by Colin Dexter
Morse nodded. He wanted to say something to his old friend: something about never climbing in vain when you’re going up the Mountain of Truth. But he only recalled the quotation after stepping out of the lift at the fourth floor, where Sergeant Rogers of the Porn Squad was awaiting him.
Once in Rogers’ office, Morse produced the photograph of the strip club. And immediately, with the speed of an experienced ornithologist recognizing a picture of a parrot, Rogers had identified the premises.
“Just off Brewer Street.” He unfolded a detailed map of Soho. “Here—let me show you.”
The early evening was overcast, drizzly and dank, when like some latter-day Orpheus Morse emerged from the depths of Piccadilly Circus Underground; when, after briefly consulting his A-Z, he proceeded by a reasonably direct route to a narrow, seedy-looking thoroughfare, where a succession of establishments promised XXXX videos and magazines (imported), sex shows (live), striptease (continuous)—and a selection of freshly made sandwiches (various).
And there it was! Le Club Sexy. Unmistakably so, but prosaically and repetitively now rechristened Girls Girls Girls. It made the former proprietors appear comparatively imaginative.
Something—some aspiration to the higher things in life, perhaps—prompted Morse to raise his eyes from the ground-floor level of the gaudily lurid fronts there to the architecture, some of it rather splendid, above.
Yet not for long.
“Come in out of the drizzle, sir! Lovely girls here.”
Morse showed his ID card, and moved into the shelter of the tiny entrance foyer.
“Do you know her?”
The young woman, black stockings and black miniskirt meeting at the top of her thighs, barely glanced at the photograph thrust under her eyes.
“No.”
“Who runs this place? I want to see him.”
“Her. But she ain’t ’ere now, is she? Why don’t you call back later, handsome?”
A helmeted policeman was ambling along the opposite pavement, and Morse called him over.
“Okay,” the girl said quickly. “You bin ’ere before, right?”
“Er—one of my officers, yes.”
“Me mum used to know her, like I told the other fellah. Just a minute.”
She disappeared down the dingy stairs.
“How can I help you, sir?”
Morse showed his ID to the constable.
“Just keep your eyes on me for a few minutes.”
But there was no need.
Three minutes later, Morse had an address in Praed Street, no more than a hundred yards from Paddington Station where earlier, at the entrance to the Underground, he had admired the bronze statue of one of his heroes, Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
So Morse now took the Tube back. It had been a roundabout sort of journey.
She was in.
She asked him in.
And Morse, from a moth-eaten settee, agreed to sample a cup of Nescafé.
“Yeah, Angie Martin! Toffee-nosed little tart, if you know wo’ I mean.”
“Tell me about her.”
“You’re the second one, encha?”
“Er—one of my officers, yes.”
“Nah! He wasn’t from the fuzz. Couldna bin! Giv me a couple o’ twennies ’e did.”
“What did he want to know?”
“Same as you, like as not.”
“She was quite a girl, they say.”
“Lovely on ’er legs, she was, if you know wo’ I mean. Most of ’em, these days, couldn’t manage the bleedin’ Barn Dance.”
“But she was good?”
“Yeah. The men used to love ’er. Stick fivers down ’er boobs and up ’er suspenders, if you know wo’ I mean.”
“She packed ’em in?”
“Yeah.”
“And then?”
“Then there was this fellah, see, and he got to know ’er and see ’er after the shows, like, and ’e got starry-eyed, the silly sod. Took ’er away. Posh sort o’ fellah, if you know wo’ I mean. Dresses, money, ’otels—all that sort o’ thing.”
“Would you remember his name?”
“Yeah. The other fellah—’e showed me his photo, see?”
“His name?”
“Julius Caesar, I fink it was.”
Morse showed her the photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Julian Storrs.
“Yeah. That’s ’im an’ ’er. That’s Angie.”
“Do you know why I’m asking about her?”
She looked at him shrewdly, an inch or so of gray roots merging into a yellow mop of wiry hair.
“Yeah, I got a good idea.”
“My, er, colleague told you?”
“Nah! Worked it out for meself, dint I? She was tryin’ to forget wo’ she was, see? She dint want to say she were a cheap tart who’d open ’er legs for a fiver, if you know wo’ I mean. Bi’ o’ class, tho’, Angie. Yeah. Real bi’ o’ class.”
“Will you be prepared to come up to Oxford—we’ll pay your expenses, of course—to sign a statement?”
“Oxford? Yeah. Why not? Bi’ o’ class, Oxford, innit?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Wo’ she done? Wo’ sort of inquiry you workin’ on?”
“Murder,” said Morse softly.
Mission accomplished, Morse walked across Praed Street and into the complex of Paddington Station, where he stood under the high Departures Board and noted the time of the next train: Slough, Maidenhead, Reading, Didcot, Oxford.
Due to leave in forty minutes.
He retraced his steps to the top of the Underground entrance, crushed a cigarette stub under his heel, and walked slowly down toward the ticket office, debating the wisdom of purchasing a second Bakerloo line ticket to Piccadilly Circus—from which station he might take the opportunity of concentrating his attention on the ground-floor attractions of London’s Soho.
