Death Is Now My Neighbor

by Colin Dexter

  A stapled sheaf of papers showing the expenses of a director in a Surrey company manufacturing surgical appliances, with double exclamation points 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 penciled 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:

  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 Sir Clixby Bream is retiring as Master of Lonsdale College, Oxford. Sir Clixby would, indeed should, have retired earlier. It is only the inability of anyone in the College (including the classicists) to understand the Latin of the original Statutes that has prolonged Sir Clixby’s term. The present Master has refused to speculate whether such an extension of his tenure has been the result of some obscurity in the language of the Statutes themselves; or the incompetence of his classical colleagues, none of whom appears to have been nominated as a possible 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 confirmed. 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 ASAP.

  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 together:

  (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 (with complete clarity) the inviting legend: SEXIEST RAUNCHIEST SHOW IN SOHO.

  (ii) A full-length, black-and-white photograph of a tallish bottle-blonde in a dark figure-hugging gown, the thigh-slit on the left revealing a length of shapely leg. About the woman there seemed little that was less than genuinely attractive—except the smile perhaps.

  (iii) A color photograph of the same woman seated completely naked, apart from a pair of extraordinarily thin stiletto heels, on a bar stool somewhere—her overfirm breasts suggesting that the smile in the former photograph was not the only thing about her that might be semi-artificial. The legs, now happily revealed in all their lengthy glory, were those of a young dancer—the legs of a Cyd Charisse or a Betty Grable, much better than those in the Naturist Journal…

  Morse closed the file, and knew what he had read: an agenda for blackmail—and possibly for murder.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Sunday, February 25

  He was advised by a friend, with whom he afterward 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 for. Morse, on the morning of Sunday, February 25—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 letterbox 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, humorless, 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, humorlessness, 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 ponytail?”

  “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 favor of rules and regulations.”

  As Lewis eyed his superior officer with scarce disguised incredulity, he accepted the manila file handed to him across the desk; and began to read.

  Morse himself now opened the “Life” section of The Observer and turned to the crossword set by Azed (for Morse, the Kasparov of cruciverbalists) and considered 1 across: “Elephant man has a mouth that’s deformed (6).” He immediately wrote in MAHOUT, but then put the crossword aside, trusting that the remaining clues might pose a more demanding challenge, and deciding to postpone his hebdomadal treat until later in the day. Otherwise, he might well have completed the puzzle before Lewis had finished with the file.

  “How did you come by this?” asked Lewis finally.

  “Yours not to reason how.”

  “He’s a blackmailer!”

  Morse nodded. “We’ve found no evidential motive for Rachel’s murder, but …”

  “… dozens of ’em for his.”

  “About nine, Lewis—if we’re going to be accurate.”

  Morse opened the file, and considered the contents once more. Unlike that of the obscenely fat child fondler, neither photograph of the leggy blonde stripper was genuinely pornographic—certainly not the wholly nude one, which seemed to Morse strangely unerotic; perhaps the one of her in the white dress, though … “Unbuttoning” had always appealed to Morse more than “unbuttoned”; “undressing” than “undressed”; “almost naked” to completely so. It was something to do with Plato’s idea of process; and as a young classical scholar Morse had spent so many hours with that philosopher.

  “Quite a bit of legwork there, sir.”

  “Yes. Lovely legs, aren’t they?”

  “No! I meant there’s a lot of work to do t
here—research, going around.”

  “You’ll need a bit of help, yes.”

  “Sergeant Dixon—couple of his lads, too—that’d help.”

  “Is Dixon still eating the canteen out of jam doughnuts?”

  Lewis nodded. “And he’s still got his pet tortoise—”

  “—always a step or two in front of him, I know.”

  For half an hour the detectives discussed the file’s explosive material. Until just after noon, in fact.

  “Coffee, sir?”

  “Not for me. Let’s nip down to the King’s Arms in Summertown.”

