The Riddle Of The Third Mile

by Colin Dexter

  Sergeant Lewis looked on with a sad and vulnerable concern. Morse was his hero, and always would be. But even heroes had their momentary weaknesses, as Lewis had so often learned.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Wednesday, 23rd July

  In which Morse’s mind drifts elsewhere as the police surgeon enunicates some of the scientific principles concerning immersion in fluids.

  It was later that same afternoon that Morse, Lewis, and the police surgeon presented themselves at the Boat Inn, where the landlord, sensibly circumspect, informed the trio that it would of course be wholly improper for him to serve any alcoholic beverages at the bar; on the other hand the provision of three chairs in a back room and a bottle of personally purchased Glenfiddich might not perhaps be deemed to contravene the nation’s liquor laws.

  ‘How long’s he been dead?’ was Morse’s flatly spoken, predictable gambit, and the surgeon poured himself a liberal tumbler before deigning to reply.

  ‘Good question! I’ll have a guess at it tomorrow.’

  Morse poured himself an equally liberal portion, his sour expression reflecting a chronic distrust in the surgeon’s calling.

  ‘A week, perhaps?’

  The surgeon merely shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Could be longer, you mean?’

  ‘Or shorter.’

  ‘Oh Christ! Come off it, Max!’ Morse banged the bottle on on the table, and Lewis wondered if he himself might be offered a dram. He would have refused, of course, but the gesture would have been gratifying.

  The surgeon savoured a few sips with the slow dedication of a man testing a dubious tooth with a mouthwash, before turning to Morse, his ugly face beatified: ‘Nectar, old man!’

  Morse, likewise, appeared temporarily more interested in the whisky than in any problems a headless, handless, legless corpse might pose to the Kidlington CID. ‘They tell me the secret’s in the water of those Scottish burns.’

  ‘Nonsense! It’s because they manage to get rid of the water.’

  ‘Could be!’ Morse nodded more happily now. ‘But while we’re talking of water, I just asked you-’

  ‘You know nothing about water, Morse. Listen! If you find a body immersed in fresh water, you’ve got the helluva job finding out what happened. In fact, one of the trickiest problems in forensic medicine-about which you know bugger-all, of course-is to prove whether death was due to drowning.’

  ‘But this fellow wasn’t drowned. He had his head-’

  ‘Shut up, Morse. You asked how long he’d been in the canal, right? You didn’t ask me who sawed his head off!’

  Morse nodded agreement.

  ‘Well, listen, then! There are five questions I’m paid to ask myself when a body’s found immersed in water, and in this particular case you wouldn’t need a genius like me to answer most of them. First, was the person alive when entering the water? Answer: pretty certainly, no. Second, was death due to immersion? Answer: equally certainly, no. Third, was death rapid? Answer: the question doesn’t apply, because death took place elsewhere. Fourth, did any other factors contribute to death? Answer: almost certainly, yes; the poor fellow was likely to have been clinically dead when somebody chopped him up and chucked him in the canal. Fifth, where did the body enter the water? Answer: God knows! Probably where it was found-as most of them are. But it could have drifted a fair way, in certain conditions. With a combination of bodily gases and other internal reactions, you’ll often find a corpse floating up to the surface and then-’

  ‘But Morse interrupted him, turning to Lewis: ‘How did we find him?’

  ‘We had a call from a chap who was fishing there, sir. Said he’d seen something looking like a body half-floating under the water, just where we found him.’

  ‘Did you get his name-this fisherman’s?’ Morse’s question was sharp, and to Lewis his eyes seemed to glint with a frightening authority.

  ‘I wasn’t there myself, sir. I got the message from Constable Dickson.’

  ‘He took down the name and address, of course?’

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ gulped Lewis. ‘He got the name all right, but-’

  ‘ – the fellow rang off before giving his address!’

  ‘You can’t really blame-’

  ‘Who’s blaming anybody, Lewis? What was his name, by the way?’ ‘Rowbotham. Simon Rowbotham.’

