Death is Now My Neighbour

'So would I!' she lied, in a whisper. 'And I've got a big favour to ask of you, too.'

'We'll have a word about it after the port.'

'Before the port, Clixby! You're usually blotto after it'

Sir Clixby banged his gavel, mumbled Benedictus benedicat, and die assembled company seated themselves, the table-

plan having positioned Julian Stores and Denis Cornfbrd at diagonally opposite ends of the thick oak table, with their wives virtually opposite each other hi the middle.

'I love your suit!' lied Shelly Cornford, in a not -unpleasing Yankee twang.

'You look very nice, too,' lied Angela Storrs, smiling widely and showing such white and well-aligned teedi that no one could be in much doubt that her upper plate had been disproportionately expensive.

After which preliminary skirmish, each side observed a dignified truce, with neither a further word nor a further glance between them during the rest of the dinner.

At die head of the table, the litde priest sat on the Master's right

'Just the two candidates, I hear?' he said quiedy.

'Just the two: Julian Storrs and Denis Cornford.'

"The usual shenanigans, I assume? The usual horse-trading? Clandestine cabals?'

'Oh no, nothing like that. We're all very civilized here.'

'How do you know diat?'

'Well, you've only got to hear what people say - the way they say it.'

The litde priest pushed away his half-eaten guinea-fowl.

'You know, Clixby, I once read that speech often gets hi the way of genuine communication.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Saturday, 24 February

There never was a scandalous tale without some foundation (Richard Brinsley Sheridan, The School for ScatuLd)

WHILST THE GUEST NIGHT was still in progress, whilst still the port and Madeira were circulating in their time-honoured directions, an over-wearied Morse had decided to retire comparatively early to bed, where almost unprecedentedly he enjoyed a deep, unbroken slumber until 7.15 the following morning, when gladly would he have turned over and gone back to sleep. But he had much to do that day. He drank two cups of instant coffee (which he preferred to the genuine article) ; then another cup, this time with one slice of brown toast heavily spread with butter and Frank Cooper's Oxford Marmalade.

By 8.45 he was in his office at Kidlington HQ, where he found a note on his desk:

Please see Chief Sup. Strange a s a p

The meeting, almost until the end, was an amiable enough affair, and Morse received a virtually uninterrupted

hearing as he explained his latest thinking on the murder of Rachel James.

'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 pig-tail-'

Tony-tail, 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 news-hound, 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 M4O, 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 unsavoury 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 favours 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 enquiries.'

'I just hope the editor agrees with you, that's all.'

'He does,' said Morse, a litde 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 semi-mollified 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 diere's anydiing suspicious or interesting about that period of his life ..."