by Colin Dexter
“Dishonest.”
“Yes … and messy.”
The hard lines on Morse’s face relaxed somewhat. “You can hardly expect the sort of classical economy and purity of line you get when you’re working with me! Crawford’s a cretin—that’s common knowledge, isn’t it?”
“No he’s not! It’s just that—well, I don’t honestly think he’s all that bright.”
“Your judgement is reasserting itself, Sergeant.”
Lewis was silent.
“Come on. You know you’re dying to tell me all about it.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with it.”
“How right you are!” snapped Morse bitterly.
He got up and took his mackintosh off its peg.
A persistent drizzle had stippled the window that looked out over the car-park—a window through which Lewis had so often seen Morse gazing as he grappled in his mind with the problems of a case.
Saw him so gazing now; but only for a few seconds, before he put on his mackintosh and walked to the door.
“Make sure you lock up! If there’s some crook around prepared to pinch an empty can of Beamish, what the hell’s he going to do with my Glenfiddich? Goo’ night!”
The door slammed, and Morse was gone.
But Lewis heard no footsteps along the corridor; and twenty seconds later the door re-opened slowly, and Morse stepped back into his office.
“It would help, Lewis, wouldn’t it, if you told me what’s worrying you.”
“Yes,” replied Lewis simply.
“You should have told me earlier.”
“You looked, well, pretty grim, sir.”
“What? Oh, that! That was just me—not you. Six minutes—to the second almost—with the crossword! Would have been just about the record—except for one clue: I couldn’t do 14 across. Still can’t do bloody 14 across.”
“Shall I have a look at it?”
“You? Fat lot o’ use that’d be!”
Lewis looked down at the threadbare patch of off-white carpet on his own side of Morse’s desk.
“If you could spare five minutes, sir—I’d feel a lot happier.”
Morse took off his mackintosh, replaced it on its peg, and resumed his seat in the black-leather armchair behind his desk.
(ix)
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
(Hebrews, ch. 11, v. 1)
As Morse now began to see, Crawford’s scheme hardly matched the strategic genius of Napoleon at Austerlitz, or NASA in planning one of its moon missions …
At 20:30, an hour after lighting-up time, on Thursday, 31 March, Muldoon, handcuffed to a police officer, his head concealed from any inquisitive public or press intrusion beneath a grey prison blanket, would be taken from Oxford Prison in an unmarked police van. The outing had already been sanctioned (no problem) “in pursuance of corroborative or associative evidence.” No one had ever understood this long-winded phrase, yet it had the merit of sounding most impressive.
The prisoner would be taken first to Jericho, then to Botley; shown over the two properties in question; and invited, on each occasion, to make a brief statement. This, in truth, in the interests of verisimilitude only. Yet (as Crawford maintained) there was always just the possibility that Muldoon would say something of value. Prisoners had grassed in the past; prisoners would grass in the future.
Thereafter things would become a little more complicated.
Muldoon would then be informed that the reward for his co-operation lay some ten miles away, along the A40, in a police-house in Witney. In fact, the van would be driven out from Botley on to the western Ring Road; and, after a suitably convincing “ten-mile” detour, would land up in the Blackbird Leys Estate, on the eastern side of Oxford, beyond the Rover car-plant at Cowley.
At which point, Crawford’s careful, albeit clumsy, planning would enter its critical phase.
The outward appearance of Bannister Close might well be fairly familiar to Muldoon. Although he had visited the flat only once (as it appeared) there was the real possibility that he might recognize some aspect of the block—its architectural style, its black-painted balcony, the colours of its doors and windows—even in semi-darkness. And no risks could be taken.
Therefore …
Muldoon, still handcuffed, would be dropped off at the rear of the block, where a main road ran behind the back of the properties. In the interests of public safety a five-foot fence of vertical wooden slats had been erected to separate this road from Bannister Close. But as in so many parts of the Estate, vandals had been at work here too, and several irregular gaps had been kicked through the fencing; and (Crawford had done his homework) there was a most convenient opening, two or three feet wide, in the stretch almost immediately behind Number 14.
Easy.
And since a fairly steep grassy slope led down from the fence to the concreted path running beside the rear entrance to the flats, it seemed wholly unlikely that a man with only one leg was going to be too deeply engrossed in his environment.
The flat originally raided was on the first floor, with access only via an external stairway, one at each end of the block. But by a stroke of good fortune, the flat beneath it, on the ground floor, was empty; had been empty for several months—the For Sale notice stuck into the scratty patch of weedy waste which passed itself off in the property’s specification as “a small front garden.” And it was to be in the living-room of this flat (Crawford had decreed) that the scene was to be set: off screen, and on screen, as it were.
One of Crawford’s old colleagues, now a senior member of the Obscene Publications Squad—a man with the not inappropriate name of Cox—would be providing an outsize TV screen, together with a veritable feast of video-sex for the viewers. Only five viewers though: Cox himself, Crawford, Wilkins, Lewis—and Muldoon.
An inviting tray of Beamish stout would be available, and the four police officers would each nonchalantly help themselves from it, drinking straight from the cans—no glasses! And a man who had tasted no alcohol for a week—and an Irishman, to boot—would surely speedily succumb.
