Colin Dexter - Morse’s Greatest Mystery and other stories

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.

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.