Death Is Now My Neighbour Part 3

With a strangely trusting, wonderfully polite smile, the man took a crisp ten-pound note from his large wallet and handed it to the hostess, bowing graciously as she reached a hand behind her and parted the multicoloured vertical strips which masked from public view the threadbare carpeting on the narrow stairs leading down to the secret delights.

You give me change, please? I give you ten pound.'

'Just tell 'em downstairs, OK?'

'Why you not give me seven pound?'

'It'll be OK-OK?'

'OK'.

Halfway down the stairs, the newly initiated member made a little note in a little black book, smiling (we may say) scrutably. He was a member of a Home Office Committee licensing all 'entertainment premises' in the district of Soho.

His expenses were generous: needed to be.

Sometimes he enjoyed his job.

'Don't you ever feel bad about that sort of thing?'

'What d'you mean?'

'He'll never get his change, will he?'

'Like I said, why don't you just f.u.c.k off!'

'Gloria used to feel bad sometimes - quite a civilized streak in that woman somewhere. You'd have liked her ... Anyway, if you do come across her, just say you met me, Geoff Owens, will you? She'll remember me - certain to. Just tell her I've got a little proposition for her. She may be a bit down on her luck. You never know these days, and I wouldn't want to think she was on her uppers ... or her daughter was, for that matter.'

'What's her daughter got to do with it?' The voice was sharp.

Owens smiled, confidently now, lightly rubbing the back of his right wrist lightly across her blouse.

'Quite a lot, perhaps. You may have quite a lot to do with it, sweetheart!'

She made no attempt to contradict him. 'In the pub' (she pointed across the street) 'half an hour, OK?'

She watched him go, the man with a five o'clock shadow who said his name was Owens. She'd never seen him before; but she'd recognize him again immediately, the dark hair drawn back above his ears, and tied in a pony-tail about eight or nine inches long.

Apart from the midnight 'milk-float', which gave pa.s.sengers the impression that it called at almost every hamlet along the line the 11.20 p.m. was the last train from Paddington. And a panting Owens jumped into its rear coach as the Turbo Express suddenly juddered and began to move forward. The train was only half-full, and he found a seat immediately.

He felt pleased with himself. The a.s.signation in the pub had proved to be even more interesting than he'd dared to expect; and he leaned back and closed his eyes contentedly as he pondered the possible implications of what he had just learned ...

He jolted awake at Didcot, wondering where he was -realizing that he had missed the Reading stop completely. Determined to stay awake for the last twelve minutes of the journey, he picked up an Evening Standard Evening Standard someone had left on the seat opposite, and was reading the sports page when over the top of the newspaper he saw a man walking back down the carriage - someone had left on the seat opposite, and was reading the sports page when over the top of the newspaper he saw a man walking back down the carriage - almost almost to where he himself was sitting - before taking his place next to a woman. And Owens recognized him. to where he himself was sitting - before taking his place next to a woman. And Owens recognized him.

Recognized Mr Julian Storrs of Lonsdale.

Well! Well! Well!

At Oxford, his head sull stuck behind the Evening Standard, Evening Standard, Owens waited until everyone else had left the rear carriage. Then, himself alighting, he observed Storrs arm-in-arm with his companion as they climbed the steps of the footbridge which led over the tracks to Platform One. And suddenly, for the second time that evening, Owens felt a shiver of excitement - for he immediately recognized the woman, too. Owens waited until everyone else had left the rear carriage. Then, himself alighting, he observed Storrs arm-in-arm with his companion as they climbed the steps of the footbridge which led over the tracks to Platform One. And suddenly, for the second time that evening, Owens felt a shiver of excitement - for he immediately recognized the woman, too.

How could he fail to recognize her?

She was his next-door neighbour.

CHAPTER SIX.

Monday, 19 February Many is the gracious form that is covered with a veil; but on withdrawing this thou discoverest a grandmother (Musharrif-Uddin, Gulistan) Gulistan) PAINSTAKINGLY, in block capitals, the Chief Inspector wrote his name, E. MORSE; and was beginning to write his address when Lewis came into the office at 8.35 a.m. on Monday, 19 February. 'What's that, sir?'

Morse looked down at a full page torn from one of the previous day's colour supplements.