And if he didn’t? Well, no real worry.
Quite a few props would be required to set the stage and—wait for it!—behold now Crawford’s coup de grâce! A ridiculously oversized furniture-van had been hired to convey a carpet, four chairs, a settee, a table, a large TV set …
Wait!
… and this van would still be parked outside the property when, after the final curtain, Muldoon would emerge—through the front door. And there, bang in front of him, instead of a potentially recognizable prospect, would stand the great pantechnicon, blocking anything and everything—particularly the council houses opposite.
And now—O Napoleon!—mark a stroke of rare genius. Not only would the van serve to bring the props; not only would it conceal the view over that unlovely neighbourhood; it would also house the photographer, who would once more capture Muldoon on film outside the very place of which earlier he had so vehemently denied all knowledge. This time, though, from much closer quarters—from behind a grille (removed) in the side of the van, with a camera loaded with 1000 ASA film, and positioned on a tripod to prevent any shake.
And that would be that. A whole series of shots this time. And (Crawford had averred) if DC Watson or some other incompetent idiot lost those, then good luck to Muldoon and his co-criminals! The police wouldn’t deserve to catch, or the courts to convict them.
But that wouldn’t happen again.
For Muldoon it would be back to Oxford. Back to prison. And very soon, if there were any justice in life, back to prison for life. For whatever the dishonesty of the scheme devised against him, Muldoon was a cruel and murderous bastard.
There could be no mistake on that score.
(x)
If I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behaviour.
(Henry David Thoreau)
Such was Lewis’
s account—of Crawford’s account—itself, in turn, transmuted in Morse’s mind to the heightened version presented to the reader in the preceding paragraphs.
When it was finished, Morse looked almost as puzzled as (apparently) the prisoner himself had looked earlier.
“Has Muldoon got any idea that things have gone missing?”
“Seems not, sir.”
“He must be suspicious, though—about being offered something for nothing? It’s surely very improbable, isn’t it, that he’s going to spill any beans?”
“We do get informers, though. And they get paid.”
“Unusual currency—sex-videos.”
“Well, that’s his particular taste, according to Crawford. They found dozens of ’em in his room. Not natural, is it?”
“Not all that un-natural, would you say?”
“Have you seen some of these videos?”
“No, Lewis. Unlike you, I’ve lived a very sheltered life. I have tried to get invited along to one of these porno-parties, but everybody seems to think I’m above such things.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy ’em, sir. They make you feel—well, cheap, somehow.”
“Perhaps most of us are cheap.”
Lewis shook his head. “And goodness knows what the missus would say if she knew.”
“Need she know?”
“You’d understand better if you were married, sir.”
Morse was silent for a short while before continuing. “I’ll tell you one thing: I wish I could understand Crawford better. Why doesn’t he do things a bit more simply?”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Well, if he’s lost a beer-can, why doesn’t he just give the fellow another beer-can—and then stick it in the exhibits locker?”
“I’m not sure. But I think he feels it’ll salve his conscience a bit if it comes from Blackbird Leys, you know—not from the prison.”
“What’s the difference? It’s dishonest either way.”
“You’d have to ask Crawford that. I don’t know.”
“And why not just fiddle the photo? I know a Spanish chap—name of McSevich—”
“Spanish? With a name like that?”
“Like you, Lewis, I am not privy to some of the greater mysteries in life. All I know is that this chap’s a wizard with a camera. He can stick a ghost in the middle of a group-photograph—all that sort of fake stuff. He can probably let you have a snap of the Home Secretary outside a strip-club—in his jock-strap.”
“In the dark.”
Morse grinned. “No problem.”
“That would be even more dishonest, though.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I think—I think I understand why Crawford’s doing it this way.”
“You do? Well, tell me. Come on! Come on, Lewis! Try!”
Lewis took a deep breath. It was going to be difficult—but he would try.
“Look at it this way, sir. If I—let’s say I was being unfaithful to the missus and going off somewhere with a lady-friend. Let’s say I’d told the missus I was going by train—but I wasn’t really going by train at all, because this lady-friend was going to pick me up in her car somewhere, all right?”
“Lewis, I look at you in a completely new light!”
“It’s just that I’d rather have a taxi actually take me to the station, and get picked up there—rather than meet in St. Giles’ or somewhere. I know you wouldn’t understand something like that, but …”
“But I do,” said Morse quietly. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Lewis felt encouraged to add a gloss: “It’s as if Crawford’s only prepared to be dishonest in an honest sort of way.”
Morse recited the couplet that had been going through his mind:
“Honour rooted in Dishonour stood,
And Faith, unfaithful, kept him falsely true.”
“Who wrote that, sir?”
“Forget.”
Morse rose from his desk, a final thought striking him.
“You know, if your prisoner’s going to be handcuffed all the while, it’s bound to be a funny old photo, isn’t it? Won’t it give the game away?”
“No. He’s only got one leg. And he couldn’t scarper if he wanted to. Even you could catch him if he tried anything on, sir.”
“Thank you very much!”
Lewis too rose from his chair, reluctantly, unhappily—and made his decision.
