by Colin Dexter
'Yea! I seen 'im before - but I dunno about yesterday. As I said, I was out the back most o' the time - doin' the bits by the river.'
The river . . .
Morse thanked the man, and walked along to the ramp at the side of the flats, and down to a concreted area where five garages directly in front of him shielded the immediate view. Then, turning to his right, he came to a stretch of well-trimmed lawn that sloped down to the river, the far bank of which was policed by a row of severely pollarded willow trees. Here the water was green-scummed and semi-stagnant. But a bridge ('Residents Only’) led him across to the main channel of the Cherwell, where the water was still flowing fairly swiftly after the week's earlier rains, and where pieces of debris were intermittently knocking into the sides of the banks, and then turning and twisting, first one way then the other, like dodgem cars at the fun-fair. For several minutes Morse looked down at the turbid, turgid river; and his thoughts were as restless as the waters below him. Then, of a sudden, he nodded to himself firmly - and the look around his mouth was almost as arrogant as that of the late Theodore Kemp, who at some time, at some point, had recently been manoeuvred into these selfsame murky, swollen waters.
Lewis was waiting for him as he reached the road again. 'What now, sir?'
'What we need is a little liquid refreshment, and there's a little pub' - Morse got into the passenger seat - 'just along the road here.'
'Might as well walk, sir. It's only fifty yards.'
Morse said nothing, but sat where he was and picked up the Railway Gazette from the door-pocket and pretended to read it; then did read it - for a few seconds.
Lewis had backed the car a few feet down the ramp and was about to turn towards the Cherwell Arms when he heard his master's voice - a single hissed and incredulous blasphemy:
'Chrissst!'
'More clues, sir?'
'Look! Look at this!'
Lewis took the magazine and read through the brief article to which Morse was pointing:
GOLDEN OLDIES
Members of the GWR Preservation Society will learn with particular interest that w.e.f. 21st October the world-famous Torbay Express will be making a nostalgic return visit to a few stretches of its old track, and will first be housed for three weeks in Railway Shed 4 at Plymouth.
His eyes looked across to Morse's: 'And he said he'd seen the Torbay Express at Didcot, didn't he? It's in his statement, surely.'
Morse stared in front of him, his eyes a-glitter: 'He's a liar, Stratton is; he's a bloody liar!'
'Is - is that a 1990 magazine?' asked Lewis diffidently.
Morse turned to the colourful cover, then placed the magazine back casually into the door-pocket.
‘Well, sir?'
'September 1988,' said Morse, very quietly indeed.
‘What's it all mean?' asked Lewis, as he sat at the table, with a pint of Brakspear for Morse and a half of the same for himself. He had never understood why Morse almost always expected him to buy the beer. It was as though Morse believed that he, Lewis, was on some perpetual expense-account. 'You mean about Mrs Kemp?'
‘I mean about everything. I just don't know what's happening.' 'You think I do?'
'I thought you might have an idea.'
'Perhaps I have.' He drained his pint with extraordinary rapidity. 'Is it your round or mine?'
Lewis walked over to the bar with the single glass -almost happily.
Whilst he was gone, Morse turned to the back of The Times and had filled in the whole of the bottom right-hand quarter of the crossword when Lewis returned two minutes later.
'Do you always do crosswords that way round, sir?'
'Uh? Oh, yes! I always try solving problems by starting at the end - never the beginning.'
'I shall have to try that sometimes.'
'I didn't know you did crosswords, Lewis?'
'Yes! Me and the missus, we usually try to do the Daily Mirror Quick Crossword of an evening.'
'Oh!' said Morse, though without much wonderment in his voice. 'Well, let me tell you something. If I'm doing a crossword, and I think I'm getting stuck—'
‘Not that you do, sir.'
'No. Not that I do - not very often. But if by some freak mischance I do get a bit stuck, you know what I do?' 'Tell me!'
'I stop thinking about the problem. Then, when I come back to it? No problem at all!'
'Have we got a problem, sir?'
