeting at the top of her thighs, barely glanced at the photograph thrust under her eyes.

'No.'

'Who runs this 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 the opposite pavement, and Morse called him over.

'OK,' the girl said quickly. 'You bin 'ere before, right?'

'Er - one of my officers, yes.'

'Me mum used to know her, like I told the other fellah. Just a minute.'

She disappeared down the dingy stairs.

'How can I help you, sir?'

Morse showed his ID to the 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 Stadon 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. Suck 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 sorto' 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 the 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 the twin passport photograph that Lewis handed to him.

'That wyou, 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?'

'I'd 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 morning, 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 mustnt!' 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 Dying 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 quietly:

‘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 together. 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 with 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?'

Ye-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

Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards

(Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard's Almanack)

IN OXFORD THAT same early evening the clouds were inkily black, the forecast set for heavy rain, with most of those walking along Broad Street or around Radcliffe Square wearing raincoats and carrying umbrellas. The majority of these people were students making their way to College Halls for their evening meals, much as their predecessors had done in earlier times, passing through the same streets, past the same familiar buildings and later returning to the same sort of accommodation, and in most cases doing some work for the morrow, when they would be listening to the same sort of lectures. Unless, perhaps, they were students of Physics or some similar discipline where breakthroughs ('Breaks-through, if we are to be accurate, dear boy') were as regular as inaccuracies in the daily weather forecasts.

But that evening the forecast was surprisingly accurate; and at 6.45 p.m. the rains came.

Denis Cornford looked out through the window on to Holywell Street where the rain bounced off the surface of the road like arrowheads. St Peter's (Dinner, 7.00 for 7.30 p.m.) was only ten minutes' walk away but he was going to get soaked in such a downpour.

"What do you think, darling?'

'Give it five minutes. If it keeps on like this, I should get a cab. You've got plenty of time.'

'What'll you be doing?' he asked.

'Well, I don't think I'll be venturing out too far, do you?' She said it in a gentle way, and there seemed no sarcasm in her voice. She came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders as he stood indecisively staring out through the sheeted panes.

'Denis?'

'Mm?'

'Do you really want to be Master all that much?'

He turned towards her and looked directly into her dazzlingly attractive dark eyes, with that small circular white light in the centre of their irises - eyes which had always held men, and tempted them, and occasioned innumerable capitulations.

‘Yes, Shelly. Yes, I do! Not quite so badly as Julian, perhaps. But badly enough.'

'What would you give - to be Master?'

'Most things, I suppose.'

'Give up your work?'

'A good deal of that would go anyway. It would be different work, that's all.' 'Would you give me up?'

He took her in his arms. 'Of course, I would!' You don't really mean—?'

He kissed her mouth with a strangely passionate tenderness.

A few minutes later they stood arm-in-arm at the window looking out at the ceaselessly teeming rain. 'I'll ring for a cab,' said Shelly Cornford.

On Mondays the dons' attendance at Lonsdale Dinner was usually fairly small, but Roy Porter would be there, Angela Storrs knew that: Roy Porter was almost always there. She rang him in his rooms at 6.55 p.m. 'Roy?'

'Angela! Good to hear your beautiful voice.' 'Flattery will get you exactly halfway between nowhere and everywhere.' 'I'll settle for that.' You're dining tonight?' Yep.'

'Would you like to come along afterwards and cheer up a lonely old lady.' 'Julian away?'

'Some Brains Trust at Reading University.'

'Shall I bring a bottle?'

'Plenty of bottles here.'

'Marvellous.'

'Nine-ish?'

'About then. Er ... Angela? Is it something you want to talk about or is it just... ?'

"Why not both?'

You want to know how things seem to be going with the election?'

'I'm making no secret of that.'

You do realize I don't know anything definite at all?' 'I don't expect you to. But I'd like to talk. You can understand how I feel, can't you?' 'Of course.'

'And I've been speaking to Julian. There are one or two little preferments perhaps in the offing, if he's elected.'

'Really?'

'But like you, Roy, I don't know anything definite.' 'I understand. But it'll be good to be together again.' 'Oh, yes. Have a drink or two together.' 'Or three?'

'Or four?' suggested Angela Storrs, her voice growing huskier still.

The phone rang at 7.05 p.m. 'Shelly?' Yes.'

You're on your own?' You know I am.' 'Denis gone?' 'Left fifteen minutes ago.'

'One or two things to tell you, if we could meet?' 'What sort of things?'

'Nothing definite. But there's talk about a potential benefaction from the States, and one of the Trustees met

Denis - met you, I gather, too - and, well, I can tell you all about it when we meet.' 'All about it?'

'It's a biggish thing, and I think we may be slightly more likely to pull it off, perhaps, if Denis ...' 'And you'll be doing your best?' ‘I can't promise anything.' 'I know that.' 'So?' 'So?’

'So you're free and I'm free.'

'On a night like this? Far too dangerous. Me coming to the Master's Lodge? No chance.'

‘I agree. But, you see, one of my old colleagues is off to Greece - he's left me his key - just up the Banbury Road - lovely comfy double-bed - crisp clean sheets -central heating - en suite facilities - mini bar. Tariff? No pounds, no shillings, no pence.'

You remember pre-decimalization?'

'I'm not too old, though, am I? And I'd just love to be with you now, at this minute. More than anything in the world.'

You ought to find a new variation on the theme, you know! It's getting a bit of a cliche.'

'Cleeshay', she'd said; but however she'd pronounced it, the barb had found its mark; and Sir Clixby's voice was softer, more serious as he answered her.

'I need you, Shelly. Please come out with me. I'll get a taxi round to you in ten minutes' time, if that's all right?'

There was silence on the other end of the line.

'Shelly?'

Yes?'

'Will that be all right?'

'No,' she replied quietly. 'No it won’t I'm sorry.' The line was dead.

Just before nine o'clock, Cornford rang home from St Peter's:

'Shelly? Denis. Look, darling, I've just noticed in my diary ... You've not had a call tonight, have you?'

Shelly's heart registered a sudden, sharp stab of panic. 'No, why?'

'It's just that the New York publishers said they might be ringing. So, if they do, please make a note of the number and tell 'em I'll ring them back. All right?'

'Fine. Yes.'