  ‘Christ! That’s an unlikely sounding name.’ ‘But Dickson got it down all right, sir. He asked the fellow to spell it for him-he told me that.’

  ‘I see I shall have to congratulate Constable Dickson the next time I have the misfortune to meet him.’

  ‘We’re only talking about a name, sir.’ Lewis was feeling that” incipient surge of frustrated anger he’d so often experienced with Morse.

  ‘Only? What are you talking about? “Simon”? With a surname like “Rowbotham”? Lew-is! Now George Rowbotnam -that’s fine, that squares with your actual proletarian parentage. Or Simon Comakers, or something-that’s what you’d expect from some aristocrat from Saffron Waldon. But Simon Rowbotham’? Come off it, Lewis. The fellow who rang was making it up as he went along.’

  The surgeon, who had remained sipping placidly during this oddly intemperate exchange, now decided it was time to rescue the hapless Lewis. ‘You do talk a load of nonsense, Morse. I’ve never known your first name, and I don’t give a sod what it is. For all I know, it’s “Eric” or “Ernie” or something. But so} bloody what?’

  Morse, who had ever sought to surround his Christian name in the decent mists of anonymity, made no reply. Instead, he poured himself another measure of the pale yellow spirit, thereafter lapsing into silent thought.

  It was Max who picked up the thread of the earlier discussion. ‘At least you’re not likely to get bogged down in any doubts about accident or suicide – unless you find some boat-propeller’s sliced his head off-and his hands-and his legs.’

  ‘No chance of that?’

  ‘I haven’t examined the body yet, have I?’ f

  Morse grunted with frustration. ‘I asked you, and I ask you again. How long’s he been in the water?’

  ‘I just told you. I haven’t-’

  ‘Can’t you try a feeble bloody guess?’

  ‘Not all that long-in the water, that is. But he may have been dead a few days before then.’

  ‘Have a guess, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘That’s tricky.’

  ‘It’s always “tricky” for you, isn’t it? You do actually think the fellow’s dead, I suppose?’

  The surgeon finished his whisky, and poured himself more, his lined face creasing into something approaching geniality. ‘Time of death? That’s always going to play a prominent part in your business, Morse. But it’s never been my view that an experienced pathologist-such as myself-can ever really put too much faith in the accuracy of his observations. So many variables, you see -’

  ‘Forget it!’

  ‘Ah! But if someone actually saw this fellow being chucked in-well, we’d have a much better ideas of things, um?’

  Morse nodded slowly and turned his eyes to Lewis; and Lewis, in turn, nodded his own understanding.

  ‘It shouldn’t take long, sir. There’s only a dozen or so houses along the towpath.’

  He prepared to go. Before leaving, however, he asked one question of the surgeon. ‘Have you got the slightest idea, sir, when the body might have been put in the canal?’

  ‘Two, three days ago, sergeant.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’ growled Morse after Lewis had gone.

  ‘I don’t really. But he’s a polite fellow, your Lewis, isn’t he? Deserves a bit of help, as I see it.’

  ‘About two or three days, then…’

  ‘Not much more-and probably been dead about a day longer. His skin’s gone past the “washerwoman” effect, and that suggests he’s certainly been in the water more than twenty-four hours. And I’d guess -guess, mind! -that we’re past the “sodden” stage and almost up to the time when the sk
in gets blanched. Let’s say about two, two-and-a-half days.’

  ‘And nobody would be fool enough to dump him in during the hours of daylight, so-’

  ‘Yep. Sunday night- that’s about the time I’d suggest, Morse. But if I find a few live fleas on him, it’ll mean I’m talking a load of balls; they’d usually be dead after twenty-four hours in the water.’

  ‘He doesn’t look much like a fellow who had fleas, does he?’

  ‘Depends where he was before they pushed him in. For all we know, he could have been lying in the boot of a car next to a dead dog.’ He looked across and saw the Chief Inspector looking less than happily into his glass.