“I’m going back to see Inspector Crawford. I’m not having anything to do with it. I’m letting him down, I know—after what I told him. But I—it’s just not on. I can’t do it. He’ll have to find somebody else.”
Morse came round the desk and placed a hand on Lewis’s shoulder.
“You get off home and see the missus. Leave all this to me. I’ll go along and see Crawford myself. Have no fears!”
“You’re sure, sir?”
“Absolutely. There’ll be no trouble finding somebody to take your place.”
After Lewis had gone, Morse walked over to the window, and spent several minutes gazing out across the car-park.
(xi)
All men are tempted. There is no man that lives that can’t be broken down, provided it is the right temptation, put in the right spot.
(Henry Ward Beecher, Proverbs from a
Plymouth Pulpit)
When, after Muldoon, he had squeezed himself through the gap in the fencing, Morse stood beside his charge and unlocked the handcuffs—almost immediately to realize that the man with only one leg and an elbow-crutch was considerably more nimble than he in negotiating the grassy slope at the rear of the Bannister Close flats.
But Muldoon was patiently waiting for his escort, on the concreted path, when Morse finally effected his descent, the palm of his left hand ever reaching out for support to the side wall of a row of sheds in which the residents of the block doubtless stored bicycles, and old lawnmowers, and (inevitably) virtually empty pots of house-paint.
The ground here was liberally littered with crisp and cigarette packets and all the usual detritus of a run-down neighbourhood: a circumstance most grievous to Chief Inspector Morse. But the first part of the operation had been accomplished successfully, and sufficient light was thrown from the lace-curtained, white-painted windows there for Morse to see exactly where they were. Behind the kitchen window of Number 13, beside a carton of Persil washing-powder, was a “Vote Conservative” poster, propped upside-down against a broken pane.
Morse had done his homework too.
“Sh!”
Morse raised a finger to his lips, then pointed across to the right—towards the far end of the flats. He spoke very quietly:
“Let me know if you hear a whistle. That’ll be Sergeant Wilkins, giving us the all-clear.”
Muldoon nodded.
“Or if you hear anything else for that matter,” mumbled Morse, moving over to Muldoon’s right.
For half a minute or so, the two men stood there side by side, unmoving, silent.
No noise.
Then, all of a sudden, to the left, at some point at the side of the sheds, there was the sound of a metal dust-bin lid, as if blown off its base in a gust of wind and now rumbling in a decelerating circle.
Muldoon whipped himself round immediately to face the direction whence the rattle had originated, crouching down instinctively, and remaining frozen for several seconds—both he and Morse (the latter still facing the opposite way) experiencing a frisson of fear, though each for a different reason.
“Wha’s tha’?” whispered Muldoon.
But Morse made no answer, and the night, beneath the darkly overcast sky, was wholly still once more.
No more noise at all, in fact; and if there had been a low whistle from the far end of the block, it was heard by neither escort nor prisoner.
Instead, Inspector Crawford now appeared at the double-fronted glass doors slightly further along; and first Muldoon, then Morse, stepped over the threshold into the living-room of
Number 13 Bannister Close.
(xii)
High definition is the state of being well filled with data. A photograph is, visually, ‘high definition.’
(Marshal McLuhan, Understanding Media)
Although he had lost his religious faith many years since, Morse still retained a sort of residual religiosity; and two days after the bizarre incidents just described, he was seated, in mid-morning, in his North Oxford flat, listening with awesome reverence to the Fauré Requiem—when the door-bell rang.
“Can I come in, Morse?” Ill-at-ease, on the doorstep, stood Inspector Crawford.
“Look,” he began, seated a minute later opposite Morse in the lounge. “I just want to thank you for your help, that’s all. I know you didn’t approve of what I did, but …”
“What’s gone wrong?” asked Morse, reluctantly switching off the CD player.
Crawford shook his head sadly. “Every bloody thing—that’s what! You remember that Beamish we had—”
“Much appreciated!”
“—it was a new thing of theirs. ‘Cask Pour,’ they call it.”
Morse knew all about such things: “All the flavour from a can you’d normally expect from a barrel—that’s the idea.”
“Yes, but that particular product only came onto the market on the 28th March—last Monday—you couldn’t get it before then. Big launch on the telly, in the papers …”
“So … so the can with Muldoon’s fingerprints on it …?”
“Yes! Couldn’t possibly have come from the flat at the time we raided it.”
“Will anybody notice, though?”
“Watson noticed.”
“Not PC Watson?”
“PC Watson!”
Morse raised his eyebrows. “I see what you mean,” he said slowly. “Not exactly an Einstein, is he?”
“And if he? noticed it …”
“Ye-es.”
“All that palaver, Morse—and I go and act like a greenhorn.”
“Never mind. You’ve got your photographs.”
“No! They’re no bloody good either!”
“Don’t tell me your fellow forgot to put film in the camera?”
“Oh no. He took some fine photos. Marvellously clear—too bloody clear. You see, Muldoon almost never ventured out and about with his elbow-crutch—I’d forgotten that. And the original photo we took showed him with an artificial leg. Course it bloody did!”