Morse's Greatest Mystery and Other Stories (4 page)

The prisoner would be taken first to Jericho, then to Botley; shown over the two properties in question; and invited, on each occasion, to make a brief statement. This, in truth, in the interests of verisimilitude only. Yet (as Crawford maintained) there was always just the possibility that Muldoon
would
say something of value. Prisoners had grassed in the past; prisoners would grass in the future.

Thereafter things would become a little more complicated.

Muldoon would then be informed that the reward for his co-operation lay some ten miles away, along the A40, in a police-house in Witney. In fact, the van would be driven out from Botley on to the western Ring Road; and,
after a suitably convincing “ten-mile” detour, would land up in the Blackbird Leys Estate, on the eastern side of Oxford, beyond the Rover car-plant at Cowley.

At which point, Crawford’s careful, albeit clumsy, planning would enter its critical phase.

The outward appearance of Bannister Close might well be fairly familiar to Muldoon. Although he had visited the flat only once (as it appeared) there was the real possibility that he might recognize some aspect of the block—its architectural style, its black-painted balcony, the colours of its doors and windows—even in semi-darkness. And no risks could be taken.

Therefore …

Muldoon, still handcuffed, would be dropped off at the
rear
of the block, where a main road ran behind the back of the properties. In the interests of public safety a five-foot fence of vertical wooden slats had been erected to separate this road from Bannister Close. But as in so many parts of the Estate, vandals had been at work here too, and several irregular gaps had been kicked through the fencing; and (Crawford had done his homework) there was a most convenient opening, two or three feet wide, in the stretch almost immediately behind Number 14.

Easy.

And since a fairly steep grassy slope led down from the fence to the concreted path running beside the rear entrance to the flats, it seemed wholly unlikely that a man with only one leg was going to be too deeply engrossed in his environment.

The flat originally raided was on the first floor, with access only via an external stairway, one at each end of the block. But by a stroke of good fortune, the flat
beneath it, on the ground floor, was empty; had been empty for several months—the For Sale notice stuck into the scratty patch of weedy waste which passed itself off in the property’s specification as “a small front garden.” And it was to be in the living-room of
this
flat (Crawford had decreed) that the scene was to be set: off screen, and on screen, as it were.

One of Crawford’s old colleagues, now a senior member of the Obscene Publications Squad—a man with the not inappropriate name of Cox—would be providing an outsize TV screen, together with a veritable feast of video-sex for the viewers. Only five viewers though: Cox himself, Crawford, Wilkins, Lewis—and Muldoon.

An inviting tray of Beamish stout would be available, and the four police officers would each nonchalantly help themselves from it, drinking straight from the cans—no glasses! And a man who had tasted no alcohol for a week—and an Irishman, to boot—would surely speedily succumb.

And if he didn’t? Well, no real worry.

Quite a few props would be required to set the stage and—wait for it!—behold now Crawford’s
coup de grâce
! A ridiculously oversized furniture-van had been hired to convey a carpet, four chairs, a settee, a table, a large TV set …

Wait!

 … and this van would
still
be parked outside the property when, after the final curtain, Muldoon would emerge—
through the front door
. And there, bang in front of him, instead of a potentially recognizable prospect, would stand the great pantechnicon, blocking anything and everything—particularly the council houses opposite.

And now—O Napoleon!—mark a stroke of rare genius. Not only would the van serve to bring the props; not only would it conceal the view over that unlovely neighbourhood;
it would also house the photographer
, who would once more capture Muldoon on film outside the very place of which earlier he had so vehemently denied all knowledge. This time, though, from much closer quarters—from behind a grille (removed) in the side of the van, with a camera loaded with 1000 ASA film, and positioned on a tripod to prevent any shake.

And that would be that. A whole
series
of shots this time.
And
(Crawford had averred) if DC Watson or some other incompetent idiot lost
those
, then good luck to Muldoon and his co-criminals! The police wouldn’t deserve to catch, or the courts to convict them.

But that wouldn’t happen again.

For Muldoon it would be back to Oxford. Back to prison. And very soon, if there were any justice in life, back to prison
for
life. For whatever the dishonesty of the scheme devised against him, Muldoon was a cruel and murderous bastard.

There could be no mistake on that score.

Such was Lewis’s account—of Crawford’s account—itself, in turn, transmuted in Morse’s mind to the heightened
version presented to the reader in the preceding paragraphs.

When it was finished, Morse looked almost as puzzled as (apparently) the prisoner himself had looked earlier.

“Has Muldoon got any idea that things have gone missing?”

“Seems not, sir.”

“He must be suspicious, though—about being offered something for nothing? It’s surely very improbable, isn’t it, that he’s going to spill any beans?”

“We
do
get informers, though.
And
they get paid.”

“Unusual currency—sex-videos.”

“Well, that’s his particular taste, according to Crawford. They found dozens of ’em in his room. Not natural, is it?”

“Not all that
un
-natural, would you say?”

“Have you
seen
some of these videos?”

“No, Lewis. Unlike you, I’ve lived a very sheltered life. I have
tried
to get invited along to one of these porno-parties, but everybody seems to think I’m above such things.”

“You wouldn’t enjoy ’em, sir. They make you feel—well, cheap, somehow.”

“Perhaps most of us
are
cheap.”

Lewis shook his head. “And goodness knows what the missus would say if she knew.”

“Need
she know?”

“You’d understand better if you were married, sir.”

Morse was silent for a short while before continuing. “I’ll tell you one thing: I wish I could understand
Crawford
better. Why doesn’t he do things a bit more
simply?”

“What are you thinking of?”

“Well, if he’s lost a beer-can, why doesn’t he just give the fellow
another
beer-can—and then stick it in the exhibits locker?”