  ‘I can understand somebody chopping his head off, Max -even his hands. But why in the name of Sweeney Todd should anyone want to slice his legs?’

  ‘Same thing. Identification.’

  ‘You mean… there was something below his knees -couple of wooden legs, or something?’

  ‘ “Artificial prostheses”, that’s what they call ‘em now.’

  ‘Or he might have had no toes?’

  ‘Not many of that sort around…’

  But Morse’s mind was far awayr the image of the gruesome corpse producing a further spasm in some section of his gut.

  ‘You’re right, you know, Morse!’ The surgeon happily poured himself another drink. ‘He probably wouldn’t have recognized a flea! Good cut of cloth, that suit. Pretty classy shirt, too. Sort of chap who had a very-nice-job-thank-you: good salary, pleasant conditions of work, carpet all round the office, decent pension…’ Suddenly the surgeon broke off, and seemed to arrive at one of his few firm conclusions. ‘You know what, Morse? I reckon he was probably a bank manager!’

  ‘Or an Oxford don,’ added Morse quietly.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wednesday, 23rd July

  In spite of his toothache, Morse begins his investigations with the reconstruction of a letter.

  In spite of his unorthodox, intuitive, and seemingly lazy approach to the solving of crime, Morse was an extremely competent administrator; and when he sat down again at his office desk that same evening, all the procedures called for in a case of murder (and this was murder) had been, or were about to be, put into effect. Superintendent Strange, to whom Morse had reported on his return to HQ, knew his chief inspector only too well.

  ‘You’ll want Lewis, of course?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Couple of frogmen, too.’

  ‘How many extra men?’

  ‘Well-er-none; not for the minute, anyway.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite know what to ask them to do, sir,’ had been Morse’s simple and honest explanation.

  And, indeed, as he looked at his wrist-watch (7.30 p.m.-’Blast, missed The Archers), he was not at all sure what to ask himself, either. On his desk lay the soddenly promising letter found on the corpse; but his immediate preoccupation was a throbbing toothache which had been getting worse all day. He decided he would do something about it in the morning.

  As he sat there, he was conscious that there was a deeper reason for his refusal of the Superintendent’s offer of extra personnel. By temperament he was a loner, if only because, although never wholly content in the solitary state, he was almost invariably even more miserable in the company of others. There were a few exceptions, of course, and Lewis was one of them. Exactly why he enjoyed Lewis’s company so much, Morse had never really stopped to analyse; but perhaps it was because Lewis was so totally unlike himself. Lewis was placid, good-natured, methodical, honest, unassuming, faithful, and (yes, he might as well come clean about it!) a bit stolid, too. Even that afternoon, the good Lewis had been insistently anxious to stay on until whatever hour, if by any chance Morse should consider his availability of any potential value. But Morse had not. As he had pointed out to his sergeant, they might’pretty soon have a bit of luck and find out who the dead man was; the frogmen might just find a few oddments of identifiable limbs in the sludge of the canal waters by Aubrey’s Bridge. But Morse doubted it. For, even at this very early stage of the case, he sensed that his major problem would not so much be who the murderer was, but who exactly had been murdered. It was Morse’s job, though, to find the answer to both these questions; and so he started on his task, alternately stroking his slightly swollen left jaw and prodding down viciously on the offending double-fang. He took the letter lying on the desk in front of him, pressed it very carefully between sheets of blotting-paper, and then removed it. The paper was not so sopped and sodden as he had feared, and with a pair of tweezers he was soon able to unfold a strip about two inches wide and eight inches long. It was immediately apparent that this formed the left-hand side of a typewritten letter; and, furthermore, except for some minor blurring of letters at the torn edge, the message was gladdeningly legible:

  Dear Sir,

  This is a most unusua

  realize. But please re

  because what I am pro

  both you and me. My wa 5

  College has just take

  final examinations in G

  in about ten or twelve

  an old man and I am de

  how she has got on ah 10

  The reason for my r

  ridiculously impatient

  to America in a few

  able to be contacte

  want to know how J 15

  this. I have spent a

  education, and she is

  I realize that this

  only that you should g

  to such an impropriet 20

  publication of the cl

  July.