‘You having a nice evening?'

'Mm. It's lovely to sit and watch TV for a change. No engagements. No problems.' 'See you soon.' ‘I hope so.'

Shelly put down the phone slowly. 'I've just noticed in my diary', he'd said. But he hadn't, she knew that She'd looked in his diary earlier that day, to make sure of the time of the St Peter's do. That had been the only entry on the page for 26.2.96.

Or, as she would always think of it, 2/26/96.

Just before ten o'clock, Julian Storrs rang his wife from Reading; rang three times.

The number was engaged.

He rang five minutes later.

The number was still engaged.

He rang again, after a further five minutes.

She answered.

'Angie? I've been trying to get you these last twenty minutes.'

'I've only been talking to Mum, for Christ's sake!'

'It's just that I shan't be home till after midnight, that's all. So I'll get a taxi. Don't worry about meeting me.'

'OK.'

After she had hung up, Angela Storrs took a Thames Trains timetable from her handbag and saw that Julian could easily be catching an earlier train: the 22.40 from Reading, arriving Oxford 23.20. Not that it mattered. Perhaps he was having a few drinks with his hosts? Or perhaps - the chilling thought struck her - he was checking up on her?

Hurriedly she rang her mother in South Kensington. And kept on kept on kept on talking. The call would be duly registered on the itemized BT lists and suddenly she felt considerably easier in her mind.

Morse had caught the 23.48 from Paddington that night, and at 01.00 sat unhearing as the Senior Conductor made his lugubrious pronouncement: 'Oxford, Oxford. This train has now terminated. Please be sure to take all your personal possessions with you. Thank you.'

From a deeply delicious cataleptic state, Morse was finally prodded into consciousness by no less a personage than the Senior Conductor himself.

'All right, sir?'

'Thank you, yes.'

But in truth things were not all right, since Morse had been deeply disappointed by his evening's sojourn in London. And as he walked down the station steps to the taxi-rank, he reminded himself of what he'd always known - that life was full of disappointments: of which the most immediate was that not a single taxi was in sight.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Tuesday, 27 February

Initium est dimidium Jacti (Once you've started, you're halfway there) (Latin proverb)

AN UNSHAVEN MORSE was still dressed in his mauve and Cambridge blue pyjamas when Lewis arrived at 10 o'clock the following morning. Over the phone half an hour earlier he had learned that Morse was feeling 'rough as a bear's arse' - whatever that was supposed to mean.

For some time the two detectives exchanged information about their previous day's activities; and fairly soon the obvious truth could be simply stated: Owens was a blackmailer. Specifically, as far as investigations had thus far progressed, with the Storrs' household being the principal victims: he, for his current infidelity; she, for her past as a shop-soiled Soho tart. One thing seemed certain: that any disclosure was likely to be damaging, probably fatally damaging, to Julian Storrs' chances of election to the Mastership of Lonsdale.

Morse considered for a while.

'It still gives us a wonderful motive for one of them murdering Owens - not much of a one for murdering Rachel'

'Unless Mrs Storrs was just plain jealous, sir?' 'Doubt it.'

'Or perhaps Rachel got to know something, and was doing a bit of blackmailing herself? She needed the money all right'

Yes.' Morse stroked his bristly jaw and sighed wearily. "There's such a lot we've still got to check on, isn't there? Perhaps you ought to get round to Rachel's bank manager this morning.'

'Not this morning, sir - or this afternoon. I'm seeing his lordship, Sir Clixby Bream, at a quarter to twelve; then I'm going to find out who's got access to the photocopier and whatever at the Harvey Clinic'

'Waste o' time,' mumbled Morse.

'I dunno, sir. I've got a feeling it may all tie in together somehow.'

'What with?'

'I'll know more after I've been to Lonsdale. You see, I've already learned one or two things about the situation there. The present Master's going to retire soon, as you know, and the new man's going to be taking up the reins at the start of the summer term - '

'Trinity term.'

' - and they've narrowed it down to two candidates: Julian Storrs and a fellow called Cornford, Denis Corn-ford - he's a Lonsdale man himself, too. And they say the odds are fairly even.'

'Who's this "they" you keep talking about?'

'One of the porters there. We used to play cricket together.'

'Ridiculous game!'

'What's your programme today, sir?'

But Morse appeared not to hear his sergeant's question.

'Cup o' tea, Lewis?'

'Wouldn't say no.'

Morse returned a couple of minutes later, with a cup of tea for Lewis and a pint glass of iced water for himself. He sat down and looked at his wristwatch: twenty-five past ten.

'What's your programme today?' repeated Lewis.

'I've got a meeting at eleven-thirty this morning. Nothing else much. Perhaps I'll do a bit of thinking - it's high time I caught up with you.'

As Lewis drank his tea, talking of this and that, he was aware that Morse seemed distanced - seemed almost in a world of his own. Was he listening at all?

'Am I boring you, sir?'

'What? No, no! Keep talking! That's always the secret, you know, if you want to start anything - start thinking, say. All you've got to do is listen to somebody talking a load of nonsense, and somehow, suddenly, something emerges.'

'I wasn't talking nonsense, sir. And if I was, you wouldn't have known. You weren't listening.'

Nor did it appear that Morse was listening even now -as he continued: 'I wonder what time the postman comes to Polstead Road. Storrs usually caught the ten-fifteen train from Oxford, you say ... So he'd leave the house about a quarter to ten - bit earlier, perhaps? He's got to get to the station, park his car, buy a ticket - buy two tickets ... So if the postman called about then ... perhaps Storrs met him as he left the house and took his letters with him, and read them as he waited for Rachel, then stuffed 'em in his jacket-pocket.' 'So?'

'So if ... What do most couples do after they've had sex together?'

'Depends, I suppose.' Lewis looked uneasily at his superior. 'Go to sleep?'

Morse smiled waywardly. 'It's as tiring as that, is id’'

'Well, if they did it more than once.'

"Then she - she, Lewis - stays awake and goes quietly through his pockets and finds the blackmail letter. By the way, did you ask him when he received it?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, find out! She sees the letter and she knows she can blackmail him. Not about the affair they're having, perhaps - they're both in that together - but about something else she discovered from the letter ... You know, I suspect that our Ms James was getting a bit of a handful for our Mr Storrs. What do you think?' (But Lewis was given no time at all to think.) 'What were the last couple of dates they went to London together?'

