“Mm!” grunted Strange, resting his great jowls on his palms when Morse had finished. “So it could be a contract killing that went cockeyed, you think? The victim gets pinpointed a bit too vaguely, and the killer shoots at the wrong pigtail—”
“Ponytail, sir.”
“Yes — through the wrong window. Right?”
“Yes.”
“What about the motive? The key to this sort of mess is almost always the motive, you know that.”
“You sound just like Sergeant Lewis, sir.”
Strange looked dubiously across the desk, as if a little uncertain as to whether he wanted to sound just like Sergeant Lewis.
“Well?”
“I agree with you. That’s one of the reasons it could have been a case of misidentity. We couldn’t really find any satisfactory motive for Rachel’s murder anywhere. But if somebody wanted Owens out of the way — well, I can think of a dozen possible motives.”
“Because he’s a newshound, you mean?”
Morse nodded. “Plenty of people in highish places who’ve got some sort of skeleton in the sideboard—”
“Cupboard.”
“Who’d go quite a long way to keep the, er, cupboard firmly locked.”
“Observed openly masturbating on the M40, you mean? Weekend away with the PA? By the way, you’ve got a pretty little lass for a secretary, I see. Don’t you ever lust after her?”
“I seem to have lost most of my lust recently, sir.”
“We all do. It’s called getting old.”
Strange lifted his large head, and eyed Morse over his half-lenses.
“Now about the case. It won’t be easy, will it? You’ve no reason to think he’s got a lot of stuff stashed under his mattress?”
“No... no, I haven’t.”
“You’d no real reason for thinking he’d killed Rachel?”
“No... no, I hadn’t.”
“So he’s definitely out of the frame?”
Morse considered the question awhile. “ ’Fraid so, yes. I wish he weren’t.”
“So?”
“So I’ll — we’ll think of some way of approaching things.”
“Nothing irregular! You promise me that! We’re just about getting over one or two unsavory incidents in the Force, aren’t we? And we’re not going to start anything here. Is that clear, Morse?”
“To be fair, sir, I usually do go by the book.”
Strange pointed a thick finger.
“Well, usually’s not bloody good enough for me! You — go — by — the book, matey! Understood?”
Morse walked heavily back to his office, where a refreshed-looking Lewis awaited him.
“Everything all right with the Super?”
“Oh, yes. I just told him about our latest thinking—”
“Your latest thinking.”
“He understands the difficulties. He just doesn’t want us to bend the rules of engagement too far, that’s all.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Just nip and get me a drink first, will you?”
“Coffee?”
Morse pondered. “I think I’ll have a pint of natural, lead-free orange juice. Iced.”
“So what’s the plan?” repeated Lewis, five minutes later.
“Not quite sure, really. But if I’m right, if it was something like a contract killing, it must have been arranged because Owens was threatening to expose somebody. And if he was—”
“Lot of ‘if’s,’ sir.”
“If he was, Lewis, he must have some evidence tucked away somewhere: vital evidence, damning evidence. It could be in the form of newspaper cuttings or letters or photographs — anything. And he must have been pretty sure about his facts if he’s been trying to extort some money or some favors or whatever from any disclosures. Now, as I see it, he must have come across most of his evidence in the course of his career as a journalist. Wouldn’t you think so? Sex scandals, that sort of thing.”
“Like as not, I suppose.”
“So the plan’s this. I want you, once you get the chance, to go and see the big white chief at the newspaper offices and get a look at all the confidential stuff on Owens. They’re sure to have it in his appointment file or somewhere: previous jobs, references, testimonials, CV, internal appraisals, comments—”
“Gossip?”
“Anything!”
“Is that what you mean by not bending the rules too much?”
“We’re not bending the rules — not too much. We’re on a murder case, Lewis, remember that! Every member of the public’s got a duty to help us in our inquiries.”
“I just hope the editor agrees with you, that’s all.”
“He does,” said Morse, a little shamefacedly. “I rang him while you went to the canteen. He just wants us to do it privately, that’s all, and confidentially. Owens only works alternate Saturdays, and this is one of his days off.”
“You don’t want to do it yourself?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. But you’re so much better at that sort of thing than I am.”
A semimollified Lewis elaborated: “Then, if anything sticks out as important... just follow it up... and let you know?”
“Except for one thing, Lewis. Owens told me he worked for quite a while in Soho when he started. And if there’s anything suspicious or interesting about that period of his life...”
“You’d like to do that bit of research yourself.”
“Exactly. I’m better at that sort of thing than you are.”
“What’s your program for today, then?”
“Quite a few things, really.”
“Such as?” Lewis looked up quizzically.
“Well, there’s one helluva lot of paperwork, for a start. And filing. So you’d better stay and give me a hand for a while — after you’ve fetched me another orange juice. And please tell the girl not to dilute it quite so much this time. And just a cube or two more ice perhaps.”
“And then?” persisted Lewis.
“And then I’m repairing to the local in Cutteslowe, where I shall be trying to thread a few further thoughts together over a pint, perhaps. And where I’ve arranged to meet an old friend of mine who may possibly be able to help us a little.”
“Who’s that, sir?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Not—?”
“Where’s my orange juice, Lewis?”
Chapter twenty-six
MARIA: No, I’ve just got the two O-levels — and the tortoise, of course. But I’m fairly well known for some other accomplishments.
JUDGE: Known to whom, may I ask?
MARIA: Well, to the police for a start.
At ten minutes to noon Morse was enjoying his pint of Brakspear’s bitter. The Chief Inspector had many faults, but unpunctuality had never been one of them. He was ten minutes early.
JJ, a sparely built, nondescript-looking man in his midforties, walked into the Cherwell five minutes later.
When Morse had rung at 8:30 A.M., Malcolm “JJ” Johnson had been seated on the floor, on a black cushion, only two feet away from the television screen, watching a hard-core porn video and drinking his regular breakfast of two cans of Beamish stout — just after the lady of the household had left for her job (mornings only) in one of the fruiterers’ shops in Summertown.
Accepted wisdom has it that in such enlightened times as these most self-respecting burglars pursue their trade by day; but JJ had always been a night man, relying firmly on local knowledge and reconnaissance. And often in the daylight hours, as now, he wondered why he didn’t spend his leisure time in some more purposeful pursuits. But in truth he just couldn’t think of any. At the same time, he did realize, yes, that sometimes he was getting a bit bored. Over the past two years or so, the snooker table had lost its former magnetism; infidelities and fornication were posing too many practical problems, as he grew older; and even darts and dominoes were beginning to pall. Only gambling, usually in Ladbrokes’ premises in Summertown, had managed to retain his undivided attention over the years: for the one thing that never bored him was acquiring money.