by Colin Dexter
“The Super rang me, sir. You told him I was running you back home.”
“So what?”
“Well, I wasn’t was I?”
“What’s that got to do with Strange?”
“He was just checking up, that’s all.”
“Suspicious bugger!”
“He didn’t think you should be driving yourself.”
“You get off home. I’m fine.”
“You’re not, sir. You know you’re not.”
About to expostulate, suddenly Morse decided to capitulate.
“What was all that about, then?” asked Lewis, as they walked along the endless corridors towards the car-park.
(iv)
Barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.
(Mark Twain)
Behind them, in Crawford’s office, Sergeant Wilkins gave vent to his exasperation:
“A stuffed prick—that’s what he’s getting!”
“That’s unfair,” said Crawford quietly.
“But he doesn’t seem to understand. We’re not really planting evidence at all, are we? We’ve got the bloody evidence. It was all there.”
“Was all there,” agreed Crawford, dejectedly.
“How bloody unlucky can you get in life!”
Crawford was silent.
“You—you still going ahead with things, sir?”
“Look. I’ll never let Muldoon off the hook now. I’ll do anything to see that murderous sod behind bars!”
“Me, too. You know that.”
“It’s just that I’d have been happier in my own mind if Morse had been with us. He worries me, you see. ‘Cleverer ways’ he said …”
“Seems to me he’s more worried about keeping his nose clean than seeing justice done.”
“Got a pension to worry about, hasn’t he? He’s finishing with us soon.”
A sudden thought struck Sergeant Wilkins:
“He won’t … he wouldn’t say anything about it, would he?”
“Morse? Oh, no.”
“Some people blab a bit—especially when they’ve had a drop too much to drink.”
“Not Morse. He’s never had too much to drink, anyway—not as he sees things.”
“Not much help, though, is he?”
“No. And I’m disappointed about that, but …”
“But what, sir?”
Crawford took a deep breath. “It’s just that—well, I found it moving, what he said just now—you know, what he thought about what was valuable, what was important in life. The Super was saying exactly the same thing really, but … I dunno, compared with Morse he sounded sort of all big words and bull-shit—”
“Instead of all little words and horse-piss!”
“You’ve got him wrong, you know. He’s a funny bugger, I agree. But there’s a big streak of integrity somewhere in Morse.”
“Perhaps so. Perhaps I’m being very unfair.”
Crawford rose to his feet. “Not very unfair—don’t be too hard on yourself. Let’s just say he’s a stuffed shirt, shall we? That’d be a bit fairer than, er, than what you just called him.”
(v)
The colleague may be exceptionally think-headed, like Watson.
(Julian Symons, Bloody Murder)
The sole trouble with Malt Whisky, Morse maintained, was that it left one feeling rather thirsty; and he insisted that if Lewis really wished to learn what had transpired in Crawford’s office, it would have to be over a glass of beer.
Thus it was that, ten minutes after being driven from Kidlington Police HQ, Morse sat drinking a Lewis-purchased pint at the King’s Arms in Banbury Road, and spelling out Crawford’s unhappy dilemma …
Following information received, a flat in Bannister Close had been under police surveillance for several weeks. Patience had been rewarded, gradatim; and a dossier of interesting, suggestive, and potentially incriminating evidence had been accumulated.
At intermittent periods the flat, it was believed, served in three separate capacities: first, as a meeting-house for members of a terrorist cell (suspected of being responsible for the two recent bombing incidents in Oxford); second, as a store-house for explosive and bomb-making equipment; third, as a safe-house for any other member of the group on the run from elsewhere in the UK.
For the police to rush in where hardened terrorists were so fearful of treading would have been to miss a golden opportunity of smashing an entire cell and of arresting its ring-leaders. But, perforce, this softly-softly policy had been rescinded on the specific orders of the Home Office, following hot intelligence that a big step-up in terrorist activity was scheduled for mainland Britain in the spring. “Damage limitation”—that was the buzz-phrase now. All very well waiting patiently to net some of the big fish—very laudable, too!—but no longer justifiable in terms of potential civilian casualties.
Hence the slightly precipitate actions taken: first the raiding of the flat, empty of people yet full enough of explosive materials, bombing equipment, and fingerprints; second, the arrest of Kieran Dominic Muldoon, the only one of the shadowed terrorists who had established himself as “of fixed address” in the City of Oxford.
Not the best of outcomes, certainly, since the other birds had by now abandoned their nests; as they would have done in any case, unless they had been cornered en bloc … or unless Kieran Muldoon could now be “persuaded” in some way—bribed, cajoled, decoyed, lured, trapped—into betraying the whereabouts of his fellow fanatics … For example, there were two other properties being watched: one in Jericho; one out on the Botley Road.
There had been some little disappointment about the contents of Muldoon’s own small living-quarters in the Cowley Road: a technical manual on bomb-making, though, and some dozens of addresses, code-names, telephone numbers: almost enough evidence there, and all duly impounded and documented and despatched for forensic tests and all the rest of it—and finally, of course, to be exhibited.
