Death is Now My Neighbour

'Well?' asked Morse.

'Worse than the original.'

'Nonsense! Look at that.' Morse pointed to the tight

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triangular knot of the man's tie, which appeared -just -above a high-necked grey sweater.

Yes. Lewis acknowledged that the colour and pattern of the tie were perhaps a little clearer.

'I think I almost recognize that tie,' continued Morse slowly. 'That deepish maroon colour. And that' (he pointed again) 'that narrow white stripe ...'

'We never had ties at school,' ventured Lewis.

But Morse was too deeply engrossed to bother about his sergeant's former school uniform, or lack of it, as with a magnifying glass he sought further to enhance (?) the texture of the small relevant area of the photograph.

'Bit o' taste there, Lewis. Little bit o' class. I wouldn't be surprised if it's the tie of the Old Wykehamists' Classical Association.'

Lewis said nothing.

And Morse looked at him almost accusingly. "You don't seem very interested in what I'm telling you.'

'Not too much, perhaps.'

'All right! Perhaps it's not a public-school tie. So what tie do you think it is?'

Again Lewis said nothing.

After a while, a semi-mollified Morse picked up the photograph, returned it to its buff-coloured Do-Not-Bend envelope, and sat back in his seat

He looked tired.

And, as Lewis knew, he was frustrated too, since necessarily the whole of the previous day had been spent on precisely those aspects of detective work that Morse disliked the most: admin, organization, procedures -

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DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

with as yet little opportunity for him to indulge in the things he told himself he did the best hypotheses, imaginings, the occasional leap into the semi-darkness.

It was now 9 a.m.

"You'd better get off to the station, Lewis. And good luck!'

'What are you planning to do?'

'Going down into Oxford for a haircut'

'We've got a couple of new barbers' shops opened here. No need to-'

'I - am - going - down - into - Oxford, all right' A bit later, I'm going to meet a fellow who's an expert on ties, all right''

Til give you a lift, if you like.'

'No. It only takes one of those shapely lasses in Shepherd and Woodward's about ten minutes to trim my locks - and I'm not meeting this fellow till eleven.'

'King's Arms, is it?'

'Ah! You're prepared to guess about that.'

'Pardon?'

'So why not have a guess about the tie? Come on!'

'I dunno.'

'Nor do 7 bloody know. That's exacdy why we've got to guess, man.'

Lewis stood by the door now. It was high time he went.

'I haven't got a clue about all those posh ties you see in the posh shops in the High. For all I know he probably got it off the tie-rack in Marks and Spencer's.'

'No. I don't think so.'

COLIN DEXTER

'Couldn't we just cut a few corners? Perhaps we ought to put the photo in the Oxford Mail We'd soon find out who he was then.'

Morse considered the possibility anew.

"Ye-es ... and if we find he's got nothing to do with the murder..."

'We can eliminate him from enquiries.' - Tfe-es. Eliminate his marriage, too -'

' - if he's married - '

' - and ruin his children -'

' - if he's got any.'

"You just get off to the railway station, Lewis.'

Morse had had enough.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It is die very temple of discomfort (John Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture - referring to the building of a railway station)

AT 9.45 A.M. LEWIS was seated strategically at one of the small round tables in the refreshment area adjacent to Platform One. Intermittently an echoing loudspeaker announced arrivals or apologies for delays; and, at 9.58, recited a splendid litany of all the stops on the slow train to Reading: Radley, Culham, Appleford, Didcot Parkway, Cholsey, Goring and Streatley...

Cholsey, yes.

Mrs Lewis was a big fan of Agatha Christie, and he'd often promised to take her to Cholsey churchyard where the great crime novelist was buried. But one way or another he'd never got round to it.

The complex was busy, with passengers constantly leaving the station through the two automatic doors to Lewis's right, to walk down the steps outside to the taxi-rank and buses for the city centre; passengers constantly entering through those same doors, making for the ticket-windows, the telephones, the Rail Information office; passengers

COLIN DEXTER

turning left, past Lewis, in order to buy newspapers, sweets, paperbacks, from the Menzies shop - or sandwiches, cakes, coffee, from the Quick Snack counter alongside.

From where he sat, Lewis could just read one of the display screens: the 10.15 train to Paddington, it appeared, would be leaving on time - no minutes late. But he had seen no one remotely resembling the man whose photograph he'd tucked inside his copy of the Daily Mirror.

At 10.10 a.m. the train drew in to Platform One, and passengers were now getting on. But still there was no one to engage Lewis's attention; no one standing around impatiendy as if waiting for a partner; no one sitting anxiously consulting a wristwatch every few seconds, or walking back and forth to the exit doors and scanning the occupants of incoming taxis.

No one.

Lewis got to his feet and went out on to the platform, walking quickly along the four coaches which comprised the Turbo Express for Paddington, memorizing as best he could the face he'd so earnestly been studying that morning. But, again, he could find no one resembling the man who had once sat beside the murdered woman in a photographic booth.

No one.

It was then, at the last minute (quite literally so), that the idea occurred to him,

A young-looking ticket-collector was leaning out of one of the rear windows whilst a clinking refreshment-trolley was being lifted awkwardly aboard. Lewis showed him his ID; showed him the photograph.

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DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

'Have you ever seen either of these two on the Paddington train? Or any other train?'

The acne-faced youth examined the ID card as if suspecting, perchance, that it might be a faulty ticket; then, equally carefully, looked down at the photograph before looking up at Lewis.

Someone blew a whistle.

Yes, I have. Seen him, anyway. Do you want to know his name, Sergeant? I remember it from his Railcard.'

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A well-tied tie is the first serious step in life (Oscar Wilde)

MORSE CAUGHT a No. aAbus into the centre of Oxford, alighting at Carfax, thence walking down the High and entering Shepherd and Woodward's, where he descended the stairs to Gerrard's hairdressing saloon.

"The usual, sir?'

Morse was glad that he was being attended to by Gerrard himself. It was not that the proprietor was gifted with trichological skills significantly superior to those of his attractive female assistants; it was just that Gerrard had always been an ardent admirer of Thomas Hardy, and during his life had acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of the great manfs works.

'Yes, please,' answered Morse, looking morosely into the mirror at hair that had thinly drifted these last few years from ironish-grey to purish-white.

As Morse stood up to wipe the snippets of hair from his face with a hand-towel, he took out the photograph and showed it to Gerrard.

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'Has he ever been in here?'

'Don't think so. Shall I ask the girls?'

Morse considered. 'No. Leave it for the present'

'Remember the Hardy poem, Mr Morse? "The Photograph"?'

Morse did. Yet only vaguely.

'Remind me.'

'I used to have it by heart but...'

'We all get older,' admitted Morse.