Death Is Now My Neighbour Part 22

'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 Sat.u.r.day, 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.' you.' 'Really?' '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 F 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 I'D BETTER not call before the not call before the Archers' Archers' omnibus?' Lewis had suggested the previous evening. 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 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.' 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 Morning Service on Radio 4 when Lewis was quickly admitted - and cautioned. 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 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 grat.i.tude 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. a.m. Respectively.

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

'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, balance, that's all. I've got to take all this insulin because I can't produce any insulin that's all. I've got to take all this insulin because I can't produce any insulin myself - myself - to counteract any sugar intake. But if I didn't have any sugar intake to counteract, I'd be in one h.e.l.luva mess. I'd become to counteract any sugar intake. But if I didn't have any sugar intake to counteract, I'd be in one h.e.l.luva mess. I'd become hypoglycaemic, hypoglycaemic, and you know what that means.' 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, unb.u.t.toned 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 Ba.s.s and a gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s.

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

'It's not not the nearest' 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 b.l.o.o.d.y beer-level.'

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

' What case?' snapped Strange. 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 a.r.s.e, matey' (at a single swallow, he drained the Scotch which Lewis had just placed in front of him) 'because if you are 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?' 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 gla.s.s darkly; but then face to face (1 Corinthians, ch. 13, v. 12) ch. 13, v. 12) DEJA VU.

The street, the police cars, the crowd of curious onlookers, the SOCOs - repet.i.tion 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, 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 a.s.sumption of authority: a necessary yet ever frustrating interlude, like that when an in-flight air-stewardess rehea.r.s.es the safety drill before take-off. 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 a.s.sumption of authority: a necessary yet ever frustrating interlude, like that when an in-flight air-stewardess rehea.r.s.es 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 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. 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, Independent on Sunday, will you? And a packet of Dunhill.' 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 almost caught the name of the station as it flashed so tantalizingly across the carriage-window. 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 999 999 at about 11.30 at about 11.30 a.m. from the BT phone-box at the entrance to the Drive. 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 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. 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.'