"That's something else I shall have to check, sir.'

'Well, check it! You see, we've been coming round to the idea that somebody was trying to murder Owens, haven't we? And murdered Rachel by mistake. But perhaps we're wrong, Lewis. Perhaps we're wrong.'

Morse looked flushed and excited as he drained his iced water and got to his feet.

'I'd better have a quick shave.'

'What else have you got on your programme—?'

'As I say, you see what happens when you start talking nonsense! You're indispensable, old friend. Absolutely indispensable’

Lewis, who had begun to feel considerable irritation at Morse's earlier brusque demands, was now completely mollified.

'I'll be off then, sir.'

'No you won't! I shan't be more than a few minutes. You can run me down to Summertown.' {Almost completely mollified.)

‘You still haven't told me what—' began Lewis as he waited at the traffic-lights by South Parade.

But a clean-shaven Morse had suddenly stiffened in his safety-belt beside him.

'What did you say the name of that other fellow was, Lewis? The chap who's standing against Storrs?'

'Cornford, Denis Cornford. Married to an American girl.'

'"DC, Lewis! Do you remember in the manila file? Those four sets of initials?'

Lewis nodded, for in his mind's eye he could see that piece of paper as clearly as Morse:

/ / /

AM DC JS CB

"There they are,' continued Morse, 'side-by-side in the middle - Denis Cornford and Julian Storrs, flanked on either side by Angela Martin - I've little doubt! - and -might it be? - Sir Clixby Bream.'

'So you think Owens might have got something on all—?'

'Slow down!' interrupted Morse. 'Just round the comer here.'

Lewis turned left at the traffic-lights into Marston Ferry Road and stopped immediately outside the Summertown Health Centre.

'Wish me well,' said Morse as he alighted.

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tuesday, 27 February

The land of Idd was a happy one. Well, almost. There was one teeny problem. The King had sleepless nights about it and the villagers were very scared. The problem was a dragon called Diabetes. He lived in a cave on top of a hill. Every day he would roar loudly. He never came down the hill but everyone was still very scared just in case he did

(Victoria Lee, The Dragon of Idd)

FROM THE WAITING-ROOM on the first floor, Morse heard his name called.

'How can I help?' asked Dr Paul Roblin, a man Morse had sought so earnestly to avoid over the years, unless things were bordering on the desperate.

As they were now.

‘I think I've got diabetes.'

'Why do you think that?'

'I've got a book. It mentions some of the symptoms.' 'Which are?'

'Loss of weight, tiredness, a longing for drink.' "You've had the last one quite a while though, haven't you?'

Morse nodded wearily. 'I've lost weight; I could sleep all the time; and I drink a gallon of tap-water a day.' 'As well as the beer?'

Morse was silent, as Roblin jabbed a lancet into the little finger of his left hand, squeezed the skin until a domed globule appeared, then smeared the blood on to a test-strip. After thirty seconds, he looked down at the reading. And for a while sat motionless, saying nothing. 'How did you get here, Mr Morse?'

'Car.'

'Is your car here?' 'No, I had a lift. Why?'

'Well, I'm afraid I couldn't let you drive a car now.' 'Why's that?'

'It's serious. Your blood sugar level's completely off the end of the chart. We shall have to get you to the Radcliffe Infirmary as soon as we can.'

'What are you telling me?'

You should have seen me way before this. Your pancreas has packed in completely. You'll probably be on three or four injections of insulin a day for the rest of your life. You may well have done God-knows-what damage to your eyes and your kidneys - we shall have to find out. The important thing is to get you in hospital immediately.'

He reached for the phone.

‘I only live just up the road,' protested Morse.

Roblin put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'They'll have a spare pair of pyjamas and a toothbrush. Don't worry!'

You don't realize—' began Morse.

'Hello? Hello! Can you get an ambulance here -Summertown Health Centre - straightaway, please ... The Radcliffe Infirmary ... Thank you.'

‘You don't realize I'm in the middle of a murder enquiry.'

But Roblin had dialled a second number, and was already speaking to someone else.

'David? Ah, glad you're there! Have you got a bed available? ... Bit of an emergency, yes ... He'll need an insulin-drip, I should think. But you'll know ... Yes ... Er, Mr Morse - initial "E". He's a chief inspector in the Thames Valley CID.'

Half an hour later - weight (almost thirteen stone), blood pressure (alarmingly high), blood sugar level (still off the scale), details of maternal and paternal grandparents' deaths (ill-remembered), all of these duly recorded - Morse found himself lying supine, in a pair of red-striped pyjamas, in the Geoffrey Harris Ward in the Radcliffe Infirmary, just north of St Giles', at the bottom of the Woodstock Road. A tube from the insulin-drip suspended at the side of his bed was attached to his right arm by a Sellotaped needle stuck into him just above the inner wrist, allowing little, if any, lateral movement without the sharpest reminder of physical agony.

It was this tube that Morse was glumly considering when the Senior Consultant from the Diabetes Centrre came round: Dr David Matthews, a tall, slim, Mephistophelian figure, with darkly ascetic, angular features.

'As I've told you all, I'm in the middle of a murder enquiry,' reiterated Morse, as Matthews sat on the side of the bed.

'And can I tell you something? You're going to forget all about that, unless you want to kill yourself. With a little bit of luck you may be all right, do you understand? So far you don't seem to have done yourself all that much harm. Enough, though! But you're going to have to forget everything about work - everything - if you're going to come through this business without too much damage. You do know what I mean, don't you?'

Morse didn't. But he nodded helplessly.

'Only here four or five days, if you do as we tell you.'

'But, as I say—'

'No "buts", I'm afraid. Then you might be home Saturday or Sunday.'

'But there's so much to do!' remonstrated Morse almost desperately.

'Weren't those the words of Cecil Rhodes?'

‘Yes, I think they were.'

'The last words, if I recall aright'

Morse was silent

And the Senior Consultant continued: 'Look, there are three basic causes of diabetes - well, that's an oversimplification. But you're not a medical man.'

'Thank you,' said Morse.

'Hereditary factors, stress, excessive booze. You'd score five ... six out of ten on the first. Your father had diabetes, I see.'

