Death is Now My Neighbour

But these men couldn't possibly know the truth, that's what she was telling herself now; and she thought she could handle things. On Radio Oxford just before Christmas she'd heard P. D. James's advice to criminal suspects: 'Keep it short! Keep it simple! Don't change a single word unless you have to!'

'Please sit down. Coffee? I've only got instant, I'm afraid.'

'We both prefer instant, don't we, Sergeant?'

'Lovely,' said Lewis, who would much have preferred tea.

Two minutes later, Dawn held a jug suspended over the steaming cups.

'Milk?'

'Please,' from Lewis.

"Thank you,'from Morse.

'Sugar?'

'Just the one teaspoonful,' from Lewis.

But a shake of the head from Morse; a slight raising of the eyebrows as she stirred two heaped teaspoonfuls into her own coffee; and an obsequious comment which caused Lewis to squirm inwardly: 'How on earth do you manage to keep such a beautiful figure - with all diat sugar?'

She coloured slighdy. 'Something to do with die metabolic rate, so they tell me at die clinic.'

'Ah, yes! The clinic. I'd almost forgotten.'

Again he was sounding too much like die Customs man, and Dawn was glad it was die sergeant who now took over die questioning.

A little awkwardly, a litde ineptly (certainly as Morse saw things) Lewis asked about her training, her past experience, her present position, her relationships with employers, colleagues, clients ...

The scene was almost set.

She knew Storrs (she claimed) only as a patient; she'd known Turnbull (she claimed) only as a consultant; she knew Owens (she claimed) not at all.

Lewis produced the letter stating Julian Storrs' prognosis.

'Do you think this photocopy was made at the clinic?"

'I didn't copy it'

'Someone must have done.'

'I didn't copy it'

'Any idea who might have done?'

'/didn't copy it'

It was hardly a convincing performance, and she was aware that both men knew she was lying. And quiedy -amid a few tears, certainly, but with no hysteria - the truth came out

Owens she had met when the Press had come along for die clinic's 25th anniversary - he must have seen somediing, heard something dial night, about Mr Storrs. After Mr Tumbull had died, Owens had telephoned her - diey'd met in the Bird and Baby in St Giles' - he'd asked her if she could copy a letter for him - yes, that letter - he'd offered her £500 - and she'd agreed -copied die letter - been paid in cash. That was it - dial was all - a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that -somediing she'd never done before - would never have

done in the normal course of events. It was just the money - nothing else - she'd desperately needed the money...

Morse had been silent throughout die interrogation, his attention focused, it seemed, on the long, black-stockinged legs.

'Where does dial leave me - leave us?' she asked miserably.

'We shall have to ask you to come in to make an official statement,' said Lewis.

'Now, you mean?'

'That'll be best, yes.'

'Perhaps not,' intervened Morse. 'It's not all dial urgent, Miss Charles. We'll be in touch fairly soon.'

At the door, Morse thanked her for the coffee: 'Not the best homecoming, I'm afraid.'

'Only myself to blame,' she said, her voice tight as she looked across at die Visitors' parking lots, where the Jaguar stood.

'Where did you go?' asked Morse.

'I didn't go anywhere.'

"You stayed here - in your flat?'

'I didn't go anywhere.'

'What was that about?' asked Lewis as he drove back along die A$4 to Oxford. 'About her statement?'

'I want you to be widi me when we see Storrs diis afternoon.'

'What did you think of her?'

'Not a very good liar.'

'Lovely figure, though. Legs right up to her armpits! She'd have got a job in the chorus line at the Windmill.'

Morse was silent, his eyes gleaming again as Lewis continued:

'I read somewhere that they all had to be the same height and the same build - in the chorus line there.'

'Perhaps I'll take you along when the case is over.'

'No good, sir. It's been shut for ages.'

Dawn Charles closed the door behind her and walked thoughtfully back to the lounge, the suspicion of a smile about her lips.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car

(E. B. White, One Man's Meat)

LEWIS HAD BACKED into the first available space in Polstead Road, the tree-lined thoroughfare that leads westward from Woodstock Road into Jericho; and now stood waiting whilst Morse arose laboriously from the low passenger seat of the Jaguar.

'Seen that before, sir?' Lewis pointed to the circular blue plaque on the wall opposite: 'This house was the home of T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) from 1896-1921.'

Morse grunted as he straightened up his aching back, mumbling of lumbago.

'What about a plaque for Mr Storrs, sir? "This was the home of Julian Something Storrs, Master of Lonsdale, 199610... 1997?"'

Morse shrugged indifferently:

'Perhaps just 1996.'

The two men walked a little way along the short road. The houses here were of a pattern: gabled, red-bricked, three-storeyed properties, with ashlared, mullioned win-

dows, the frames universally painted white; interesting and amply proportioned houses built towards the end of the nineteenth century.

'Wouldn't mind living here,' volunteered Lewis.

Morse nodded. 'Very civilized. Small large houses, these, Lewis, as opposed to large small houses.'

'What's the difference?'

'Something to do with the number of bathrooms, I think.'

'Not much to do with the number of garages!'

'No.'

Clearly nothing whatever to do with the number of garages, since the reason for the continuum of cars on either side of the road was becoming increasingly obvious: there were no garages here, nor indeed any room for such additions. To compensate for the inconvenience, the front areas of almost all the properties had been cemented, cobbled, gravelled, or paved, in order to accommodate the parking of motor cars; including the front of the Storrs' residence, where on the gravel alongside the front window stood a small, pale grey, D-registration Citroen, a thin pink stripe around its bodywork.

'Someone's in?' ventured Morse.

'Mrs Storrs, perhaps - he's got a BMW. A woman's car, that, anyway.'

'Really?'

Morse was still peering through the Citroen's front window (perhaps for some more eloquent token of femininity) when Lewis returned from his ineffectual ringing.

'No one in. No answer, anyway.'

'On another weekend break?'

'I could ring the Porters' Lodge.'

Tfou do that small thing, Lewis. I'll be ...' Morse pointed vaguely towards the hostelry at the far end of the road.

It was at the Anchor, a few minutes later, as Morse sat behind a pint of John Smith's Tadcaster bitter, that Lewis came in to report on the Storrs: away again, for the weekend, the pair of them, this time though their whereabouts not vouchsafed to the Lodge.

Morse received die news without comment, appearing preoccupied; thinking no doubt, supposed Lewis, as he paid for his orange juice. Thinking and drinking ... drinking and thinking ... die twin activities which in Morse's view were ever and necessarily concomitant.

Not wholly preoccupied, however.

'I'll have a refill while you're at die bar, Lewis. Smidi's please.'

After a period of silence, Morse asked die question:

'If somebody came to you widi a letter - a photocopied letter, say - claiming your missus was having a passionate affair widi the milkman - '

Lewis grinned. 'I'd be dead worried. We've got a woman on die milk-float.'

' - what would you do?'