Death Is Now My Neighbour Part 31

'All, yes! The clinic. I'd almost forgotten.'

Again he was sounding too much like the Customs man, and Dawn was glad it was the sergeant who now took over the questioning.

A little awkwardly, a little ineptly (certainly as Morse saw things) Lewis asked about her training, her past experience, her present position, her relationships with employers, colleagues, clients ...

The scene was almost set.

She knew Storrs (she claimed) only as a patient; she'd known Turnbull (she claimed) only as a consultant; she knew Owens (she claimed) not at all.

Lewis produced the letter stating Julian Storrs' prognosis.

'Do you think this photocopy was made at the clinic?' 'I didn't copy it.' 'Someone must have done.' 'I didn't copy it'

'Any idea who might have done?' 'I didn't copy it'

It was hardly a convincing performance, and she was aware that both men knew she was lying. And quietly -amid a few tears, certainly, but with no hysteria - the truth came out.

Owens she had met when the Press had come along for the clinic's 25th anniversary - he must have seen something, heard something that night, about Mr Storrs. After Mr Turnbull had died, Owens had telephoned her - they'd met in the Bird and Baby in St Giles' - he'd asked her if she could copy a letter for him - yes, that that letter - he'd offered her 500 - and she'd agreed -copied the letter - been paid in cash. That was it - that was all - a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that -something she'd never done before - would never have done in the normal course of events. It was just the money - nothing else - she'd desperately needed the money... letter - he'd offered her 500 - and she'd agreed -copied the letter - been paid in cash. That was it - that was all - a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that -something she'd never done before - would never have done in the normal course of events. It was just the money - nothing else - she'd desperately needed the money...

Morse had been silent throughout the interrogation, his attention focused, it seemed, on the long, black-stockinged legs.

'Where does that leave me - leave us?' she asked miserably.

'We shall have to ask you to come in to make an official statement,' said Lewis. 'Now, you mean?' "That'll be best, yes.'

'Perhaps not,' intervened Morse. 'It's not all all that urgent, Miss Charles. We'll be in touch fairly soon.' that urgent, Miss Charles. We'll be in touch fairly soon.'

At the door, Morse thanked her for the coffee: 'Not the best homecoming, I'm afraid.'

'Only myself to blame,' she said, her voice tight as she looked across at the Visitors' parking lots, where the Jaguar stood.

'Where did you go?' asked Morse.

'I didn't go anywhere.'

"You stayed here - in your flat?'

'I didn't go anywhere.'

'What was that about?' asked Lewis as he drove back along the A34 to Oxford. 'About her statement?' to Oxford. 'About her statement?'

'I want you to be with me when we see Storrs this afternoon.'

'What did you think of her?' 'Not a very good liar.'

'Lovely figure, though. Legs right up to her armpits! She'd have got a job in the chorus line at the Windmill.'

Morse was silent, his eyes gleaming again as Lewis continued: 'I read somewhere that they all had to be the same height and the same build - in the chorus line there.' 'Perhaps I'll take you along when the case is over.' 'No good, sir. It's been shut for ages.'

Dawn Charles closed the door behind her and walked thoughtfully back to the lounge, the suspicion of a smile about her lips.

CHAPTER F FIFTY-NINE.

Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car (E. B. White, One Man's Meat) One Man's Meat) LEWIS HAD BACKED into the first available s.p.a.ce in Polstead Road, the tree-lined thoroughfare that leads westward from Woodstock Road into Jericho; and now stood waiting whilst Morse arose laboriously from the low pa.s.senger seat of the Jaguar. into the first available s.p.a.ce in Polstead Road, the tree-lined thoroughfare that leads westward from Woodstock Road into Jericho; and now stood waiting whilst Morse arose laboriously from the low pa.s.senger seat of the Jaguar.

'Seen that that before, sir?' Lewis pointed to the circular blue plaque on the wall opposite: 'This house was the home of 'I. before, sir?' Lewis pointed to the circular blue plaque on the wall opposite: 'This house was the home of 'I. E. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) from 1896-1921.' Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) from 1896-1921.'