  “Not for me,” echoed Lewis. “I can’t afford the time.”

  “As you wish.” Morse got to his feet.

  “Do you think you should be going out quite so much—on the booze, I mean, sir?” Lewis took a deep breath and prepared for an approaching gale, force ten. “You’re getting worse, not better.”

  Morse sat down again.

  “Let me just tell you something, Lewis. I care quite a bit about what you think of me as a boss, as a colleague, as a detective—as a friend, yes! But I don’t give two bloody monkeys about what you think of me as a boozer, all right?”

  “No, it’s not all right,” said Lewis quietly. “As a professional copper, as far as solving murders are concerned—”

  “Is concerned!”

  “—it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter to me at all.” Lewis’s voice grew sharper now. “You do your job—you spend all your time sorting things out—I’m not worried about that. And if the Chief Constable told me you weren’t doing your job, I’d resign myself. But he wouldn’t say that—never. What he’d say—what others would say—what others are saying—is that you’re ruining yourself. Not the Force, not the department, not the murder inquiries—nothing!—except yourself.”

  “Just hold on a second, will you?” Morse’s eyes were blazing.

  “No! No, I won’t. You talked about me as a friend, didn’t you, just now? Well, as a friend I’m telling you that you’re buggering up your health, your retirement, your life—everything!”

  “Listen!” hissed Morse. “I’ve never myself tried to tell any other man how to live his life. And I will not be told, at my age, how I’m supposed to live mine. Even by you.”

  After a prolonged silence, Lewis spoke again.

  “Can I say something else?”

  Morse shrugged indifferently.

  “Perhaps it doesn’t matter much to most people whether you kill yourself or not. You’ve got no wife, no family, no relatives, except that aunt of yours in Alnwick—”

  “She’s dead, too.”

  “So, what the hell? What’s it matter? Who cares? Well, I care, sir. And the missus cares. And for all I know that girl Ellie Smith, she cares.”

  Morse looked down at his desk. “Not any longer, no.”

  “And you ought to care—care for yourself—just a bit.”

  For some considerable while Morse refrained from making any answer, for he was affected by his sergeant’s words more deeply than he would ever be prepared to admit.

  Then, finally:

  “What about that coffee, Lewis?”

  “And a sandwich?”

  “And a sandwich.”

  By early afternoon Morse had put most of his cards on the table, and he and Lewis had reached an agreed conclusion. No longer could either of them accept that Rachel James had been the intended victim: each of them now looked toward Geoffrey Owens as by far the likelier target. Pursuance of the abundant clues provided by the Owens file would necessarily involve a great deal of extra work; and fairly soon a strategy was devised, with Lewis and Dixon allocated virtually everything except the Soho slot.

  “You know, I could probably fit that in fairly easily with the Wimbledon visit,” Lewis had volunteered.

  But Morse was clearly unconvinced:

  “The Soho angle’s the most important of the lot.”

  “Do you honestly believe that?”

  “Certainly. That’s why—”

  The phone rang, answered by Morse.

  Owens (he learned) had phoned HQ ten minutes earlier, just after 3 P.M., to report that his property had been burgled over the weekend, while he was away.

  “And you’re dealing with it? … Good … Just the one item you say, as far as he knows? … I see … Thank you.”

  Morse put down the phone; and Lewis picked up the file, looking quizzically across the desk.

  But Morse shook his head. “Not the file, no.”

  “What, then?”

  “A valuable little ormolu clock from his living room.”

  “Probably a professional, sir—one who knows his clocks.”

  “Don’t ask me. I know nothing about clocks.”

  Lewis grinned. “We both know somebody who does though, don’t we, sir?”

  Chapter Thirty

  This world and the next—and after that all our troubles will be over.

  —Attributed to General Gordon’s aunt

  No knock. The door opened. Strange entered.

  “Haven’t they mentioned it yet, Morse? The pubs are open all day on Sundays now.”