'Oh yes! That's why we need the break - the drinking break.' Morse took an almighty swig from his replenished pint, leaving only an inch of beer in the glass. 'Our problem is to find the connection between the theft of the jewel and the murder of Kemp. Once we find that... So the best thing to do is to think of something completely different. Tell me about something, Lewis - something that's got nothing to do with Mrs Kemp.'
'I was just thinking about those betting-slips, sir. They've got the time on them - the time the bet was placed.'
'I said something different, Lewis! Anything. Tell me anything! Tell me the name of your first girl-friend! Anything!'
'I can't, sir. Not for the minute. I just think I let Mrs Kemp down ... in a way.'
'What the hell are you talking about? It's me who let her down! How many times did you tell me I ought to see her?'
'Why do you think she tried . . . ?' 'How the hell do I know!' 'Just asked, that's all.' 'AH right. What do you think?'
'I suppose she just felt life wasn't worth living without him - without her husband.'
'You didn't feel that, though, when you met her, did you? From what you told me, you seemed to feel the opposite: life might have been worth living if he wasn't there.'
Yes, Lewis knew that Morse was right. He'd felt the anger and the bitterness of the woman - far more than any sense of anguish Or loss. He knew, too, that his lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him.
'You talk about giving your mind a rest, sir, but I shall have to give my body a bit of a rest soon. I'm knackered -absolutely knackered!'
'Go home, then! What's stopping you? I can always get Dixon—'
'I don't want to go home, sir. We've got the decorators in and I keep getting nagged about getting new carpets and new curtains and—'
Morse jumped up from the table, his face radiant: "You've done it, Lewis! You've done it again!'
Lewis too rose from his seat, a tired, bewildered expression across his honest features.
What had he just said?
41
Light thickens and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood
(Shakespeare, Macbeth)
It was a quarter-past six when Sheila Williams saw the police car draw up outside, and she answered the front door immediately.
'Come in, Inspector!' The colourless liquid in the glass she carried might just have been water, perhaps; but whatever it was she seemed unwontedly sober.
'No. I - we've got a lot to do. Look. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this - but Mrs Kemp tried to kill herself this afternoon.'
Sheila's right hand jumped to her mouth with a convulsive jerk: 'Oh, no!' she whispered.
'She took enough pills to kill a healthy elephant, Sheila, but fortunately a nurse found her - in time, we think. If only just.'
'Where—?'
'She's in the JR2. She's having the best care she could get anywhere.'
Sheila took a deep breath. 'Oh dear!' she managed to say in a broken voice as the tears began to trickle. Then, somewhat to Morse's embarrassment, she suddenly buried her head on his shoulder and clung tightly to him.
'Did she love him?' asked Morse gently.
'She possessed him!'
'But did she love him?'
Sheila Williams straightened herself and pulled away from him, searching her pockets for a handkerchief. Her voice was
almost fierce as she answered: 'No! I was the only one who really loved him.'
'Do you know anyone else who loved him? Was there someone else? A third woman in his life?'
Sheila shook her head i
n deep anguish.
'You quite sure about it, Sheila? It's so very important that you're honest with me,' urged Morse.
'He said not. He swore it!'
'And you believed him?'
She nodded, and wiped her eyes. And Morse nodded, too, and looked very sad.
'All right. Thank you.' He turned to go, but she called him back, the tears springing once more.
'Inspector - please!'
Morse turned, and laid his right hand lightly on her shoulder. 'No need to tell me, really. I know there was another woman in his life.'
Her 'yes' was barely audible.
'And I think you knew who it was.'
She nodded again.
'It was only recendy though, wasn't it, Sheila? Only recently that he'd started seeing Mrs Downes?'
Lewis, standing at the front gate, had managed to catch most of the exchanges; had watched Mrs Williams as she'd finally turned away from Morse in tearful distress. And now, as they got back into the car, both men sat in silence as they watched the light switched on in the front bedroom - and then the curtains being drawn across.
'Curtains!' said Morse, his voice sounding tired yet triumphant. 'As you said, Lewis - curtains.'