'Latish in life.'

'Well, you're not exactly a youngster yourself.'

'Perhaps not'

'Stress? You're not too much of a worryguts?'

'Well, I worry about the future of the human race -does that count?'

'What about booze? You seem to drink quite a bit, I see?'

So Morse told him the truth; or, to be more accurate, told him between one-half and one-third of the truth.

Matthews got to his feet, peered at the insulin-drip, and marginally readjusted some control thereon.

'Six out of ten on the second; ten out of ten on the third, I'm afraid. And by the way, I'm not allowing you any visitors. None at all - not even close relatives. Just me and the nurses here.'

‘I haven't got any close relatives,' said Morse.

Matthews now stood at the foot of his bed. 'You've already had somebody wanting to see you, though. Fellow called Lewis.'

After Matthews had gone, Morse lay back and thought of his colleague. And for several minutes he felt very low, unmanned as he was with a strangely poignant gratitude.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Thursday, 29 February

The relations between us were peculiar. He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind, I stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence

(Conan Doyle, The Adventures of the Creeping Man)

'AND 'OW IS 'E TODAY, then?' asked Mrs Lewis when her husband finally returned home on Thursday evening, and when soon the fat was set a-sizzling in the chip-pan, with the two eggs standing ready to be broken in the frying pan.

'On the mend.'

'They always say that.'

'No. He's genuinely on the mend.'

'Why can't 'e 'ave visitors then? Not contagious, is it, this diabetes?'

Lewis smiled at her. Brought up as she had been in the Rhondda Valley, the gentle Welsh lilt in her voice was an abiding delight with him - though not, to be quite truthful, with everyone.

'He'll probably be out this weekend.'

'And back to work?'

Lewis put his hands on his wife's shoulders as she stood watching the pale chips gradually turning brown. "This weekend, I should think.'

You've always enjoyed working with 'im, 'aven't you?' 'Well..

'I've often wondered why. It's not as if 'e's ever treated you all that well, is it?'

'I'm the only one he's ever treated well,' said Lewis quietly.

She turned towards him, laterally shaking the chips with a practised right hand.

'And 'ow are you today, then? The case going OK?'

Lewis sat down at the red Formica-topped kitchen table and surveyed the old familiar scene: lacy white doily, knife and fork, bottle of tomato ketchup, bread and butter on one side, and a glass of milk on the other. He should have felt contented; and as he looked back over another long day, perhaps he did.

Temporarily, Chief Superintendent David Blair from the Oxford City Force had been given overall responsibility for the Rachel James murder enquiry, and he had spent an hour at Kidlington Police HQ earlier that afternoon, where Lewis had brought him up to date with the latest developments.

Not that they had amounted to much ...

*

The reports from DCs Learoyd and Elton were not destined significantly to further the course of the investigation. Lord Hardiman, aged eighty-seven, a sad victim of Alzheimer's disease, and now confined to his baronial hall in Bedfordshire, was unlikely, it seemed, to squander any more of his considerable substance in riotous living along the Reeperbahn. Whilst the child-fondler, recognized immediately by his erstwhile neighbours, was likewise unlikely to disturb the peace for the immediate future, confined as he was at Her Majesty's Pleasure in Reading for the illegal publication and propagation of material deemed likely to deprave and corrupt.

More interestingly, Lewis had been able to report on his own enquiries, particularly on his second interview with Julian Storrs, who had been more willing now to divulge details of dates, times, and hotels for his last three visits to Paddington with Rachel James.

And after that, to report on his interview with Sir Clixby Bream, who had informed Lewis of the imminent election of a new Master, and who had given him a copy of the College Statutes (fortunately, rendered Anglice) with their emphasis upon the need for any candidate for the Mastership to be in good physical health (in corpore sano).

'Nobody can guarantee good health,' Blair had observed.

'No, but sometimes you can almost guarantee bad health, perhaps, sir?'

'We're still no nearer to finding how Owens got a copy of that letter?'

'No. I went round to the Harvey Clinic again yesterday. No luck, though. The doc who wrote the letter got himself killed, as you know, and all his records have been distributed around ... reallocated, sort of thing.'

'They're all in a mess, you mean?'

Lewis nodded. 'Somehow Owens got to know that he hadn't got much time left, didn't he? So he's got three things on him: he knows a good deal about Angela Storrs' past; he knows he was having an affair with Rachel James; and he knows he's pretty certainly hiding his medical reports from his colleagues in College - from everybody, perhaps.'

Quite certainly Morse would have complained about the confusing profusion of third-person pronouns in the previous sentence. But Blair seemed to follow the account with no difficulty.

'From his wife, too?' he asked.

'I wouldn't be surprised.'

You know, Morse once told me that any quack who tells you when you're going to the is a bloody fool.'

Lewis grinned. 'He's told me the same thing about a dozen times.'

'He's getting better, you say?'

'Out by the weekend, they think.'

You hope so, don't you?'

Lewis nodded, and Blair continued quietly:

You're peculiar companions, you know, you and Morse. Don't you think? He can be an ungrateful, ungracious sod at times.'

'Almost always, sir,' admitted Lewis, smiling to himself as if recalling mildly happy memories.

'He'll have to take things more easily now.'

'Would you care to tell him that?'

'No.'

'Just one thing more, sir - about Owens. I really think we ought to consider the possibility that he's in a bit of danger. There must be quite a few people who'd gladly see him join Rachel in the mortuary.'

'What do you suggest, Sergeant?'

'That's the trouble, isn't it? We can't just give him a bodyguard.'

'There's only one way of keeping an eye on him all the time.'

'Bring him in, you mean, sir? But we can't do that – not yet'

'No. No good bringing him in and then having to let him go. We shall need something to charge him with. I don't suppose ...' Blair hesitated. ‘I don't suppose there's any chance that he murdered Rachel James?'

‘I don't think so, myself, no.'

'What's Morse think?'

'He did think so for a start, but ... Which reminds me, sir. I'd better make another trip to the newspaper offices tomorrow.'

'Don't go and do everything yourself, Sergeant.'

'Will you promise to tell the Chief Inspector that?'

'No,' replied Blair as he prepared to leave; but hesitantly so, since he was feeling rather worried himself now about what Lewis had said.

