Death Is Now My Neighbour Part 20

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 princ.i.p.al victims: he, for his current infidelity; she, for her past as a shop-soiled Soho tart. One thing seemed certain: that any any disclosure was likely to be damaging, probably fatally damaging, to Julian Storrs' chances of election to the Mastership of Lonsdale. 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.' 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 your programme today, sir?' 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 gla.s.s of iced water for himself. He sat down and looked at his wrist.w.a.tch: 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, thinking, say. All you've got to do is listen to somebody talking a load of nonsense, and somehow, suddenly, something emerges.' 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 you wouldn't have known. You weren't listening.' 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 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?' 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 s.e.x 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, she, Lewis - stays awake and goes quietly through his pockets and finds the blackmail letter. By the way, did you ask him Lewis - stays awake and goes quietly through his pockets and finds the blackmail letter. By the way, did you ask him when when he received it?' he received it?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, find out! She sees the letter and she knows she can blackmail him. 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 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 you think?' (But Lewis was given no time at all to think.) 'What were the last couple of dates they went to London together?' 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' 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 {Almost completely mollified.) 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 T 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) The Dragon of Idd) FROM THE WAITING-ROOM on the first floor, Morse heard his name called. 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 well as the beer?' 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 G.o.d-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.

'h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo! 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 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. 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 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 - 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 - everything - if you're going to come through this business without too much damage. You do know what I mean, don't you?' 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 Sat.u.r.day 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.'