Chapter Thirty-four
The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.
—JEAN KERR, Where Did You Put the Aspirin?
With a lecture A.M. and a Faculty Meeting early P.M., Julian Storrs had not been able to give Lewis much time until late P.M.; but he was ready and waiting when, at 4 o’clock precisely, the front doorbell rang at his home, a large redbricked property on Polstead Road, part of the Victorian suburb that stretches north from St. Giles’ to Summertown.
Lewis accepted the offer of real coffee, and the two of them were soon seated in armchairs opposite each other in the high-ceilinged living room, its furniture exuding a polished mahogany elegance, where Lewis immediately explained the purpose of his call.
As a result of police investigations into the murder of Rachel James, Storrs’ name had moved into the frame; well, at least his photograph had moved into the frame.
Storrs himself said nothing as he glanced down at the twin passport photograph that Lewis handed to him.
“That is you, sir? You and Ms. James?”
Storrs took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Yes.”
“You were having an affair with her?”
“We … yes, I suppose we were.”
“Did anybody know about it?”
“I’d hoped not.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Storrs talked. Though not for long …
He’d first met her just over a year earlier when he’d pulled a muscle in his right calf following an ill-judged decision to take up jogging. She was a physiotherapist, masseuse, manipulator—whatever they called such people now; and after the first two or three sessions they had met together outside the treatment room. He’d fallen in love with her a bit—a lot; must have done, when he considered the risks he’d taken. About once a month, six weeks, they’d managed to be together when he had some lecture to give or meeting to attend. Usually in London, where they’d book a double room, latish morning, in one of the hotels behind Paddington, drink a bottle or two of champagne, make love together most of the afternoon
and—well, that was it.
“Expensive sort of day, sir? Rail fares, hotel, champagne, something to eat …”
“Not really expensive, no. Off-peak day returns, one of the cheaper hotels, middle-range champagne, and we’d go to a pub for a sandwich at lunchtime. Hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty pounds—that would cover it.”
“You didn’t give Ms. James anything for her services?”
“It wasn’t like that. I think—I hope—she enjoyed being with me. But, yes, I did sometimes give her something. She was pretty short of money—you know, her mortgage, HP commitments, the rent on the clinic.”
“How much, sir?”
“A hundred pounds. Little bit more sometimes, perhaps.”
“Does Mrs. Storrs know about this?”
“No—and she mustn’t!” For the first time Lewis was aware of the sharp, authoritative tone in the Senior Fellow’s voice.
“How did you explain spending so much?”
“We have separate accounts. I give my wife a private allowance each month.”
Lewis grinned diffidently. “You could always have said they were donations to Oxfam.”
Storrs looked down rather sadly at the olive-green carpet. “You’re right. That’s just the sort of depths I would have sunk to.”
“Why didn’t you get in touch with us? We made several appeals for anybody who knew Rachel to come forward. We guaranteed every confidence.”
“You must understand, surely? I was desperately anxious not to get drawn into things in any way.”
“Nothing else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was someone trying to blackmail you, sir, about your affair with her?”
“Good God, no! What on earth makes you think that?”
Lewis drank the rest of his never-hot now-cold real coffee, before continuing quietly:
“I don’t believe you, sir.”
And slowly the truth, or some of it, was forthcoming.
Storrs had received a letter about a fortnight earlier from someone—no signature—someone giving a P.O. Box address; someone claiming to have “evidence” about him which would be shouted from the rooftops unless a payment was duly made.
“Of?” asked Lewis.
“Five thousand pounds.”
“And you paid it?”
“No. But I was stupid enough to send a thousand, in fifty-pound notes.”
“And did you get this ‘evidence’ back?”
Storrs again looked down at the carpet, and shook his head.
“You didn’t act very sensibly, did you, sir?”
“In literary circles, Sergeant, that is what is called ‘litotes.’ ”
“Did you keep the letter?”
“No,” lied Storrs.
“Did you keep a note of the P.O. Box number?”
“No,” lied Storrs.
“Was it care of one of the local newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“Oxford Mail?”
“Oxford Times.”
The living room door opened, and there entered a darkly elegant woman, incongruously wearing a pair of sunglasses, and dressed in a black trouser-suit—“Legs right up to the armpits,” as Lewis was later to report.
Mrs. Angela Storrs briefly introduced herself, and picked up the empty cups.
“Another coffee, Sergeant?”
Her voice was Home Counties, rather deep, rather pleasing.
“No thanks. That was lovely.”
Her eyes smiled behind the sunglasses—or Lewis thought they smiled. And as she closed the living room door softly behind her, he wondered where she’d been throughout the interview. Outside the door, perhaps, listening? Had she heard what her husband had said? Or had she known it all along?
Then the door quietly opened again.
“You won’t forget you’re out this evening, darling? You haven’t all that much time, you know.”