And—and—in addition to all this, two little solidly connecting links between Muldoon’s bed-sit and Bannister Close.
Two little beauties!
The first, a can of Beamish stout, found under a sofa in the flat at Bannister Close, with Muldoon’s fingerprints daubed all over it. The second, a photograph of Muldoon himself, climbing the outside iron staircase leading up to the balconied first floor there: an unequivocal, unambiguous photograph—both of the place, yes, and of the man—with the left side of his face in profile; and a splendid view of that unmistakable ear, a segment sliced so neatly from the top.
In addition the police had a taped interview with Muldoon, as well as a signed statement—the latter containing a firm denial of his ever having been at the Blackbird Leys Estate, let alone in Bannister Close.
Every procedure had been scrupulously followed from the start: a comprehensive register of exhibits had been typed out and checked; the key “continuity” in the handling of these exhibits had been meticulously maintained; and the Exhibits Officer appointed was an experienced man, fully conversant with his specific responsibilities.
“Everything hunky-dory, Lewis. Except …”
“Don’t tell me they’ve lost something?”
“Not ‘they’; ‘he’.”
“The photo?”
“And the can!”
“Bloody hell! Who was he? Who is he?”
“Watson. Detective Constable Watson.”
“Poor chap!”
Morse grinned feebly. “Perhaps he never should have been a detective—not with a name like that.”
“How did he come to lose—?”
“Ah! That’s the good news, Lewis. He’s not exactly lost them at all, so he says.”
“What’s the bad news, then?”
“The bad news is he can’t find them. Nor can half a dozen other people—who’ve been through everything umpteen times.”
Lewis, a man who swore very rarely, surprised his chief a second time:
�
�Bloody hell!”
“And Crawford, my colleague and former friend Crawford—you’ll never believe this!—is planning to put them both back on the Exhibits Register: the can and the photo.”
“How on earth does he think—?”
“That’s where he thought I might come in.”
“Well, you can’t really blame him too much, perhaps.”
Morse looked up in amazement, his blue eyes penetratingly fierce upon those of his subordinate. He spoke in a chilling hiss:
“What—did—you—say?”
Lewis sought to stand his ground: “It’s not—I mean, it’s not as if he was fabricating the evidence, is it, sir?”
Morse exploded now, and several other customers turned round as they heard his furious rejoinder.
“What the hell is it, then—if it isn’t fabrication? Come on, man! For Christ’s sake tell me what you think it bloody well is!”
Lewis was badly taken aback. The blood had drained from his cheeks, and he could make no answer.
“Facilis descensus Averno,” mumbled Morse.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Forget it. And take me home!” Morse drained his beer and banged his glass down heavily on the table.
There was a supremely awkward silence between the two of them until the car pulled into Morse’s parking-space outside his North Oxford flat. Then it was Lewis who spoke:
“Inspector Crawford,” he said slowly and quietly, “was very kind to me when I first came to HQ—couple of years before I knew you. He’s a good man. He wouldn’t do anything that was basically unfair—I know that. So, if you will, sir, I want you to do me a big favour. I want you to go and see him, tell him that you told me about … things, and tell him that if I can do anything—”
But Morse cut him viciously short. “Look, my son! Don’t you start giving me bloody orders, all right?”
“I wasn’t really—”
“Shut up! And if you don’t forget all this bloody nonsense—now!—you stop being my sergeant, is that clear? And you won’t be anybody else’s bloody sergeant, either—not while I’m in the Force! You’ll be queuing up for your dole money, like plenty of other poor sods. Is that understood?”
Morse got out of the car and slammed the door shut with an almighty bang.
(vi)
U-turn: a turn made by a vehicle reversing into the direction of oncoming traffic, recommended only when there appear no signs of oncoming traffic.
(Small’s Enlarged English Dictionary, 12th edition)
Next morning, with extreme reluctance, with deep distaste—and with considerable embarrassment—Morse called into Crawford’s office, and did his sergeant’s bidding.
(vii)
Television is more interesting than people. If it were not, we should have people standing in the corners of our rooms.
(Alan Coren, The Times)
He was being treated fairly well—better than he deserved or expected—Muldoon knew that Even Crawford had been pretty reasonable: distanced, unsmiling, yes—but not positively unpleasant. Told him about his rights: his right to receive a few visitors (he didn’t want any of them!); to wear his own clothes; to have food brought in to him—if he could afford it, if he wanted it; to share in the recreational facilities provided, including TV and snooker …
So tight, the supervision though—oppressive, constricting supervision. How he longed to be out somewhere: out in the streets, out in a car, out in a pub—out anywhere.
Oh, Jesus!
With naked lust he looked at a photograph of a naked model taken in the sun, in the Sun, when the door of his cell was unlocked and Crawford (again!) came in.
It was all about those houses (again!)—those other houses the police had been watching: the Jericho house—the “safe-house,” as Muldoon had always known it; and that (much dodgier) semi-detached, semi-derelict little property out on the Botley Road. Why did Crawford keep going on about those bloody houses?
Why?
“You stayed in either of them, Muldoon?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Any of your friends ever stayed there?”