'What did Morse think about the possibility of Owens getting himself murdered?'

'Said he could look after himself; said he was a streetwise kid from the start; said he was a survivor.' 'Let's hope he's right.' 'Sometimes he is, sir,' said Lewis.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

We forget ourselves and our destinies in health; and the chief use of temporary sickness is to remind us of these concerns

(Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals)

SISTER JANET MCQUEEN - an amply bosomed woman now in her early forties, single and darkly attractive to the vast majority of men - had been considerably concerned about her new patient: one E. Morse. Patently, in spite of his superficial patter, the man knew nothing whatsoever of medicine, and appeared unaware, and strangely unconcerned, about his physical well-being; ill-being, rather.

On several occasions during the following days she'd spent some time with him, apologizing for the two-hourly check on his blood sugar levels (even during the night); explaining the vital role of the pancreas in the metabolic processes; acquainting him with the range, colour, purpose, and possible efficacy, of the medication and equipment now prescribed - single-use insulin syringes, Human Ultratard, Human Actrapid, Unilet Lancets, Exactech Reagent Strips, Enalapril Tablets, Frusemide Tablets, Nifedipine Capsules ...

He'd seemed to understand most of it, she thought. And from their first meeting she'd realized that the prematurely white-haired man was most unusual.

'Glad about the pills,' he'd said.

You are?'

'Different colours, aren't they? White, pink, brown-and-orange. Good, that is. Gives a man a bit of psychological confidence. In the past, I've always thought that confidence was a bit overrated. Not so sure now, though, Sister.'

She made no answer. But his words were to remain in her mind; and she knew that she would look forward to talking with this man again.

By Tuesday evening, Morse's blood sugar level had fallen dramatically. And at coffee-time on Wednesday morning, Sister McQueen came to his bedside, the fingers of her right hand almost automatically feeling his pulse as she flicked the watch from the starched white lapel of her uniform.

'Shall I survive till the weekend?'

You hardly deserve to.'

'I'm OK now, you mean?'

She snorted in derision; but winsomely so.

You know why we didn't want you to have any visitors?'

You wanted me all to yourself?' suggested Morse. She shook her head slowly, her sensitive, slim lips widening into a saddened smile.

'No. Dr Matthews thought you were probably far too worried about life - about your work — about other things, perhaps. And he didn't want to take any chances. Visitors are always a bit of a stress.'

'He needn't have worried too much about that.'

'But you're wrong, aren't you?' She got to her feet. ‘You've had four people on the phone every day, regular callers - regular as well-adjusted bowels.'

Morse looked up at her.

'Four?'

'Somebody called Lewis - somebody called Strange -somebody called Blair. All from the police, I think.' 'Four, you said?'

'Ah yes. Sorry. And somebody called Jane. She works for you, she said. Sounds awfully sweet'

As he lay back after Sister had gone, and switched on the headphones to Classic FM, Morse was again aware of how low he had sunk, since almost everything - a kindly look, a kindly word, a kindly thought, even the thought of a kindly thought - seemed to push him ever nearer to the rim of tears. Forget it, Morse! Forget yourself and forget your health! For a while anyway. He picked up The ABC Murders which he'd found in the meagre ward-library. He'd always enjoyed Agatha Christie: a big fat puzzle ready for the reader from page one. Perhaps it might help a little with the big fat puzzle waiting for him in the world outside the Radcliffe Infirmary ... ABC.

Alexander Bonaparte Cust Adele Beatrice Cecil.

Ann Berkeley Cox ...

Within five minutes Morse was asleep.

On Thursday afternoon, a slim, rather prissy young dietitian came to sit beside Morse's bed and to talk quickly, rationally, and at inordinate length, about such things as calories and carrots and carbohydrates.

'And if you ever feel like a pint of beer once a week, well, you just go ahead and have one! It shouldn't do you much harm.'

Morse's spirit groaned within him.

The Senior Consultant himself came round again the following morning. The insulin-drip had long gone; blood-readings were gradually reverting to a manageable level; blood pressure was markedly down.

You've been very lucky,' said Matthews.

'I don't deserve it,' admitted Morse.

'No. You don't'

'When are you going to let me go?'

'Home? Tomorrow, perhaps. Work? Up to you. I'd take a fortnight off myself - but then I've got far more sense than you have.'

Well before lunchtime on Saturday, already dressed and now instructed to await an ambulance, Morse was seated in the entrance corridor of the Geoffrey Harris Ward when Sister McQueen came to sit beside him.

'I'm almost sorry to be going,' said Morse. You'll miss us?' 'I'll miss you.' 'Really?’

'Could I ring you - here?' asked Morse diffidently. 'In those immortal words: "Don't ring us - we'll ring you."'

You mean you will ring me?'

She shook her head. 'Perhaps not And it doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that you look after yourself. You're a nice man - a very nice man! - and I'm so glad we met'

'If I did come to see you, would you look after me?'

'Bed and Breakfast, you mean?' She smiled. You'd always be welcome in the McQueen Arms.'

She stood up as an ambulance-man came through the flappy doors.

'Mr Morse?' he asked.

'I'd love to be in the McQueen arms,' Morse managed to say, very quietly.

As he was driven past the Neptune fountain in the forecourt of the Radcliffe Infirmary, he wondered if Sister had appreciated that shift in key, from the uppercase Arms to the lower-case arms.

He hoped she had.

CHAPTER FORTY

Sunday, 3 March

Important if true

(Inscription A.W. Kinglake wished to see on all churches)

Forgive us for loving familiar hymns and religious feelings more than Thee, O Lord

(From the United Presbyterian Church Litany)

'BUT I'D BETTER not call before the Archers' omnibus?' Lewis had suggested the previous evening.

'Don't worry about that. I've kept up with events in Ambridge all week. And I don't want to hear 'em again. I just wonder when these scriptwriters will understand that beautiful babies are about as boring as happy marriages.'

'About ten then, sir?'

Morse, smartly dressed in clean white shirt and semi-well-pressed grey flannels, was listening to the last few minutes of the Morning Service on Radio 4 when Lewis was quickly admitted - and cautioned.

'Sh! My favourite hymn.'

In the silence that followed, the two men sat listening with Morse's bleating, uncertain baritone occasionally accompanying the singing.