  As Strange carefully balanced his bulk on the chair opposite, Morse lauded his luck that Lewis had taken the Owens material down the corridor for photocopying.

  “Just catching up on a bit of routine stuff, sir.”

  “Really?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “It’s the wife,” confided Strange. “Sunday afternoons she always goes round the house dusting everything. Including me!”

  Morse was smiling dutifully as Strange continued: “Making progress?”

  “Following up a few things, yes.”

  “Mm … Is your brain as bright as it used to be?”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “Mm … You don’t look quite so bright, either.”

  “We’re all getting older.”

  “Worse luck!”

  “Not really, surely? ‘No wise man ever wished to be younger.’ ”

  “Bloody nonsense!”

  “Not my nonsense—Jonathan Swift’s.”

  Elbows on the desk, Strange rested his large head on his large hands.

  “I’m probably finishing in September, I suppose you’d heard.”

  Morse nodded. “I’m glad they’re letting you go.”

  “What the ’ell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I should think Mrs. Strange’ll be pleased to have you around, won’t she? Retirement, you know.… Getting up late and watching all the other poor sods go off to work, especially on Monday mornings. That sort of thing. It’s what we all work for, I suppose. What we all wait for.”

  “You mean,” muttered Strange, “that’s what I’ve been flogging me guts out all this time for—thirty-two years of it? I used to do your sort of job, you know. Caught nearly as many murderers as you in me day. It’s just that I used to do it a bit different, that’s all. Mostly used to wait till they came to me. No problem, often as not: jealousy, booze, sex, next-door neighbor between the sheets with the missus. Motive—that’s what it’s all about.”

  “Not always quite so easy, though, is it?” ventured Morse, who had heard the sermon several times before.

  “Certainly not when you’re around, matey!”

  “This case needs some very careful handling, sir. Lots of sensitive inquiries—”

  “Such as?”

  “About Owens, for a start.”

  “You’ve got some new evidence?”

  “One or two vague rumors, yes.”

  “Mm … I heard a vague rumor myself this afternoon. I heard Owens’ place got burgled. I suppose you’ve heard that, too?” He peered at Morse over his half-lenses.

  “Yes.”

  “Only one thing pinched. Hm! A clock, Morse.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve only got one or two clock specialists on the patch, as far as I remember. Or is it just the one?”

 
“The one?”

  “You’ve not seen him—since they let him out again?”

  “Ah, Johnson! Yes. I shall have to call round to see him pretty soon, I suppose.”

  “What about tomorrow? He’s probably your man, isn’t he?”

  “I’m away tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  “London. Soho, as a matter of fact. Few things to check out.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t let Sergeant Lewis do all that sort of tedious legwork.”

  Morse felt the Chief Superintendent’s small, shrewd eyes upon him.

  “Division of labor. Someone’s got to do it.”

  “You know,” said Strange, “if I hadn’t got a Supers’ meeting in the morning, I’d join you. See the sights … and everything.”

  “I don’t think Mrs. Strange’d approve.”

  “What makes you think I’d tell her?”

  “She’s—she’s not been all that well, has she?”

  Strange slowly shook his head, and looked down at the carpet.

  “What about you, sir?”

  “Me? I’m fine, apart from going deaf and going bald and hemorrhoids and blood pressure. Bit overweight, too, perhaps. What about you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How’s the drinking going?”

  “Going? It’s going, er …”

  “ ‘Quickly?’ Is that the word you’re looking for?”

  “That’s the word.”

  Strange appeared about to leave. And—blessedly!—Lewis, Morse realized, must have been aware of the situation, since he had put in no appearance.

  But Strange was not quite finished: “Do you ever worry how your liver’s coping with all this booze?”

  “We’ve all got to die of something, they say.”

  “Do you ever think about that—about dying?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Do you believe in life after death?”

  Morse smiled. “There was a sign once that Slough Borough Council put up near one of the churches there: NO ROAD BEYOND THE CEMETERY.”