'Special offer: two free CDs when you apply to join the Music Club Library.'

Lewis looked dubious. 'Don't forget you have to buy a book every month with that sort of thing. Life's not all freebies, you know.'

'Well, it is in this case. You've just got to have a look at the first thing they send you, that's all - then send it back if you don't like it. I think they even refund the postage.'

Lewis watched as Morse completed and snipped out the application form.

'Wouldn't it be fairer if you agreed to have some some of the books?' of the books?'

'You think so?'

'At least one one of them.' of them.'

Intense blue eyes, slightly pained, looked innocently across the desk at Sergeant Lewis.

'But I've already got this month's book - I bought it for myself for Christmas.'

He inserted the form into an envelope, on which he now wrote the Club's address. Then he took from his wallet a sheaf of plastic cards: Bodleian Library ticket; Lloyds payment card; RAC Breakdown Service; blood donor card; Blackwell's Bookshops; Oxford City Library ticket; phonecard ... but there appeared to be no booklet of first-cla.s.s stamps there. Or of second-cla.s.s.

'You don't, by any chance, happen to have a stamp on you, Lewis?'

'What CDs are you going for?'

'I've ordered Janacek, the Glagolitic Ma.s.s Glagolitic Ma.s.s - you may not know it. Splendid work - beautifully recorded by Simon Rattle. And Richard Strauss, - you may not know it. Splendid work - beautifully recorded by Simon Rattle. And Richard Strauss, Four Last Songs - Four Last Songs -Jessye Norman. I've got several recordings by other sopranos, of course.'

Of course ...

Lewis nodded, and looked for a stamp.

It was not infrequent for Lewis to be reminded of what he had lost in life; or rather, what he'd never had in the first place. The one Strauss he knew was the 'Blue Danube' man. And he'd only recently learned there were two of those, those, as well - Senior and Junior; and which was which he'd no idea. as well - Senior and Junior; and which was which he'd no idea.

'Perhaps you'll be in for a bit of a let-down, sir. Some of these offers - they're not exactly up to what they promise.'

You're an expert on these things?'

'No ... but... take Sergeant-' Lewis stopped himself in time. Just as well to leave a colleague's weakness cloaked in anonymity. 'Take this chap I know. He read this advert in one of the tabloids about a free video - s.e.x video - sent in a brown envelope with no address to say where it had come from. You know, in case the wife ...'

'No, I don't know, Lewis. But please continue.'

'Well, he sent for one of the choices-'

' Copenhagen Red-Hot s.e.x?'

'No. Housewives on the Job Housewives on the Job - that was the t.i.tle; and he expected, you know - that was the t.i.tle; and he expected, you know Morse nodded. 'Housewives "on the job" with the milkman, the postman, the itinerant b.u.t.ton-salesmen Lewis grinned. 'But it wasn't, no. It just showed all these fully dressed Swedish housewives washing up the plates and peeling the potatoes.'

'Serves Sergeant Dixon right.'

You won't mention it, sir!'

'Of course I won't. And you're probably right. You never really get something for nothing in this life. I never seem to, anyway.'

'Really, sir?'

Morse licked the flap of the white envelope. Then licked the back of the first-cla.s.s stamp that Lewis had just given him.

The phone had been ringing for several seconds, and Lewis now took the call, listening briefly but carefully, before putting his hand over the mouthpiece: "There's been a murder, sir. On the doorstep, really -up in Bloxham Drive.'

PART TWO.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

In addition to your loyal support on the ballot paper, we shall be grateful if you can agree to display the enclosed sticker in one of your windows (Extract from a 1994 local election leaflet distributed by the East Oxford Labour Party) IT REMINDED Morse of something - that rear window of Number 17. Morse of something - that rear window of Number 17.

As a young lad he'd been fascinated by a photograph in one of his junior school text-books of the apparatus frequently fixed round the necks of slaves in the southern states of America: an iron ring from whose circ.u.mference, at regular intervals, there emanated lengthy, fearsome spikes, also of iron. The caption, as Morse recalled, had maintained that such a device readily prevented any absconding cotton-picker from pa.s.sing himself off as an enfranchised citizen.

Morse had never really understood the caption.