'Didn't know you were still interested in that sort of thing,' volunteered Lewis after it had finished.

‘I still love the old hymns - the more sentimental the better, for my taste. Wonderful words, didn't you think?' And softly, but witii deep intensity, he recited a few lines he'd just sung:

I trace the rainbow through the rain

And feel the promise is not vain

That Morn shall tearless be.'

But Lewis, who had noted the moisture in Morse's eyes, and who had sensed that the promise of the last line might soon be broken, immediately injected a more joyful note into the conversation.

'It's really good to have you back, sir.'

Apparently unaware that any reciprocal words of gratitude were called for, Morse asked about the case; and learned that the police were perhaps 'treading water' for the time being, and that Chief Superintendent Blair was nominally i/c pro tern.

'David Blair. Best copper in the county' (Lewis was about to nod a partial agreement) 'apart from me, of course.'

And suddenly Lewis felt very happy that he was back in harness with this arrogant, ungracious, vulnerable, lovable man with whom he had worked so closely for so many years; a man who looked somewhat slimmer, somewhat paler than when he had last seen him, but who sounded not a whit less brusque as he now asked whether Lewis had checked up on the time when Storrs had left home for his last visit with Rachel to Paddington, and the time when the postman had delivered the mail in Polstead Road that same morning. And Lewis had.

9.45-9-50 am-9.10-9.20 a.m. Respectively.

'From which, Lewis, we may draw what conclusions?' 'Precious few, as far as I can see.'

'Absolutely! What other new facts have you got for me?'

So Lewis told him.

It was ten minutes short of noon when Morse dropped the mini-bombshell.

'The Cherwell, do you think, Lewis? The landlord there always keeps a decent pint.'

'But beer's full of sugar, isn't it? You can't—'

'Lewis! This diabetes business is all about balance, that's all. I've got to take all this insulin because I can't produce any insulin myself - to counteract any sugar intake. But if I didn't have any sugar intake to counteract, I'd be in one helluva mess. I'd become hypoglycaemic, and you know what that means.'

Not having the least idea, Lewis remained silent as Morse took out a black pen-like object from his pocket, screwed off one end, removed a white plastic cap from the needle there, twisted a calibrator at the other end, unbuttoned his shirt, and plunged the needle deep into his midriff.

Lewis winced involuntarily.

But Morse, looking up like some young child expecting praise after taking a very nasty-tasting medicine, seemed wholly pleased with himself.

'See? That'll take care of things. No problem.'

With great care, Lewis walked back from the bar with a pint of Bass and a glass of orange juice.

'I've been waiting a long time for this,' enthused Morse, burying his nose into the froth, taking a gloriously gratifying draught of real ale, and showing, as he relaxed back, a circle of blood on his white shirt just above the waist.

After a period of silence, during which Morse several times raised his glass against the window to admire the colour of the beer, Lewis asked the key question.

'What have they said about you starting work again?'

'What do you say about us seeing Storrs and Owens this afternoon?'

You'll have a job with Storrs, sir. Him and his missus are in Bath for the weekend.'

'What about Owens?'

'Dunno. Perhaps he's away, too - on another of his personnel courses.'

'One easy way of finding out, Lewis. There's a telephone just outside the Gents.'

'Look, sir! For heaven's sake! You've been in hospital a week—'

'Five days, to be accurate, and only for observation. They'd never have let me out unless—' But he got no further.

The double-doors of the Cherwell had burst open and there, framed in the doorway, jowls a-quiver, stood Chief Superintendent Strange - looking around, spying Morse, walking across, and sitting down.

'Like a beer, sir?' asked Lewis.

'Large single-malt Scotch - no ice, no water.'

'And it's the same again for me,' prompted Morse, pushing over his empty glass.

'I might have known it,' began Strange, after regaining his breath. 'Straight out of hospital and straight into the nearest boozer.'

'It's not the nearest'

'Don't remind me! Dixon's already carted me round to the Friar Bacon - the King's Arms - the Dew Drop -and now here. And it's about time somebody reminded you that you're in the Force to reduce the crime-level, not the bloody beer-level.'

'We were talking about the case when you came in, sir.'

' What case?' snapped Strange.

'The murder case - Rachel James.'

'Ah yes! I remember the case well; I remember the address, too: Number 17 Bloxham Drive, wasn't it? Well, you'd better get off your arse, matey' (at a single swallow, he drained the Scotch which Lewis had just placed in front of him) 'because if you are back at work, you can just forget that beer and get over smartish to Bloxham Drive again. Number 15, this time. Another murder. Chap called Owens - Geoffrey Owens. I think you've heard of him?'

PART FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face

(1 Corinthians, ch. 13, v. 12)

DEJA VU.

The street, the police cars, the crowd of curious onlookers, the SOCOs - repetition almost everywhere, as if nothing was found only once in the world. Just that single significant shift: the shift from one terraced house to another immediately adjacent.

Morse himself had said virtually nothing since Strange had brought the news of Owens' murder; and said nothing now as he sat in the kitchen of Number 15, Bloxham Drive, elbows resting on the table there, head resting on his hands. For the moment his job was to bide his time, he knew that, during the interregnum between the activities of other professionals and his own assumption of authority: a necessary yet ever frustrating interlude, like that when an in-flight air-stewardess rehearses the safety drill before take-off.

By all rights he should have felt weary and defeated; but this was not the case. Physically, he felt considerably fitter than he had the week before; and mentally, he felt eager for that metaphorical take-off to begin. Some people took little or no mental exercise except that of jumping to conclusions; while Morse was a man who took excessive mental exercise and who still jumped to dubious conclusions, as indeed he was to do now. But as some of his close colleagues knew - and most especially as Sergeant Lewis knew - it was at times like this, with preconceptions proved false and hypotheses undone, that Morse's brain was wont to function with astonishing speed, if questionable lucidity. As it did now.

Lewis walked through just before 2 p.m.

'Anything I can do for the minute, sir?'

'Just nip out and get me the Independent on Sunday, will you? And a packet of Dunhill.'

'Do you think—?' But Lewis stopped; and waited as Morse reluctantly took a five-pound note from his wallet.