Lewis accepted the cue and hurried on his questioning apace:
“Do you mind telling me exactly what you were doing between seven A.M. and eight A.M. last Monday, sir?”
“Last Monday morning? Ah!” Lewis sensed that Julian Storrs had suddenly relaxed—as if the tricky part of the examination was now over—as if he could safely resume his wonted donnish idiom.
“How I wish every question my students asked were susceptible to such an unequivocal answer! You see, I was in bed with my wife and we were having sex together. And why do I recall this so readily, Sergeant? Because such an occurrence has not been quite so common these past few years; nor, if I’m honest with you, quite so enjoyable as once it was.”
“Between, er, between seven and eight?” Lewis’s voice was hesitant.
“Sounds a long time, you mean? Huh! You’re right. More like twenty past to twenty-five past seven. What I do remember is Angela—Mrs. Storrs—wanting the news on at half past She’s a great Today fan, and she likes to know what’s going on. We just caught the tail end of the sports news—then the main headlines on the half-hour.”
“Oh!”
“Do you believe me?”
“Would Mrs. Storrs remember … as clearly as you, sir?”
Storrs gave a slightly bitter-sounding laugh. “Why don’t you ask her? Shall I tell her to come through? I’ll leave you alone.”
“Yes, I think that would be helpful.”
Storrs got to his feet and walked toward the door.
“Just one more question, sir.” Lewis too rose to his feet. “Don’t you think you were awfully naive to send off that money? I think anyone could have told you you weren’t going to get anything back—except another blackmail note.”
Storrs walked back into the room.
“Are you a married man, Sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“How would you explain—well, say a photograph like the one you showed me?”
Lewis took out the passport photo again.
“Not too difficult, surely? You’re a well-known man, sir—quite a distinguished-looking man, perhaps? So let’s just say one of your admiring undergraduettes sees you at a railway station and says she’d like to have a picture taken with you. You know, one of those ‘Four color photos in approximately four minutes’ places. Then she could carry the pair of you around with her, like some girls carry pictures of pop stars around.”
Storrs nodded. “Clever idea! I wish I’d thought of it. Er … can I ask you a question?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you still only a sergeant?”
Lewis made no comment on the matter, but asked a final question:
“You’re standing for the Mastership at Lonsdale, I understand, sir?”
“Ye-es. So you can see, can’t you, why all this business, you know …?”
“Of course.”
Storrs’ face now suddenly cleared.
“There are just the two of us: Dr. Cornford—Denis Cornford—and myself. And may the better man win!”
He said it lightly, as if the pair of them were destined to cross swords in a mighty game of Scrabble—and called through to Angela, his wife.
Chapter Thirty-five
Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterward.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Poor Richard’s Almanack
In Oxford that same early evening the clouds were inkily black, the forecast set for heavy rain, with most of those walking along Broad Street or around Radcliffe Square wearing raincoats and carrying umbrellas. The majority of these people were students making their way to College Halls for their evening meals, much as their predecessors had done in earlier times, passing through the same streets, past the same familiar buildings, and later returning to the same sort of accommodation, and in most cases doing some work for the morrow, when they would be listening to the same sort of lectures. Unless, perhaps, they were students of Physics or some similar discipline where breakthroughs (“Breaksthrough, if we are to be accurate, dear boy”) were as regular as inaccuracies in the daily weather forec
asts.
But that evening the forecast was surprisingly accurate; and at 6:45 P.M. the rains came.
Denis Cornford looked out through the window at Holywell Street where the rain bounced off the surface of the road like arrowheads. St. Peter’s (Dinner, 7:00 for 7:30 P.M.) was only ten minutes’ walk away but he was going to get soaked in such a downpour.
“What do you think, darling?”
“Give it five minutes. If it keeps on like this, I should get a cab. You’ve got plenty of time.”
“What’ll you be doing?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be venturing out too far, do you?” She said it in a gentle way, and there seemed no sarcasm in her voice. She came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders as he stood indecisively staring out through the sheeted panes.
“Denis?”
“Mm?”
“Do you really want to be Master all that much?”
He turned toward her and looked directly into her dazzlingly attractive dark eyes, with that small circular white light in the center of their irises—eyes which had always held men, and tempted them, and occasioned innumerable capitulations.
“Yes, Shelly. Yes, I do! Not quite so badly as Julian, perhaps. But badly enough.”
“What would you give—to be Master?”
“Most things, I suppose.”
“Give up your work?”
“A good deal of that would go anyway. It would be different work, that’s all.”
“Would you give me up?”
He took her in his arms. “Of course, I would!”
“You don’t really mean—?”
He kissed her mouth with a strangely passionate tenderness.
A few minutes later they stood arm-in-arm at the window looking out at the ceaselessly teeming rain.
“I’ll ring for a cab,” said Shelly Cornford.
On Mondays the dons’ attendance at Lonsdale Dinner was usually fairly small, but Roy Porter would be there, Angela Storrs knew that: Roy Porter was almost always there. She rang him in his room at 6:55 P.M.
“Roy?”
“Angela! Good to hear your beautiful voice.”