Nor indeed, for some considerable while, was he fully to understand the meaning of the neat bullet-hole in the centre of the shattered gla.s.s, and the cracks that radiated from it regularly, like a young child's crayoning the rays of the sun.

Looking around him, Morse surveyed the area from the wobbly paving-slabs which formed a pathway at the rear of the row of terraced houses stretching along the northern side of Bloxham Drive, Kidlington, Oxfordshire. About half of the thirty-odd young trees originally planted in a staggered design beside and behind this path had been vandalized to varying degrees: some of them wholly extirpated; some cruelly snapped in the middle of their gradually firming stems; others, with many of their burgeoning branches torn off, standing wounded and forlorn amid the unkempt litter-strewn area, once planned by some Environmental Officer as a small addendum to England's green and pleasant land.

Morse felt saddened.

As did Sergeant Lewis, standing beside him.

Yet it is appropriate here to enter one important qualification. Bloxham Drive, in the view of most of its residents, was showing some few signs of unmistakable improvement. The installation of sleeping-policemen had virtually eliminated the possibilities of joy-riding; many denizens were now lying more peacefully in their beds after the eviction of one notoriously anti-social household; and over the previous two or three years the properties had fallen in price to such an extent as to form an attractive proposition to those few of the professional cla.s.ses who were prepared to give the street the benefit of the doubt. To be more specific, three such persons had taken out mortgages on properties there: the properties standing at Number 1, Number 15, and Number 17.

But - yes, agreed! - Bloxham Drive and the surrounding streets was still an area a league and a league from the peaceful, leafy lanes of Gerrards Cross; and still the scene of some considerable crime.

Crime which now included murder ...

The call had come through to Lewis at 8.40 a.m.

Just over one hour previously, whilst the sky was still unusually dark, Mrs Queenie Norris, from Number 11, had (as was her wont) taken out her eight-year-old Cavalier King Charles along the rear of the terrace, ignoring (as was her wont) the notices forbidding the fouling of pavements and verges. That was when she'd noticed it: noticed the cracked back window at Number 17 - yet failed to register too much surprise, since (as we have seen) vandalism there had become commonplace, and any missile, be it bottle or brick, would have left some similar traces of damage.

Back from her walk, Mrs Norris, as she was later to explain to the police, had felt increasingly uneasy. And just before the weather forecast on Radio 4, she had stepped out once again, now minus the duly defecated Samson, and seen that the light in the kitchen of Number 17 was still on, the blind still drawn down to the bottom of the cas.e.m.e.nt This time she had knocked quietly, then loudly, against the back door.

But there had been no reply to her reiterated raps; and only then had she noticed that behind the hole in the kitchen window - immediately immediately behind it - was a corresponding hole in the thin beige-brown material of the blind. It was at that point that she'd felt the horrid crawl of fear across her skin. Her near-neighbour worked in North Oxford, almost invariably leaving home at about a quarter to eight. And now it was coming up to the hour. Had reached the hour. behind it - was a corresponding hole in the thin beige-brown material of the blind. It was at that point that she'd felt the horrid crawl of fear across her skin. Her near-neighbour worked in North Oxford, almost invariably leaving home at about a quarter to eight. And now it was coming up to the hour. Had reached the hour.

Something was wrong.

Something, Mrs Norris suspected, was seriously wrong; and she'd rung 999 immediately.

It had been ten minutes later when PCs Graham and Swift had finally forced an entry through the front door of the property to discover the grim truth awaiting them in the back kitchen: the body of a young woman lying dead upon her side, the right cheek resting on the cold red tiles, the light brown hair of her pony-tail soaked and stiffened in a pool of blood. Indeed it was not only the dreams of the two comparatively inexperienced constables, but also those of the hardened Scenes-of-Crime Officers, that would be haunted by the sight of so much blood; such a copious outpouring of blood.

And now it was Morse's turn.

'Oh dear,' said Lewis very quietly.

Morse said nothing, holding back (as ever) from any close inspection of a corpse, noting only the bullet wound, somewhere at the bottom of the neck, which clearly had been the cause of death, the cause of all the blood. Yet (as ever, too) Morse, who had never owned a camera in his life, had already taken several mental flashes of his own.