For the next few minutes Morse was aware that his brain was still frustrated and unproductive. And there was something else, too. For some reason, and for a good while now, he had been conscious that he might well have missed a vital clue in the case (cases!) which so far he couldn't quite catch. It was a bit like going through a town on a high-speed train when the eyes had almost caught the name of the station as it flashed so tantalizingly across the carriage-window.

Lewis returned five minutes later with the cigarettes, which Morse put unopened into his jacket-pocket; and with the newspaper, which Morse opened at the Cryptic

Crossword ('Quixote'), glanced at 1 across: 'Some show dahlias in the Indian pavilion (6)' and immediately wrote in 'HOWDAH'.

'Excuse me, sir - but how do you get that?'

'Easiest of all the clue-types, that. The letters are all there, in their proper, consecutive order. It's called the "hidden" type.'

'Ah, yes!' Lewis looked and, for once, Lewis saw. 'Shall I leave you for two or three minutes to finish it off, sir?'

'No. It'll take me at least five. And it's time you sat down and gave me the latest news on things here.'

Owens' body Morse had already viewed, howsoever briefly, sitting back, as it had been, against the cushions of the living-room settee, the green covers permeated with many pints of blood. His face unshaven, his long hair loose down to the shoulders, his eyes open and staring, almost (it seemed) as if in permanent disbelief; and two bullet wounds showing raggedly in his chest. Dead four to six hours, that's what Dr Laura Hobson had already suggested - a margin narrower than Morse had expected, though wider than he'd hoped; death, she'd claimed, had fairly certainly been 'instant' (or 'instantaneous', as Morse would have preferred). There were no signs of any forcible entry to the house: the front door had been found still locked and bolted; the tongue of the Yale on the back door still engaged, though not clicked to the locked position from the inside. On the mantelpiece above the electric fire (not switched on) was a small oblong virtually free of the generally pervasive dust.

The body would most probably not have been discovered that day had not John Benson, a garage mechanic from Hartwell's Motors, agreed to earn himself a little untaxed extra income by fixing a few faults on Owens' car. But Benson had been unable to get any answer when he called just after 11.15 a.m.; had finally peered through the open-curtained front window; had rapped repeatedly, and increasingly loudly, against the pane when he saw Owens lying asleep on the settee there.

But Owens was not asleep. So much had become gradually apparent to Benson, who had dialled 999 at about 11.30 a.m. from the BT phone-box at the entrance to the Drive.

Thus far no one, it appeared, had seen or heard anything untoward that morning between seven and eight o'clock, say. House-to-house enquiries would soon be under way, and might provide a clue or two. But concerning such a possibility Morse was predictably (though, as it happened, mistakenly) pessimistic. Early Sunday morning was not a time when many people were about, except for dog-owners and insomniacs: the former, judging from the warnings on the lamp-posts concerning the fouling of verges and footpaths, not positively encouraged to parade their pets along the street; the latter, if there were any, not as yet coming forward with any sightings of strangers or hearings of gunshots.

No. On the face of it, it had seemed a typical, sleepy Sunday morning, when the denizens of Bloxham Drive had their weekly lie-in, arose late, walked around their homes in dressing-gowns, sometimes boiled an egg, perhaps -and setded down to read in the scandal sheets about the extra-marital exploits of the great and the not-so-good.

But one person had been given no chance to read his Sunday newspaper, for the News of the World lay unopened on the mat inside the front door of Number 15; and few of the others in the Drive that morning were able to indulge their delight in adulterous liaisons, stunned as they were by disbelief and, as the shock itself lessened, by a growing sense of fear.

At 2.30 p.m. Morse was informed that few if any of the neighbours were likely to be helpful witnesses - except the old lady in Number 19. Morse should see her himself, perhaps?

'Want me to come along, sir?'

'No, Lewis. You get off and try to find out something about Storrs - and his missus. Bath, you say? He probably left details of where he'd be at the Porters' Lodge - that's the usual drill. And do it from HQ. Better keep the phone here free.'

Mrs Adams was a widow of some eighty summers, a small old lady who had now lost all her own teeth, much of her wispy white hair, and even more of her hearing. But her wits were sharp enough, Morse sensed that immediately; and her brief evidence was of considerable interest. She had slept poorly the previous night; got up early; made herself some tea and toast; listened to the news on the radio at seven o'clock; cleared away; and then gone out the back to empty her waste-bin. That's when she'd seen him!

'Him?' 'Pardon?'

"You're sure it was a man?'

'Oh yes. About twenty - twenty-five past seven.'

The case was under way.

"You didn't hear any shots or bangs?'

'Pardon?'

Morse let it go.

But he managed to convey his thanks to her, and to explain that she would be asked to sign a short statement. As he prepared to leave, he gave her his card.

'I'll leave this with you, Mrs Adams. If you remember anything else, please get in touch with me.'

He thought she'd understood; and he left her there in her kitchen, holding his card about three or four inches from her pale, rheumy eyes, squinting obliquely at the wording.

She was not, as Morse had quickly realized, ever destined to be called before an identity parade; for although she might be able to spot that all of them were men, any physiognomical differentiation would surely be wholly beyond the capacity of those tired old eyes.

Poor Mrs Adams!

Sans teeth, sans hair, sans ears, sans eyes - and very soon, alas, sans everything.

Seldom, in any investigation, had Morse so badly mishandled a key witness as now he mishandled Mrs Arabella Adams.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Alibi (adv.): in another place, elsewhere (Small's Latin-English Dictionary)

SOME PERSONS IN life eschew all sense of responsibility, and are never wholly at ease unless they are closely instructed as to what to do, and how and when to do it. Sergeant Lewis was not such a person, willing as he was always to shoulder his share of responsibility and, not infrequently, to face some apportionment of blame. Yet, to be truthful, he was ever most at ease when given some specific task, as he had been now; and he experienced a pleasing sense of purpose as he drove up to Police HQ that same afternoon.

One thing only disturbed him more than a little. For almost a week now Morse had forgone, been forced to forgo, both beer and cigarettes. And what foolishness it was to capitulate, as Morse had done, to both, within the space of only a couple of hours! But that's what life was all about — personal decisions; and Morse had clearly decided that the long-term disintegration of his liver and his lungs was a price well worth paying, even with diabetes, for the short-term pleasures of alcohol and nicotine.

