“Well, most men would, sir. Lovely looker!”
Ignoring the pleasantry, Morse continued: “Just consider for a minute what an important figure she is in the case. She’s the prime witness, really. She’s the one who sees Owens leave for work about sevenish on the morning Rachel was murdered; she’s the one who rings Owens an hour or so later to tell him the police are on Bloxham Close” (again Lewis let it go) “and gives him a headstart on all the other newshounds. That’s what she says, isn’t it? But she might not be telling the truth!”
Lewis sat in silence.
“Now, as I recall it, your objection to Owens himself ever being a suspect was the time factor. You argued that he couldn’t have gone to work that morning, parked his car, been seen in the newspaper offices, got in his car again, driven back to Kidlington, murdered Rachel, driven back to Osney Mead again, taken the phone call from Della Cecil, driven back to Kidlington again, to be on hand with his mobile and his notebook while the rest of the press are pulling their socks on. He could never have done all that in such a short space of time, you said. Impossible! And of course you were right—”
“Thank you, sir.”
“—in one way; and quite wrong in another. Let’s stick to our original idea that the list of initials we found was a blackmail list, and that she’s on it — Della Cecil. He’s got something on her, too. So when he asks her to help him in his plan to get Rachel out of the way, she’s little option but to cooperate.”
“Have you any idea what this ‘Plan’ was, sir?”
“That’s the trouble. I’ve got far too many ideas.”
“Want to try me?”
“All right. They’re all the same sort of plan, really — any plan to cut down that time business you’re so worried about. Let me just outline a possible plan, and see what you think of it. Ready? Owens drives out to work, at ten to seven, let’s say — and she follows him, in her own car. When he’s parked the car, when his entry’s recorded, he goes into the building, makes sure he’s seen by somebody — doesn’t matter who it is — then immediately leaves via a side door and gets into her car, parked along the street in front of the offices. Back in Kidlington, he murders Rachel James, about half past seven, and doesn’t return to work at all. He’s got a key and he goes into Della’s house — and waits. At the appropriate time, when the police arrive, a call is made to his own office — he knows there’ll be no one there! — and a message is left or isn’t left on the answer phone. All that matters is that a telephonic communication is established, and gets recorded on those BT lists we all get, between her phone and Owens’ phone in his office. Then all he’s got to do is to emerge amid all the excitement once the murder’s reported — the police, the local people, the Press, the TV... Well?”
“You make it up as you go along, sir.”
Morse’s face betrayed some irritation. “Of course I bloody do! That’s what I’m here for. I just told you. If once we accept there could be two people involved — two cars — there are dozens of possibilities. It’s like permutating your selection on the National Lottery. I’ve just given you one possibility, that’s all.”
“But it just couldn’t—”
“What’s wrong with it? Come on! Tell me!”
“Well, let’s start with the car—”
“Cars, plural.”
“All right. When he’s parked his car—”
“I didn’t say that. I deliberately said parked the car, if you’d been listening. It could have been his — it could have been hers: It’s the card number that’s recorded there, not the car number. She could have driven his car — he could have driven hers — and at any point they could have swapped. Not much risk. Very few people around there at seven. Or eight, for that matter.”
“Is it my turn now?” asked Lewis quietly.
“Go on!”
“I’m talking about Owens’ car, all right? That was parked on Bloxham Drive — ‘Drive’ please, sir — when Owens was there that morning. The street was cordoned off, but the lads let him in — because he told them he lived there. And I saw the car myself.”
“So? He could have left it — or she could have left it — on a nearby street. Anywhere. Up on the main road behind the terrace, say. That’s where JJ—”
But Morse broke off.
“It still couldn’t have happened like you say, sir!”
“No?”
“No! He was seen in his office, Owens was, remember? Just at the time when Rachel was being murdered! Seen by the Personnel Manager there.”
“We haven’t got a statement from him yet, though.”
“He’s been away, you know that.”
“Yes, I do know that, Lewis. But you spoke to him.”
Lewis nodded.
“On the phone?”
“On the phone.”
“You did it through the operator, I suppose?”
Lewis nodded again.
“Do you know who she probably put you through to?” asked Morse slowly.
The light dawned in Lewis’s eyes. “You mean... she could have put me through to Owens himself?”
Morse shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what we’ve got to find out, isn’t it? Owens was deputy Personnel Manager, we know that. He was on a management course only last weekend.”
“Do you really think that’s what happened?”
“I dunno. I know one thing, though: It could have happened that way.”
“But it’s all so — so airy-fairy, isn’t it? And you said we were going to get some facts straight first.”
“Exactly.”
Lewis gave up the struggle. “I’ll tell you something that would be usefuclass="underline" some idea where the gun is.”
“The ‘pistol,’ do you mean?”
“Sorry. But if only we knew where that was...”
“Oh, I think I know where we’re likely to find the pistol, Lewis.”
Part five
Chapter fifty-three
Wednesday, March 6
A good working definition of Hell on Earth is a forced attendance for a couple of days or even a couple of hours at a Young Conservatives’ Convention.
Miss Adèle Cecil (she much preferred “Miss” to “Ms.” and “Adèle” to “Della”) had spent the previous evening and night in London, where she had attended, and addressed, a meeting of the chairmen, chairwomen, and chairpersons of the Essex Young Conservative Association. Thirty-eight such personages had assembled at Durrants, in George Street, a traditional English hotel just behind Oxford Street, with good facilities, tasteful cuisine, and comfortable beds. Proceedings had been businesslike, and the majority of delegates (it appeared) had ended up in the rooms originally allocated to them.
It was at a comparatively early breakfast in the restaurant that over her fresh grapefruit, with Full English to follow, the headwaiter had informed Adèle of the telephone message, which she had taken in one of the hooded booths just outside the breakfast room.