It seemed logical to a.s.sume that the murder had occurred towards the end of a fairly conventional breakfast. On the side of a wooden kitchen table - the side nearest the window - a brown plastic-topped stool had been moved slightly askew. On the table itself was a plate, a small heap of salt sprinkled with pepper at its edge, on which lay a brown egg-sh.e.l.l beside a wooden egg-cup; and alongside, on a second plate, half a round of toasted brown bread, b.u.t.tered, and amply spread from a jar of Frank Cooper's Oxford Marmalade. And one other item: a white mug bearing the legend GREETINGS FROM GUERNSEY GREETINGS FROM GUERNSEY; bearing, too, the remains of some breakfast coffee, long since cold and muddily brown.

That was what Morse saw. And for the present that was enough; he wished to be away from the dreadful scene.

Yet before he left, he forced himself to look once more at the woman who lay there. She was wearing a white nightdress, with a faded-pink floral motif, over which was a light blue dressing-gown, reaching about hallway down the shapely, slim, unstockinged legs. It was difficult to be sure about things, of course; but Morse suspected that the twisted features of the face had been - until so very recently - just as comely as the rest of her. And for a few seconds his own face twisted, too, as if in sympathy with the murdered woman lying at his feet.

The SOCOs had now arrived; and after brief, perfunctory greetings, Morse was glad to escape and leave them to it. Bidding Lewis to initiate some immediate house-to-house enquiries, on both sides of the street, he himself stepped out of the front door into Bloxham Drive, now the scene of considerable police activity, with checkered-capped officers, the flashing blue lights of their cars, and a cordon of blue-and-white tape being thrown round the murder-house. A knot of local inhabitants, too, stood whispering there, shivering occasionally in the early morning cold, yet determined to witness the course of events unfolding.

And the media.

Recognizing the Chief Inspector, two press-men (how so early there?) pleaded for just the briefest interview-a sentence even; a TV crew from Abingdon had already covered Morse's exit from the house; and a Radio Oxford reporter waved a bulbous microphone in front of his face.

But Morse ignored them all with a look of vacuous incomprehension worthy of some deaf-mute, and proceeded to walk slowly to the end of the street (observing, all the time observing), observing), where he turned left down one side of the terraced row, then left again, retracing his earlier steps along the uneven paring slabs behind the houses, stopping briefly where he and Lewis had stopped before; then completing the circuit and again curtly dismissing the converging reporters with a wave of his right hand as he walked back along the front of the terrace. where he turned left down one side of the terraced row, then left again, retracing his earlier steps along the uneven paring slabs behind the houses, stopping briefly where he and Lewis had stopped before; then completing the circuit and again curtly dismissing the converging reporters with a wave of his right hand as he walked back along the front of the terrace.

It would be untrue to say that Morse's mind had been particularly acute on this peripatetic reconnaissance. Indeed, only one single feature of the neighbourhood had made much of an impression upon him. A political impression.

Very soon (the evidence was all around him) there was to be an election for one of the local council seats -death of an inc.u.mbent, perhaps? - and clearly, if unusually, there appeared to be considerable interest in the matter. Stickers were to be observed in all but two of the front windows of the north-side terrace: green stickers with the red lettering of the Labour candidate's name; white stickers with the royal blue lettering of the Conservative's. With little as yet upon which his mind could fix itself, Morse had taken a straw-poll of the support shown, from Number 1 1 to Number to Number 21. 21. And hardly surprisingly, perhaps, in this marginally depressed and predominantly working-cla.s.s district, the advantage was significantly with the Labour man, with six stickers to the Tory's two. And hardly surprisingly, perhaps, in this marginally depressed and predominantly working-cla.s.s district, the advantage was significantly with the Labour man, with six stickers to the Tory's two.

One of the stickers favouring the latter cause was displayed in the ground-floor window of Number 15. 15. And for some reason Morse had found himself standing and wondering for a while outside the only other window in the Drive parading its confidence in the Conservative Party - and in a candidate with the splendidly patriotic name of Jonathan Bull; standing and wondering outside Number And for some reason Morse had found himself standing and wondering for a while outside the only other window in the Drive parading its confidence in the Conservative Party - and in a candidate with the splendidly patriotic name of Jonathan Bull; standing and wondering outside Number 1, 1, at the main entrance to Bloxham Drive. at the main entrance to Bloxham Drive.