The Downes's house was in darkness, and the sound of the front-door bell seemed somehow to re-echo along empty passageways, around empty rooms. Morse looked at his watch: just after half-past six - and Downes would be meeting his wife at seven o'clock.
A wooden gate at the side of the house led to a neatly
tended garden at the back, the lawn sloping down to the river, with a path of paving stones laid along the middle, ending on the edge of the waters at what looked like a small landing-stage, perhaps once used to moor a small boat or punt, but apparently (as Lewis shone his torch across it) not in recent use.
'You think . . . ?' Lewis pointed down to the fast-flowing Cherwell.
'Launched from here? Yes, I do. Launched from here into eternity.' 'But when, sir? He wasn't back in Oxford—' 'All in good time, Lewis! For the moment, be a good boy-scout and shine your little torch over those back windows?'
As in the front, the windows here were fully curtained, all of them looking decidedly posh and new; and all of them with some approximation to those French pleats whose acquaintance Lewis had so recently made - and, if truth were told, Morse too.
'You see, Lewis,' began Morse, as the two strolled back to the front of the property, 'Kemp had grown tired of Sheila Williams and was starting out on a new conquest - the delectable Lucy Downes. Unfortunately for Kemp, however, Cedric Downes discovered the guilty pair in flagrante delicto, which as you will remember, Lewis, is the Latin for having your pants down. He's got to have a woman, has Kemp. His motto's amo amas amat it again. And he's at it again when Downes hits him with whatever's to hand; kills him; wonders where he's going to dump the corpse; can't dress him - far too difficult dressing a corpse—'
' 'Specially for a woman, sir.'
‘What?'
'Don't you think it might have been a jealous woman} Not a jealous man?' 'No, no, Lewis! Not Sheila Williams.' 'She left the group, though - she went to the pub—' 'She hadn't got the time, Whoever killed Kemp had time: time to cart him off to the river, and dump him there - gently, Lewis - without even a splash to startle the cygnets . . .'
'But it couldn't have been like that. The times are all wrong.'
'Speak on, Lewis! Like the murderer, we've got plenty of time.'
We're waiting here, you mean?'
'Oh, yes! I'm very much looking forward to meeting Mr and Mrs Downes again.'
'And you think, in that suitcase of hers . . . ?'
But as the two detectives stood beside the car, the radio crackled into life.
'Lewis here!'
'Bad news, Sarge. Mrs Kemp died at the JR2 - fifty minutes ago. We've only just heard.'
Morse stood where he was, listening, and staring up at the sky as if viewing the unsuspected behaviour of some distant galaxy. His shoulders were sagging, and his face looked sad, and very weary.
'You look all in, sir.'
'Me? Don't talk so daft!' Morse looked quickly at his watch. 'He's meeting her in seven minutes! Put your foot down!' 'I thought you said we were waiting here?' 'Get on with it Lewis - and turn the bloody siren on!'
42
No one came
On the bare platform
(Edward Thomas, Adlestrop)
The police car drove into the Bus and Taxi area in front of the railway station. Across on Platform 2, the train from Paddington was just pulling in; and passengers were already beginning to stream across the new pedestrian bridge as Morse and Lewis first ascended, then descended the steps, darting challenging looks around them as they dodged their way through the bustling contra-flow.
The train still stood at the platform; and a group of Post Office workers were lobbing a stack of bulging mail-bags into the guard's van. And there - yes, there right in front of them! - passing from one window to another, peering into each of the carriages, his face drawn and anxious, was Cedric Downes. Morse placed a restraining hand on Lewis's arm, and the two of them stood watching the man while two or three heavily luggaged travellers finally made their way along the platform. Soon Downes had reached the last carriage, in front of the diesel locomotive, staring quickly through the windows of the compartment as the few doors still remaining open were banged shut and a whistle blew, and with a slight chug and then with a mighty heave the long, north-bound train began slowly to move forward, gradually picking up a little speed, before moving out and away along the curving stretch of line that led to Banbury.