“I’m not sure. But I think he feels it’ll salve his conscience a bit if it comes from Blackbird Leys, you know—not from the prison.”

“What’s the difference? It’s dishonest either way.”

“You’d have to ask Crawford that. I don’t know.”

“And why not just
fiddle
the photo? I know a Spanish chap—name of McSevich—”

“Spanish? With a name like that?”

“Like you, Lewis, I am not privy to some of the greater mysteries in life. All I know is that this chap’s a wizard with a camera. He can stick a ghost in the middle of a group-photograph—all that sort of fake stuff. He can probably let you have a snap of the Home Secretary outside a strip-club—in his jock-strap.”

“In the dark.”

Morse grinned. “No problem.”

“That would be even
more
dishonest, though.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I think—I
think
I understand why Crawford’s doing it this way.”

“You
do
? Well, tell me. Come on! Come on, Lewis! Try!”

Lewis took a deep breath. It was going to be difficult—but he would try.

“Look at it this way, sir. If I—let’s say I was being unfaithful to the missus and going off somewhere with a lady-friend. Let’s say I’d told the missus I was going by train—but I wasn’t really going by train at all, because this lady-friend was going to pick me up in her car somewhere, all right?”

“Lewis, I look at you in a completely new light!”

“It’s just that I’d rather have a taxi actually
take
me to the station, and get picked up
there
—rather than meet in
St. Giles’ or somewhere. I know you wouldn’t understand something like that, but …”

“But I do,” said Morse quietly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Lewis felt encouraged to add a gloss: “It’s as if Crawford’s only prepared to be dishonest in an honest sort of way.”

Morse recited the couplet that had been going through his mind:

“Honour rooted in Dishonour stood,

And Faith, unfaithful, kept him falsely true.”

“Who wrote that, sir?”

“Forget.”

Morse rose from his desk, a final thought striking him.

“You know, if your prisoner’s going to be handcuffed all the while, it’s bound to be a funny old photo, isn’t it? Won’t it give the game away?”

“No. He’s only got one leg. And he couldn’t scarper if he wanted to. Even
you
could catch him if he tried anything on, sir.”

“Thank you very much!”

Lewis too rose from his chair, reluctantly, unhappily—and made his decision.

“I’m going back to see Inspector Crawford. I’m not having anything to do with it. I’m letting him down, I know—after what I told him. But I—it’s just not on. I can’t do it. He’ll have to find somebody else.”

Morse came round the desk and placed a hand on Lewis’s shoulder.

“You get off home and see the missus. Leave all this to me. I’ll go along and see Crawford myself. Have no fears!”

“You’re sure, sir?”

“Absolutely. There’ll be no trouble finding somebody to take your place.”

After Lewis had gone, Morse walked over to the window, and spent several minutes gazing out across the car-park.

When, after Muldoon, he had squeezed himself through the gap in the fencing, Morse stood beside his charge and unlocked the handcuffs—almost immediately to realize that the man with only one leg and an elbow-crutch was considerably more nimble than he in negotiating the grassy slope at the rear of the Bannister Close flats.

But Muldoon was patiently waiting for his escort, on the concreted path, when Morse finally effected his descent, the palm of his left hand ever reaching out for support to the side wall of a row of sheds in which the residents of the block doubtless stored bicycles, and old lawnmowers, and (inevitably) virtually empty pots of house-paint.

The ground here was liberally littered with crisp and cigarette packets and all the usual detritus of a run-down neighbourhood: a circumstance most grievous to Chief
Inspector Morse. But the first part of the operation had been accomplished successfully, and sufficient light was thrown from the lace-curtained, white-painted windows there for Morse to see exactly where they were. Behind the kitchen window of Number 13, beside a carton of Persil washing-powder, was a “Vote Conservative” poster, propped upside-down against a broken pane.

Morse had done his homework too.

“Sh!”

Morse raised a finger to his lips, then pointed across to the right—towards the far end of the flats. He spoke very quietly:

“Let me know if you hear a whistle. That’ll be Sergeant Wilkins, giving us the all-clear.”

Muldoon nodded.

“Or if you hear anything else for that matter,” mumbled Morse, moving over to Muldoon’s right.

For half a minute or so, the two men stood there side by side, unmoving, silent.

No noise.

Then, all of a sudden, to the left, at some point at the side of the sheds, there was the sound of a metal dust-bin lid, as if blown off its base in a gust of wind and now rumbling in a decelerating circle.

Muldoon whipped himself round immediately to face the direction whence the rattle had originated, crouching down instinctively, and remaining frozen for several seconds—both he and Morse (the latter still facing the opposite way) experiencing a frisson of fear, though each for a different reason.

“Wha’s tha’?” whispered Muldoon.

But Morse made no answer, and the night, beneath the darkly overcast sky, was wholly still once more.

No more noise at all, in fact; and if there had been a low whistle from the far end of the block, it was heard by neither escort nor prisoner.

Instead, Inspector Crawford now appeared at the double-fronted glass doors slightly further along; and first Muldoon, then Morse, stepped over the threshold into the living-room of Number 13 Bannister Close.

Although he had lost his religious faith many years since, Morse still retained a sort of residual religiosity; and two days after the bizarre incidents just described, he was seated, in mid-morning, in his North Oxford flat, listening with awesome reverence to the Fauré
Requiem
—when the door-bell rang.

“Can I come in, Morse?” Ill-at-ease, on the doorstep, stood Inspector Crawford.

“Look,” he began, seated a minute later opposite Morse in the lounge. “I just want to thank you for your help, that’s all. I know you didn’t approve of what I did, but …”

“What’s gone wrong?” asked Morse, reluctantly switching off the CD player.

Crawford shook his head sadly.
“Every
bloody thing—that’s what! You remember that Beamish we had—”

“Much appreciated!”