  If you can possibly se

  shall be in a positi

  unconventionally. You s 25

  most select clubs, sa

  give you a completely

  delights which are as

  Please do give me a r

  may be, at 01-417 808 30

  you feel able to do

  result, I shall give

  able to enjoy, at no c

  the most discreet er

  ever imagined. 35

  You

  Morse sat back and studied the words with great joy. He’d been a lifelong addict of puzzles and of cryptograms, and this was exactly the sort of work his mind could cope with confidently. First he enumerated the lines in 5’s (as shown above); then he set his mind to work. It took him ten minutes, and another ten minutes to copy out his first draft. The general drift of the letter required no Aristotelian intellect to decipher-primarily because of the give-away clue in line 7. But it had been none too easy to concoct some continuum over a few of the individual word-breaks, especially “wa – “ in line 5; “ah – “ in line 10; “cl-”in line 21; and “sa-” in line 26. This is the first draft that Morse wrote out:

  Dear Sir,

  This is a most unusua l letter as I know you’ll

  realize. But please re ad it with great care

  because what I am pro posing can benefit

  both you and me. My wa strel daughter at _

  College has just take n (without much hope) her

  final examination in G eography, and will get the result

  in about ten or twelve days time. Now I am

  an old man and I’m de speratly anxious to know

  how she has got on ah ead of the official lists.

  The reason for my r equest is that I am

  ridiculously impatient, and in fact I am off

  to America in a few dfays time where I may not be

  able to be contacte d for some while. All I

  want to know is how J -got on, if you can tell me

  this. I have spent a great deal of money on her

  education, and she is the only child I have.

  I realize that this is a improper request. I ask

  only that you should g ive a thought to stooping

  to such an impropriet y. I think the official date for

  publication of the cl ass list is-

  July.
/>
  If you can possibly se e your way to this favour

  I shall be in a positi t to pay you very well if

  ununconventionally. You s ee I manage some of the

  most select clubs, sa unas and parlours and I will

  give you a completely free access to the sexual

  delights which are as sociated with such places

  Please do give me a r ing whatever your decision

  May be at 01-417-808 -. If it so happens that

  You fell able to do what I ask about J

  Result I shall give you details about how you’ll be

  Able to enjoy at no c ost at all to yourself,

  The most discreet er otic thrills you can have

  Ever imagined

  You rs sincerely

  Morse was reasonably pleased with the draft. It lacked polish here and there, but it wasn’t bad at all, really. Three specific problems, of course: the name of the college, the name of the girl, and the last bit of the telephone number. The college would be a bit more difficult now that almost all of them accepted women, but…

  Suddenly Morse sat at his desk quite motionless, the blood tingling across his shoulders. Could it be that “G- “? It needn’t be Geography or Geology or Geophysics or whatever. And it wasn’t. It was Greatsl And that “J-”? That wasn’t Judith or Joanna or Jezebel. It was Jane-the girl the Master had indiscreetly mentioned to him! And that would solve the college automatically: it was Lonsdalel

  Phew!

  The telephone number wouldn’t be much of a problem, either, since Lewis could soon sort that out. If it was a four-digit group, that would only mean ten possibilities; and if it was five digits, that was only a hundred; and Lewis was a very patient man…

  But the tooth was jabbing its pain along his jaw once more, and he made his way home, where doubling (as he invariably did) the dosage of all medical nostrums he took six Aspros, washed them down well with whisky, and went to bed. But at 2 a.m. we find him sittingup in bed, his hand caressing his jaw, the pain jumping in his gum like some demented dervish. And at 8a.m. we find him standing outside a deserted dentist’s premises in North Oxford, an inordinately long scarf wrapped round his jaw, waiting desperately for one of the receptionists to arrive.