Downes looked down at his wristwatch, and at last turned away, walking back along the bare platform towards the footbridge - where he was confronted by the bulk of the broad-shouldered Lewis.
'Good evening, sir. We have met before.'
Downes seemed slightly surprised - but hardly more than that: 'It's about Theo, I suppose? Theo Kemp?'
'Er - yes.' Lewis hardly managed to climb up to any plateau of assertiveness.
'Well, I've nothing more to tell you, I'm afraid. Nothing I can add to the statement I've already—'
'Meeting your wife, Mr Downes?' interrupted Morse.
'Pardon? Just a minute, Inspector! I. . . just a minute, please.' Downes fitted a hearing-aid taken from his pocket into his right ear, the aid prompdy emitting a series of shrill whistles as he fiddled rather fecklessly with the controls.
'I was asking whether you were meeting—' bawled Morse - to no avail, as it appeared.
'If you'll just bear with me a few minutes, gentlemen, I'll just nip along to the car, if I may. I always keep a spare aid in the glove compartment.' The beseeching grin around the slightly lop-sided mouth gave his face an almost schoolboyish look.
Morse gestured vaguely: 'Of course. We'll walk along with you, sir.'
In front of the railway station, a second police car (summoned by a confident Morse as Lewis had driven him from North Oxford) was now waiting, and the Chief Inspector nodded a perfunctory greeting to the two detective-constables who sat side by side in the front seats as they watched, and awaited, developments; watched the three men walk over to the twenty-minute waiting-area set aside for those meeting passengers from British Rail journeys - an area where parking cost nothing at all; watched them as they passed through that area and walked into the main car-park, with the bold notice affording innocent trespassers the clearest warning:
PARKING FOR BRITISH RAIL
PASSENGERS ONLY. FOR OTHER USERS WITHOUT PARKING-TOKENS, £10 PER DAY
'Mind telling me, sir, why you didn't just wait in the twenty-minute car-park? Parking where you have done seems a rather unnecessary expense, doesn't it? Doesn't it. . . ?'
'Pardon, Inspector? If you give me just a second ... a second or two . . . just. . .'
Downes took a bunch of car-keys from his pocket, opened the door of a British-Racing-Green MG Metro, got into the driver's seat, and leaned over left to open the g
love compartment.
Both Morse and Lewis stood, rather warily, beside the car as Downes began to fiddle (once more) with a hearing-aid - one which looked to them suspiciously like the model that had earlier given rise to such piercing oscillation.
There we are then!' said Downes, as he got out of the car and faced them, his face beaming with an almost childlike pleasure. 'Back in the land of the living! I think you were trying to say something, Inspector?'
'No. I wasn't trying to say anything, Mr Downes. I was saying something. I was saying how odd it seemed to me that you didn't park your car in the twenty-minute car-park.'
'Ah! Well, I did in a way. I seem to have collected an awful lot of those parking-tokens over the last few months. You see, I often have to go to London and sometimes I don't get back until pretty late. And late at night the barrier here where you slip in your parking-token is often open, and you can just drive straight through.'
'But why waste one of your precious tokens?' persisted Morse.
'Ah! I see what you're getting at. I'm a very law-abiding citizen, Inspector. I came here a bit early this evening, and I didn't want to risk any of those clamps or fines or anything. There's an Antiques Fair this week just along Park End Street, and I'd got my eye on a little set of drawers, yew-wood veneer. Lucy's birthday's coming up, November the seventh ..'
'And then you called in the Royal Oxford, no doubt?'
'I did not, I no longer drink and drive. Never!'
'Some people do, sir,' said Morse. 'It's the most common cause of road accidents, you know.'
There was a silence between the three men who now. stood slightly awkwardly alongside the MG Metro. Downes, as it appeared, had read the situation adequately, and was expecting to accompany the policemen - well, somewhere! -and he opened the driver's door of the Metro once more. But Morse, leaning slightly towards him, opened his right palm, like a North-African Berber begging for alms.