Death Is Now My Neighbour (16 page)

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 qui
etly
.

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.'

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, resti
ng 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 th
inking.'

'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.'

'Exa
ctly
. 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 paperwor
k, 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?'

M
aria
: N
o
, 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?

M
aria
: 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 'J
J'
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.