It was just that sensation he felt now as he switched on the electric fire, poured a glass of Glenfiddich, lit a cigarette, and settled back in his favourite armchair - not this time, however, with the Naturist Journal which (all those years ago now) had been doing the rounds in Lower IVA, but with the manila file just burgled from the house in Bloxham Drive.
The cover was well worn, with tears and creases along its edges; and maroon rings where once a wine glass had rested, amid many doodles of quite intricate design. Inside the file was a sheaf of papers and cuttings, several of them clipped or stapled together, though not arranged in any chronological or purposeful sequence.
Nine separate items.
- Two newspaper cuttings, snipped from one of the less inhibited of the Sunday tabloids, concerning a Lord Hardiman, together with a photograph of the aforesaid peer fishing in his wallet (presumably for Deutschmarks) outside a readily identifiable sex establishment in Hamburg's Reeperbahn. Clipped to this material was a further photograph of Lord Hardiman arm-in-arm with Lady Hardiman at a polo match in Great Windsor Park (September 1984).
- A letter (August 1979) addressed to Owens from a firm of solicitors in Cheltenham informing the addressee that it was in possession of letters sent by him (Owens) to one of their clients (unspecified); and that some arrangement beneficial to each of the parties might possibly be considered.
- A glossy, highly defined photograph showing a ·· paunchy elderly man fondling a frightened-looking
prepubescent girl, both of them naked. Pencilled on the back was an address in St Albans.
- A stapled sheaf of papers showing the expenses of a director in a Surrey company manufacturing surgical appliances, with double exclamation-marks against several of the mammoth amounts claimed for foreign business trips.
-A brief, no-nonsense letter (from a woman, perhaps?) in large, curly handwriting, leaning italic-fashion to the right: 'If you contact me again I shall take your letters to the police - I've kept them all. You'll get no more money from me. You're a despicable human being. I've got nothing more to lose, not even my money.' No signature but (again) a pencilled address, this time in the margin, in Wimbledon.
- Four sets of initials written on a small page probably torn from the back of a diary:
AM DC JS CB
Nothing more - except a small tick in red Biro against the first three.
- Two further newspaper cuttings, paper-clipped together. The first (The Times Diary, 2.2.96) reporting as follows:
After a nine-year tenure lege, Oxford. Sir Clixby Sir Clixby Bream is retiring would, indeed should, have as Master of Lonsdale Col- retired earlier. It is only the
inability of anyone in the been the result of some
College (including the clas- obscurity in the language of
sicists) to understand the the Statutes themselves; or
Latin of the original Stat- the incompetence of his
utes that has prolonged Sir classical colleagues, none of
Clixby's term. The present whom appears to have been
Master has refused to spec- nominated as a possible
ulate whether such an ext- successor.
The second, a cutting from the Oxford Mail (November 1995) of an article written by Geoffrey Owens; with a photograph alongside, the caption reading, 'Mr Julian Storrs and his wife Angela at the opening of the Polynesian Art Exhibition at the Pitt Rivers Museum.'
- A smudgy photocopy of a typed medical report, marked 'Strictly Private and Confidential', on the notepaper of a private health clinic in the Banbury Road:
Ref: Mr J. C. Storrs
Diagnosis: Inoperable > liver cancer con-
firmed. For second opn. see letter Dr O. V. Maxim (Churchill)
Prognosis: Seven/eight months, or less.
Possibly(??) a year. No longer.
Patient Notes: Honesty best in this case. Strong personality.
Next Appt: See book, but a s a p.
RHT
Clipped to this was a cutting from the obituary columns of one of the national dailies - The Independent, by the look of it - announcing the death of the distinguished cancer specialist Robert H. Turnbull.
- Finally, three photographs, paper-clipped togetfien (i) A newspaper photograph of a strip-club, showing in turn (though indistinguishably) individual photographs of the establishment's principal performers, posted on each side of the narrow entrance; showing also (widi complete clarity) the inviting legend: SEXIEST RAUNCHIEST SHOW IN SOHO.
(ii) A full-lengdi, black-and-white photograph of a tallish botde-blonde in a dark figure-hugging gown, the diigh-slit on the left revealing a length of shapely leg. About die woman diere seemed litde dial was less dian genuinely attractive - except die smile perhaps, (iii) A colour photograph of die same woman seated completely naked, apart from a pair of extraordinarily diin stiletto heels, on a bar-stool somewhere - her overfirm breasts suggesting that die smile in die former photograph was not die only thing about her that might be semi-artificial. The legs, now happily revealed in all dieir lengdiy glory, were those of a young dancer - die legs of a Cyd Charisse or a Betty Grable, much better dian diose in die Naturist Journal...
Morse dosed die file, and knew what he had read: an agenda for blackmail - and possibly for murder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sunday, 25 February
He was advised by a friend, with whom he afterwards lost touch, to stay at the Wilberforce Temperance Hotel
(Geoffrey Madan, Notebooks)
I hate those who intemperately denounce beer - and call it Temperance
(G. K. Chesterton)
SOCRATES, ON HIS last day on earth, avowed that death, if it be but one long and dreamless sleep, was a blessing most devoutly to be wished. Morse, on the morning of Sunday, 25 February - without going quite so far as Socrates - could certainly look back on his own long and dreamless sleep with a rare gratitude, since the commonest features of his nights were regular visits to the loo, frequent draughts of water, occasional doses of Nurofen and Paracetamol, an intake of indigestion tablets, and finally (after rising once more from his crumpled bed-linen) a tumbler of Alka-Seltzer.
The Observer was already poking thickly through the
letter-box as he hurriedly prepared himself a subcontinental breakfast. 10.30 a.m.
It was 11.15 a-m- when he arrived at HQ, where Lewis had already been at work for three hours, and where he was soon regaling the chief about his visit to the newspaper offices.
A complete picture of Owens - built up from testimonials, references, records, impressions, gossip - showed a competent, hard-working, well-respected employee. That was the good news. And the bad? Well, it seemed the man was aloof, humourless, unsympathetic. In view of the latter shortcomings (Lewis had suggested) it was perhaps puzzling to understand why Owens had been sent off on a personnel management course. Yet (as the editor had suggested) some degree of aloofness, humourlessness, lack of sympathy, was perhaps precisely what was required in such a role.
Lewis pointed to the cellophane folder in which his carefully paginated photocopies were assembled.
'And one more thing. He's obviously a bit of a hit with some of the girls there - especially the younger ones.'
'In spite of his pony-tail?'
'Because of it, more likely.'
"You're not serious?'
'And you're never going to catch up with the twentieth century, are you?'
'One or two possible leads?'
'Could be.'
'Such as?'
'Well, for a start, the Personnel Manager who saw Owens on Monday. I'll get a statement from him as soon as he gets back from holiday - earlier, if you'd like.'
Morse looked dubious. *Ye-es. But if somebody intended to murder Owens, not Rachel James ... well, Owens' alibi is neither here nor there really, is it? You're right, though. Let's stick to official procedure. I've always been in favour of rules and regulations.'