Colin Dexter - Morse’s Greatest Mystery and other stories

“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.

Next morning, with extreme reluctance, with deep distaste — and with considerable embarrassment — Morse called into Crawford’s office, and did his sergeant’s bidding.

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.”