Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“Well, usually’s not bloody good enough for me! You — go — by — the book, matey! Understood?”

Morse walked heavily back to his office, where a refreshed-looking Lewis awaited him.

“Everything all right with the Super?”

“Oh, yes. I just told him about our latest thinking—”

“ Your latest thinking.”

“He understands the difficulties. He just doesn’t want us to bend the rules of engagement too far, that’s all.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Just nip and get me a drink first, will you?”

“Coffee?”

Morse pondered. “I think I’ll have a pint of natural, lead-free orange juice. Iced.”

“So what’s the plan?” repeated Lewis, five minutes later.

“Not quite sure, really. But if I’m right, if it was something like a contract killing, it must have been arranged because Owens was threatening to expose somebody. And if he was—”

“Lot of ‘if’s,’ sir.”

“ If he was, Lewis, he must have some evidence tucked away somewhere: vital evidence, damning evidence. It could be in the form of newspaper cuttings or letters or photographs — anything. And he must have been pretty sure about his facts if he’s been trying to extort some money or some favors or whatever from any disclosures. Now, as I see it, he must have come across most of his evidence in the course of his career as a journalist. Wouldn’t you think so? Sex scandals, that sort of thing.”

“Like as not, I suppose.”

“So the plan’s this. I want you, once you get the chance, to go and see the big white chief at the newspaper offices and get a look at all the confidential stuff on Owens. They’re sure to have it in his appointment file or somewhere: previous jobs, references, testimonials, CV, internal appraisals, comments—”

“Gossip?”

“Anything!”

“Is that what you mean by not bending the rules too much?”

“We’re not bending the rules — not too much. We’re on a murder case, Lewis, remember that! Every member of the public’s got a duty to help us in our inquiries.”

“I just hope the editor agrees with you, that’s all.”

“He does,” said Morse, a little shamefacedly. “I rang him while you went to the canteen. He just wants us to do it privately, that’s all, and confidentially. Owens only works alternate Saturdays, and this is one of his days off.”

“You don’t want to do it yourself?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. But you’re so much better at that sort of thing than I am.”

A semimollified Lewis elaborated: “Then, if anything sticks out as important... just follow it up... and let you know?”

“Except for one thing, Lewis. Owens told me he worked for quite a while in Soho when he started. And if there’s anything suspicious or interesting about that period of his life...”

“You’d like to do that bit of research yourself.”

“Exactly. I’m better at that sort of thing than you are.”

“What’s your program for today, then?”

“Quite a few things, really.”

“Such as?” Lewis looked up quizzically.

“Well, there’s one helluva lot of paperwork, for a start. And filing. So you’d better stay and give me a hand for a while — after you’ve fetched me another orange juice. And please tell the girl not to dilute it quite so much this time. And just a cube or two more ice perhaps.”

“And then?” persisted Lewis.

“And then I’m repairing to the local in Cutteslowe, where I shall be trying to thread a few further thoughts together over a pint, perhaps. And where I’ve arranged to meet an old friend of mine who may possibly be able to help us a little.”

“Who’s that, sir?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Not—?”

“Where’s my orange juice, Lewis?”

MARIA: No, I’ve just got the two O-levels — and the tortoise, of course. But I’m fairly well known for some other accomplishments.

JUDGE: Known to whom, may I ask?

MARIA: Well, to the police for a start.

At ten minutes to noon Morse was enjoying his pint of Brakspear’s bitter. The Chief Inspector had many faults, but unpunctuality had never been one of them. He was ten minutes early.

JJ, a sparely built, nondescript-looking man in his midforties, walked into the Cherwell five minutes later.

When Morse had rung at 8:30 A.M., Malcolm “JJ” Johnson had been seated on the floor, on a black cushion, only two feet away from the television screen, watching a hard-core porn video and drinking his regular breakfast of two cans of Beamish stout — just after the lady of the household had left for her job (mornings only) in one of the fruiterers’ shops in Summertown.

Accepted wisdom has it that in such enlightened times as these most self-respecting burglars pursue their trade by day; but JJ had always been a night man, relying firmly on local knowledge and reconnaissance. And often in the daylight hours, as now, he wondered why he didn’t spend his leisure time in some more purposeful pursuits. But in truth he just couldn’t think of any. At the same time, he did realize, yes, that sometimes he was getting a bit bored. Over the past two years or so, the snooker table had lost its former magnetism; infidelities and fornication were posing too many practical problems, as he grew older; and even darts and dominoes were beginning to pall. Only gambling, usually in Ladbrokes’ premises in Summertown, had managed to retain his undivided attention over the years: for the one thing that never bored him was acquiring money.

Yet JJ had never been a miser. It was just that the acquisition of money was a necessary prerequisite to the spending of money; and the spending of money had always been, and still was, the greatest purpose of his life.

Educated (if that be the word) in a run-down comprehensive school, he had avoided the three Bs peculiar to many public school establishments: beating, bullying, and buggery. Instead, he had left school at the age of sixteen with a delight in a different triad: betting, boozing, and bonking — strictly in that order. And to fund such expensive hobbies he had come to rely on one source of income, one line of business only: burglary.

He now lived with his long-suffering, faithful, strangely influential, common-law wife in a council house on the Cutteslowe Estate that was crowded with crates of lager and vodka and gin, with all the latest computer games, and with row upon row of tasteless seaside souvenirs. And home, after two years in jail, was where he wanted to stay.

No! JJ didn’t want to go back inside. And that’s why Morse’s call had worried him so. So much, indeed, that he had turned the video to “Pause” even as the eager young stud was slipping between the sheets.

What did Morse want?

“Hello, Malcolm!”

Johnson had been “Malcolm” until the age of ten, when the wayward, ill-disciplined young lad had drunk from a bottle of Jeyes Fluid under the misapprehension that the lavatory cleaner was lemonade. Two stomach pumpings and a week in hospital later, he had emerged to face the world once more; but now with the sobriquet “Jeyes” — an embarrassment which he sought to deflect, five years on, by the rather subtle expedient of having the legend “JJ — all the Js” tattooed longitudinally on each of his lower arms.

Morse drained his glass and pushed it over the table.

“Coke, is it, Mr. Morse?”

“Bit early for the hard stuff, Malcolm.”

“Half a pint, was it?”

“Just tell the landlord ‘same again.’ ”

A Brakspear it was — and a still mineral water for JJ.