Morse grunted as he straightened up his aching back, mumbling of lumbago.

'What about a plaque for Mr Storrs, sir? "This was the home of Julian Something Storrs, Master of Lonsdale, 1996 to... 1997?'"

Morse shrugged indifferently: 'Perhaps just 1996.'

The two men walked a little way along the short road. The houses here were of a pattern: gabled, red-bricked, three-storeyed properties, with ashlared, mullioned windows, the frames universally painted white; interesting and amply proportioned houses built towards the end of the nineteenth century.

'Wouldn't mind living here,' volunteered Lewis.

Morse nodded. 'Very civilized. Small large houses, these, Lewis, as opposed to large small houses.'

'What's the difference?'

'Something to do with the number of bathrooms, I think.'

'Not much to do with the number of garages!' 'No.'

Clearly nothing whatever to do with the number of garages, since the reason for the continuum of cars on either side of the road was becoming increasingly obvious: there were were no garages here, nor indeed any room for such additions. To compensate for the inconvenience, the front areas of almost all the properties had been cemented, cobbled, gravelled, or paved, in order to accommodate the parking of motor cars; including the front of the Storrs' residence, where on the gravel alongside the front window stood a small, pale grey, D-registration Citroen, a thin pink stripe around its bodywork. no garages here, nor indeed any room for such additions. To compensate for the inconvenience, the front areas of almost all the properties had been cemented, cobbled, gravelled, or paved, in order to accommodate the parking of motor cars; including the front of the Storrs' residence, where on the gravel alongside the front window stood a small, pale grey, D-registration Citroen, a thin pink stripe around its bodywork.

'Someone's in?' ventured Morse.

'Mrs Storrs, perhaps - he's got a BMW. A woman's car, that, anyway.'

'Really?'

Morse was still peering through the Citroen's front window (perhaps for some more eloquent token of femininity) when Lewis returned from his ineffectual ringing.

'No one in. No answer, anyway.'

'On another weekend break?'

'I could ring the Porters' Lodge.'

You do that small thing, Lewis. I'll be ...' Morse pointed vaguely towards the hostelry at the far end of the road.

It was at the Anchor, a few minutes later, as Morse sat behind a pint of John Smith's Tadcaster bitter, that Lewis came in to report on the Storrs: away again, for the weekend, the pair of them, this time though their whereabouts not vouchsafed to the Lodge.

Morse received the news without comment, appearing preoccupied; thinking thinking no doubt, supposed Lewis, as he paid for his orange juice. Thinking and drinking ... drinking and thinking ... the twin activities which in Morse's view were ever and necessarily concomitant. no doubt, supposed Lewis, as he paid for his orange juice. Thinking and drinking ... drinking and thinking ... the twin activities which in Morse's view were ever and necessarily concomitant.

Not wholly preoccupied, however.

'I'll have a refill while you're at the bar, Lewis. Smith's please.'

After a period of silence, Morse asked the question: 'If somebody came to you with a letter - a photocopied letter, say - claiming your missus was having a pa.s.sionate affair with the milkman - '

Lewis grinned. 'I'd be dead worried. We've got a woman on the milk-float'

' - what would you do?'

'Read it, obviously. See who'd written it'

'Show it to the missus?'

'Only if it was a joke.' 'How would you know that?'

'Well, you wouldn't really, would you? Not for a start. You'd try to find out if it was genuine.'

'Exactly. So when Storrs got a copy of that letter, a letter he'd pretty certainly not seen before-'

'Unless Turnbull showed it to him?'

'Doubt it A death certificate, wasn't it? He'd want to let Storrs down a bit more gently than that'

"You mean, if Storrs tried to find out if it was was genuine, he'd probably go along to the clinic ...' genuine, he'd probably go along to the clinic ...'

