Colin Dexter: The Daughters of Cain

‘What is it?’

‘Promise me one thing?’

‘If I can.’

‘You won’t open it till you get home tonight.’

‘If you say so.’

Morse suddenly felt very moved; felt very lost, very helpless, very upset.

‘Well — that’s it then. That’s all I came for… really.’

‘I’ll ring you when I’ve opened it, I promise.’

‘Only when you get home.’

‘Only when I get home.’

‘You’ve got a note of my number, haven’t you?’

‘I have it by heart.’

‘I have to go. Hope you’ll like it.’ She managed to speak the words; but only just as she picked up St Anthony and fondled him between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. And almost, for a moment or two, as they stood there, it was as if they might embrace; but the Assistant Chief Constable suddenly came through Reception, raising his hand to Morse in friendly greeting.

She turned away; and left.

As she stepped out of the building, a red BMW was beside her immediately; and she got in, casting one lingering look behind her as she locked her safety-belt.

‘I was rather hoping you’d bring her up, sir. She’s getting a bit of a smasher, that one, don’t you think?’

But Morse, reclosing the door quietly behind him, made no reply. Suddenly his life seemed joyless and desolate.

‘Coffee, sir?’ asked Lewis in a low voice, perhaps understanding many things.

Morse nodded.

After Lewis was gone, he didn’t wait.

He couldn’t wait.

Inside the bluebell-patterned wrapping-paper was a small, silver, delicately curving hip-flask.

Oh God!

The letter enclosed with it bore no salutation:

My mum rung me up and told me everything, but she never killed him. I know that better than anybody because I killed him.

I’m not much cop at writing but I wish we could have gone out for shampers together again. That was the happiest night of my life, because for some cockeyed reason I loved you with all the love I’ve got. I hope you like the little present. I wish I could finish this letter in the way I’d like to but I can’t quite think of the right words, you know I’m trying though. If only you’d known how much I wanted you to kiss me in the taxi so some few kisses now from me

Unmanned with anguish, Morse turned away as Lewis came back with the coffee, folded the letter carefully, and put it in a drawer of his desk.

Neither man spoke.

Then Morse opened the drawer, took out the letter, and passed it over to Lewis.

The silence persisted long after Lewis had read it.

Finally Morse got to his feet. ‘If I ever see her again, Lewis, I shall have to tell her that “rang” is the more correct form of the past tense of the verb “to ring”, when used transitively.’

‘I don’t think she’d mind very much what you told her,’ said Lewis very quietly.

Morse said nothing.

‘Mind if I have a look at the present, sir?’

Morse passed over the hip-flask.

‘Remember that crossword clue, Lewis? “Kick in the pants?” — three-hyphen-five?’

Lewis nodded and smiled sadly.

Hip-flask.

‘You must admit what a trusting, stupid brain I’ve got, Lewis. “Don’t open it till you get home,” she said, and I just thought that…’

‘ Numquam animus , sir, as you tell me the ancient Romans used to say.’

‘We’d better get along there.’

‘You think she’s done a bunk?’

‘Sure she has.’

‘With Davies?’

‘Has Davies got a red BMW?’

‘Not unless he’s changed his car.’

‘I wonder if it’s that randy sod from Reading. Where’s his card?’

‘The traffic boys’ll be able to tell us in a couple of ticks.’

‘Can’t wait that long.’

He found the card, the number — and dialled, informing the woman who answered that he was ringing from police HQ about a stolen car, a red BMW, and he was just checking to make sure…

Mr Williamson was out, Morse learned. But there was no need to worry. He did have a red BMW all right, but it hadn’t been stolen. In fact, she’d seen him get into it earlier that afternoon. Going to Oxford, he’d said.

Half an hour later, in Princess Street, it became clear that Ellie Smith had decamped in considerable haste. In her bed-sit-cum-bathroom there had been little enough accommodation for many possessions anyway; yet much had been left behind: the bigger items (perforce) — fridge, TV, record player, microwave; a selection of clothing and shoes, ranging from the sedate to the sensational; pictures and posters by the score, including a life-sized technicolour photograph of Marilyn Monroe, a framed painting by Paul Klee, and (also framed) a fading Diploma from East Oxford Senior School, Prize for Art, awarded to Kay Eleanor Brooks, signed by C. P. Taylor (Head), and dated July 1983.

‘Not much here in the drawers, sir. An Appointments’ Book, though, stuck at the back.’

‘Which I am not particularly anxious to see,’ said Morse, sitting himself down on the bed.

‘You know — if you don’t mind me saying so, sir — it was a bit cruel, wasn’t it? Her leaving her mum for all those years and not really getting in touch with her again until—’

He broke off.

‘Sir!’

Morse looked up.

‘There’s a telephone number here for that Tuesday the sixth, with something written after it: “GL” — and what looks like the figure “1”.’

Morse got up, and went to look over Lewis’s shoulder. ‘It could be a lower-case letter “l”.’

‘Shall I give the number a go?’

Morse shrugged his shoulders disinterestedly. ‘Please yourself.’

Lewis dialled the number, and a pleasing, clear Welsh voice answered, with an obviously well-practised formula:

‘Gareth Llewellyn-Jones. Can I ’elp you?’

‘Sergeant Lewis, Thames Valley Police, sir. We’re investigating a murder, and think you might be able to help us confirm one or two things.’

‘My goodness me! Well, I can’t really, not for the moment, like. I’m in the middle of a tutorial, see?’

‘Can you give me a time when you will be free, sir?’

‘Could be important,’ said Lewis, after putting down the phone. ‘If she was… out all night—’

‘Don’t you mean “in” all night?’ said Morse bitterly. ‘In bed with some cock-happy client of hers — that’s what you mean, isn’t it? So stop being so bloody mealy-mouthed, man.’

Lewis counted up to seven. ‘Well, if she was , she couldn’t have had too much of a hand in things with Brooks.’

‘Of course she did!’ snapped Morse. ‘I don’t believe her though when she says she murdered him — she’s just trying to shield her mother, that’s all — because it was her mother who murdered him.’

‘Isn’t it usually the other way round, though?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Isn’t it usually mums who try to shield their kids?’

The word ‘kid’ did to Morse what ‘scenario’ did to Ellie Smith; and he was about to remonstrate — when suddenly he clapped a cupped right hand hard over his forehead.

‘What year did the Brooks marry?’

‘Can’t remember exactly. Twelve years ago, was it? We can soon check.’

‘What time are you seeing Armstrong-Jones?’

‘Llewellyn-Jones, sir. Half-past eight. After he’s had dinner in Hall.’