Yet Morse was still on the ball. As he had guessed, Storrs had left details of his weekend whereabouts at the Porters' Lodge. And very soon Lewis was speaking to the Manager of Bath's Royal Crescent Hotel - an appropriately cautious man, but one who was fully co-operative once Lewis had explained the unusual and delicate nature of his enquiries. The Manager would ring back, he promised, within half an hour.

Lewis picked up the previous day's copy of the Daily Mirror, and sat puzzling for a few minutes over whether the answer to 1 across - 'River (3)' - was CAM, DEE, EXE, FAL, and so on through the alphabet; finally deciding on CAM, when he saw that it would fit neatly enough with COD, the fairly obvious answer to 1 down -'Fish (3)'. He had made a firm start. But thereafter he had proceeded little, since the combination which had found favour with the setter of the crossword (EXE/ EEL) had wholly eluded him. His minor hypothesis, like Morse's earlier major one, was sadly undone.

But he had no time to return (quite literally) to square one, since the phone rang. It had taken the Manager only fifteen minutes to assemble his fairly comprehensive information ...

Mr and Mrs J. Storrs had checked into the hotel at 4 p.m. the previous afternoon, Saturday, 2 March: just the one night, at the special weekend-break tariff of £125 for a double room. The purpose of the Storrs' visit (almost certainly) had been to hear the Bath Festival Choir, since one of the reception staff had ordered a taxi for them at

7 p.m. to go along to the Abbey, where the Faure Requiem was the centrepiece of the evening concert. The couple had been back in the hotel by about half past nine, when they had immediately gone into the restaurant for a late, pre-booked dinner, the only extra being a bottle of the house red wine.

If the sergeant would like to see the itemized bill... ?

No one, it appeared, had seen the couple after about 11 p.m., when they had been the last to leave the restaurant. Before retiring, however, Mr Storrs had rung through to room service to order breakfast for the two of them, in their room, at 7.45 a.m.: a full English for himself, a Continental one for his wife.

Again, the itemized order was available if the sergeant...

Latest check-out from the hotel (as officially specified in the brochure) was noon. But the Storrs had left a good while before then. As with the other details (the Manager explained) some of the times given were just a little vague, since service personnel had changed. But things could very soon be checked. The account had been settled by Mr Storrs himself on a Lloyds Bank Gold Card (the receptionist recalled this clearly), and one of the porters had driven the Storrs' BMW round to the front of the hotel from the rear garage - being tipped (it appeared) quite liberally for his services.

So that was that.

Or almost so - since Lewis was very much aware that Morse would hardly be overjoyed with such findings; and he now asked a few further key questions.

‘I know it's an odd thing to ask, sir, but are you completely sure that these people were Mr and Mrs Storrs?'

'Well, I ...' The Manager hesitated long enough for Lewis to jam a metaphoric foot inside the door.

"You knew them - know them - personally?

'I've only been Manager here for a couple of years. But, yes - they were here twelve months or so ago.'

'People change, though, don't they? He might have changed quite a bit, Mr Storrs, if he'd been ill or ... or something?'

'Oh, it was him all right. I'm sure of that. Well, almost sure. And he signed the credit-card bill, didn't he? It should be quite easy to check up on that.'

'And you're quite sure it was her, sir? Mrs Storrs? Is there any possibility at all that he was spending the night with someone else?'

The laugh at the other end of the line was full of relief and conviction.

'Not - a - chance! You can be one hundred per cent certain of that. I think everybody here remembers her. She's, you know, she's a bit sharp, if you follow my meaning. Nothing unpleasant - don't get me wrong! But a little bit, well, severe. She dressed that way, too: white trouser-suit, hair drawn back high over the ears, beauty-parlour face. Quite the lady, really.'

Lewis drew on his salient reminiscence of Angela Storrs:

'It's not always easy to recognize someone who's wearing sunglasses, though.'

'But she wasn't wearing sunglasses. Not when I saw her, anyway. I just happened to be in reception when she booked in. And it was she recognized me’ You see, the last time they'd been with us, she did the signing in, while Mr Storrs was sorting out the luggage and the parking. And I noticed the registration number of their BMW and I mentioned the coincidence that we were both "188J". She reminded me of it yesterday. She said they'd still got the same car.'

You can swear to all this?'

'Certainly. We had quite a little chat. She told me they'd spent their honeymoon in the hotel - in the Sarah Siddons suite.'

Oh.

So that was that.

An alibi - for both of them.

Lewis thanked the Manager. 'But please do keep all this to yourself, sir. It's always a tricky business when we're trying to eliminate suspects in a case. Not suspects, though,just.. .just people.'

A few minutes later Lewis again rang the Storrs' residence in Polstead Road; again listening to Mrs Storrs on the answerphone: 'If the caller will please speak clearly after the long tone ...' The voice was a little -what had the Manager said? - a little 'severe', yes. And quite certainly (Lewis thought) it was a voice likely to intimidate a few of the students if she became the new Master's wife. But after waiting for the 'long tone', Lewis put down the phone without leaving any message. He always felt awkward and tongue-tied at such moments; and he suddenly realized that he hadn't got a message to leave in any case.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Horse-sense is something a horse has that prevents him from betting on people

(Father Mathew)

MORSE WAS STILL seated at the kitchen table in Number 15 when Lewis rang through.

'So it looks,' concluded Lewis, 'as if they're in the clear.'

‘Ye-es. How far is it from Oxford to Bath?' 'Seventy, seventy-five miles?'

'Sunday morning. No traffic. Do it in an hour and a half - no problem. Three hours there and back.'

'There's a murder to commit in the middle, though.'

Morse conceded the point "Three and a half.'

'Well, whatever happened, he didn't use his own car. That was in the hotel garage - keys with the porter.'

'Haven't you heard of a duplicate set of car-keys, Lewis?'

'What if he was locked in - or blocked in?' 'He unlocked himself, and unblocked himself, all right?'

'He must have left about four o'clock this morning then, because he was back in bed having breakfast with his missus before eight.'

'Ye-es.'

'I just wonder what Owens was doing, sir - up and about and dressed and ready to let the murderer in at half past five or so.'

'Perhaps he couldn't sleep.'

"You're not taking all this seriously, are you?'