“Stayed where?”
“Well, let’s talk about Jericho first, shall we?”
“Where?”
“Jericho.”
“I thought Jericho was near Jerusalem.”
“What about Botley Road?”
“Which road?”
“You know, just down past the station.”
“You mean the bus station?”
“No. The railway station.”
“Never bin down there. Don’t think so.”
“All right. So why not come out with us? Just to have a look, that’s all.”
“No chance.”
“Might jog the memory, you never know.”
“No memory to jog, is there?”
“You said you’d never been to Blackbird Leys.”
“So?”
“We’ve got a photo of you there.”
“So you say.”
“Why not come out and have a quick look at these other places, that’s all we ask.”
“No point, is there?”
Crawford half rose to his feet. “Pity, you know. We could have made life that little bit easier for you, one way or another.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Look, Muldoon. We don’t expect you to shop your mates. All I’m saying is this: if you agree to come out and make a couple o’ statements—even if they’re a load of rubbish …”
Muldoon not only looked puzzled; he was puzzled.
“What’s it you’re after! How the hell’s it going to help you if—”
But Crawford, risen to his feet, now brusquely cut short Muldoon’s protestations.
“No! You’re right. It’s not going to help much at all, is it? It was just that …”
“Yeah? Just what?” Muldoon leaned forward, interested in spite of himself; and Crawford slowly sat down again on the hard, upright chair.
“Look, lad! Let me put my cards on the table. It’s going to be bloody difficult for you to stay out of prison—this time, I know that—you know that. And shall I tell you something else? It’s one helluva job—even for me—to get you out of this place, even for an hour or two; even to buy you a ride on one of the Tourist Buses. D’you know how many signatures I’d need for that—apart from the Governor’s?”
Jesus!
Muldoon looked down at the floor as Crawford continued.
“There’s only two ways we can give you any little outing. One’s if you get transferred somewhere—up to Bullingdon Prison, say. Not very likely that, though, for a few weeks yet. And the other’s if you’d agree to … But I’m wasting my breath. Pity though! As I say, we could have made it worth your while—well worth your while …”
Muldoon suddenly squared his mouth, and bared a set of ugly, deeply nicotined teeth.
“Come on! Spill it, Crawford. What’s in it for me?”
“Not much. We couldn’t afford to give you a season-ticket at the local knocking-shop, but …”
“But what?”
“Next best thing, perhaps?”
“Yeah? And what’s that s’posed to mean?”
Crawford sighed. “I can’t make any marvellous promises—you know that. But if you agreed to keep your mouth shut—like we would …”
“Go on!”
“Well, what do you want? Fags? Booze? Money? Sex-videos? …”
Muldoon shook his head, albeit indecisively.
“OK. Well, that settles it, then.” Crawford rose quickly to his feet now, this time with a purposiveness heralding an imminent departure.
But Muldoon was on his feet too.
“When d’you reckon—when could this have bin? With the videos, say?”
Crawford shrugged indifferently. ‘Tomorrow? Day after? Not quite sure, really. It’s just that we got some pretty hot stuff in last week—from Denmark�
��and one or two of the lads thought they ought just to give it, you know, give it the once-over.”
“How long would they be? Watching that stuff?”
“Dunno, really. Couple of hours? Bit longer? Till the booze runs out? Some of ’em tell me they get a little bit bored—after a while. But I don’t reckon they’re going to get bored too quickly with this little lot.”
Muldoon sat silent for a while.
Muldoon sat silent for a considerable while.
Finally he breathed in deeply, held his breath—and exhaled, noisily.
Then he lit yet another cigarette.
And another little corner of his resolution was collapsing. Had collapsed.
“Tomorrow, you say?”
Phew!
Outside the re-locked room, Inspector Crawford also exhaled, though silently. And to Sergeant Wilkins, standing at the far end of the corridor, he gave a faint smile, and raised his right fist to shoulder-level, the thumb upstandingly proud like some membrum virile blessed with a joyous erection.
(viii)
The fastest recorded time for completing The Times crossword under test conditions is 3 minutes 45 seconds, by Mr. Roy Dean, of Bromley, Kent.
(The Guinness Book of Records)
After returning from Inspector Crawford’s room late that same afternoon, Sergeant Lewis found Morse seated at his desk, The Times in front of him, looking grim—and smoking a cigarette. It seemed to Lewis, in view of the tight-lipped taciturnity hitherto observed between the pair of them throughout the day, that it was the latter activity which afforded the more promising ice-breaker.
“I thought you’d given up, sir?”
“I have—many times. In fact I’ve given up smoking more often than anyone else in the history of the habit. By rights I should have a paragraph all to myself in The Guinness Book of Records.”
The tone of Morse’s words was light enough, perhaps, but the underlying mood was sombre.
And Lewis, too, as he sat down, looked far from happy with himself.
“You told me off good and proper last night, didn’t you, sir? And I deserved it. You were right To be truthful, I wish I’d taken a bit more notice of you.”
“Why this sudden change of heart?”
“Well, it’s getting … it’s getting all a bit involved and underhand—”