Morse nodded, like some benevolent schoolmaster encouraging a promising pupil.

'And show it to ... Dawn Charles?'

'Who else? She's the sort of Practice Manager there, if anybody is. And let's be honest about things. You're not exactly an expert in the Socratic skills yourself, are you? But how long did it take you you to get the truth out of her? Three or four minutes?' to get the truth out of her? Three or four minutes?'

'You think Storrs did it as well?'

'Pretty certainly, I'd say. He's n.o.body's fool; and he's not going to give in to blackmail just on somebody's vague say-so. He's an academic; and if you're an academic you're trained to check- check- check your sources, check your references, check your evidence.' check your sources, check your references, check your evidence.'

'So perhaps Storrs has been a few steps in front of us all the time.'

Morse nodded. 'He probably rumbled our receptionist straightaway. Not many many suspects there at the clinic' suspects there at the clinic'

Slowly Lewis sipped his customary orange juice, his earlier euphoria fading.

'We're not exactly galloping towards the finishing-post, are we?'

Morse looked up, his blue eyes betraying some considerable surprise.

'Why do you say that, Lewis? That's exactly what we are are doing.' doing.'

CHAPTER S SIXTY.

Sat.u.r.day, 9 March Hombre apercebido medio combatido (A man well prepared has already half fought the battle) (Cervantes, Don Quixote) Don Quixote) SOMEWHAT CONCERNED about the adequacy of the Jaguar's petrol allowance, Morse had requisitioned an unmarked police car, which just before 10 a.m. was heading south along the A about the adequacy of the Jaguar's petrol allowance, Morse had requisitioned an unmarked police car, which just before 10 a.m. was heading south along the A34, with Sergeant Lewis at the wheel. As they approached Abingdon, Morse asked Lewis to turn on Cla.s.sic FM; and almost immediately asked him to turn it off, as he recognized the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2. with Sergeant Lewis at the wheel. As they approached Abingdon, Morse asked Lewis to turn on Cla.s.sic FM; and almost immediately asked him to turn it off, as he recognized the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2.

'Somebody once said, Lewis, that it was not impossible to get bored even in the presence of a mistress, and I'm sorry to say I sometimes get a little bored even in the company of Johann Sebastian Bach.'

'Really. I thought it was rather nice.'

'Lew-is! He may be terrific; he may be terrible - but he's never nice. nice. Not Bach!' Not Bach!'

Lewis concentrated on the busy road ahead as Morse sank back into his seat and, as was ever his wont in a car, said virtually nothing for the rest of the journey.

And yet Morse had said so many things - things upon which Lewis's mind intermittently focused again, as far too quickly he drove down to the Chieveley junction with the M4 ...

Once back from Polstead Road, Friday afternoon had been very busy and, for Lewis, very interesting. It had begun with Morse asking about their present journey.

'If you had a posh car, which way would you go to Bath?'

'A34, M4, A46 - probably the best; the quickest, certainly.'

'What if you had an old banger?'

'Still go the same way, I think.'

'What's wrong with the Burford-Cirencester way?'

'Nothing at all, if you like a bit of scenery. Or if you don't like motorway-driving.'

Then another question: 'How do we find out which bank the Storrs use?'

'Could be they have different banks, sir. Shouldn't be too difficult, though: Lloyds, Barclays, NatWest, Midland ... Shall I ring around?'

Morse nodded. 'And try to find out how they've been spending their money recently - if it's possible.'

'May take a bit of time, but I don't see why not. Let me find out anyway.'

Lewis turned to go, but Morse had a further request 'Before you do, bring me the notes you made about the Storrs' stay in Bath last weekend. I'm a.s.suming you've typed 'em up by now?'

'All done. Maybe a few spelling mistakes - a few grammatical lapses - beautifully typed, though.'

It had taken Lewis only ten minutes to discover that Mr Julian Storrs and Mrs Angela Storrs both banked at Lloyds. But there had been far greater difficulty in dealing with Morse's supplementary request.