Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“One or two of those gormless idiots you call your pals seem anxious to upset the police,” began Morse.

“Look. I didn’t ‘ave nothin’ to do with that—’ onest! You know me.” Looking deeply unhappy, JJ dragged deeply on a king-size cigarette.

“I’m not really interested in that. I’m interested in your doing me a favor.”

JJ visibly relaxed, becoming almost his regular, perky self once more. He leaned over the table, and spoke quietly:

“I’ll tell you what. I got a red-’ot video on up at the country mansion, if you, er...”

“Not this morning,” said Morse reluctantly, conscious of a considerable sacrifice. And it was now his turn to lean over the table and speak the quiet words:

“I want you to break into a property for me.”

“Ah!”

The balance of power had shifted, and JJ grinned broadly to reveal two rows of irregular and blackened teeth. He pushed his empty glass across the table.

“Double vodka and lime for me, Mr. Morse. I suddenly feel a bit thirsty, like.”

For the next few minutes Morse explained the mission; and JJ listened carefully, nodding occasionally, and once making a penciled note of an address on the back of a pink betting slip.

“Okay,” he said finally, “so long as you promise, you know, to see me okay if...”

“I can’t promise anything.”

“But you will?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Gimme a chance to do a bit o’ recce, okay? Then gimme another buzz on the ol’ blower, like, okay? When had you got in mind?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

“Okay — that’s it then.”

Morse drained his glass and stood up, wondering whether communication in the English language could ever again cope without the word “okay.”

“Before you go...” JJ looked down at his empty glass.

“Mineral water, was it?” asked Morse.

“Just tell the landlord ‘same again.’ ”

Almost contented with life once more, JJ sat back and relaxed after Morse had gone. Huh! Just the one bleedin’ door, by the sound of it. Easy. Piece o’ cake!

Morse, too, was pleased with the way the morning had gone. Johnson, as the police were well aware, was one of the finest locksmen in the Midlands. As a teenager he’d held the reputation of being the quickest car thief in the county. But his incredible skills had only really begun to burgeon in the eighties, when all manner of house locks, burglar alarms, and safety devices had surrendered meekly to his unparalleled knowledge of locks and keys and electrical circuits.

In fact “JJ” Johnson knew almost as much about burglary as J. J. Bradley knew about the aorist subjunctive.

Perhaps more.

The faults of the burglar are the qualities of the financier.

In fact, Morse’s campaign was destined to be launched that very day.

Lewis had called back at HQ at 2 P.M. with a slim folder of photocopied documents — in which Morse seemed little interested; and with the news that Geoffrey Owens had left his home the previous evening to attend a weekend conference on Personnel Management, in Bournemouth, not in all likelihood to be back until late P.M. the following day, Sunday. In this latter news Morse seemed more interested.

“Well done, Lewis! But you’ve done quite enough for one day. You look weary and I want you to go home. Nobody can keep up the hours you’ve been setting yourself.”

As it happened, Lewis was feeling wonderfully fresh; but he had promised that weekend to accompany his wife (if he could) on her quest for the right sort of dishwasher. They could well afford the luxury now, and Lewis himself would welcome some alleviation of his domestic duties at the sink.

“I’ll accept your offer — on one condition, sir. You go off home, too.”

“Agreed. I was just going anyway. I’ll take the folder with me. Anything interesting?”

“A few little things, I suppose. For instance—”

“Not now!”

“Aren’t you going to tell me how your meeting went?”

“ Not now! Let’s call it a day.”

As the two detectives walked out of the HQ block, Morse asked his question casually:

“By the way, did you discover which swish hotel they’re at in Bournemouth?”

Back in his flat, Morse made two phone calls: the first to Bournemouth; the second to the Cutteslowe Estate. Yes, a Mr. Geoffrey Owens was present at the conference there. No, Mr. Malcolm Johnson had not yet had a chance to make his recce — of course he hadn’t! But, yes, he would repair the omission forthwith in view of the providential opportunity now afforded (although Johnson’s own words were considerably less pretentious).

“And no more booze today, Malcolm!”

“What me — drink? On business? Never! And you better not drink, neither.”

“Two sober men — that’s what the job needs,” agreed Morse.

“What time you pickin’ me up then?”

“No. You’re picking me up. Half past seven at my place.”

“Okay. And just remember you got more to lose than I ’ave, Mr. Morse.”

Yes, far more to lose, Morse knew that; and he felt a shudder of apprehension about the risky escapade he was undertaking. His nerves needed some steadying.

He poured himself a good measure of Glenfiddich; and shortly thereafter fell deeply asleep in the chair for more than two hours.

Bliss.

Johnson parked his filthy F-reg Vauxhaull in a fairly convenient lay-by on the Deddington Road, the main thoroughfare which runs at the rear of the odd-numbered houses on Bloxham Drive. As instructed, Morse stayed behind, in the murky shadow of the embankment, as Johnson eased himself through a gap in the perimeter fence, where vandals had smashed and wrenched away several of the vertical slats, and then, with surprising agility, descended the steep stretch of slippery grass that led down to the rear of the terrace.

The coast seemed clear.

Morse looked on nervously as the locksman stood in his trainers at the back of Number 15, patiently and methodically doing what he did so well. Once, he snapped to taut attention hard beside the wall as a light was switched on in one of the nearby houses, throwing a yellow rectangle over the glistening grass — and then switched off.

Six minutes.

By Morse’s watch, six minutes before Johnson turned the knob, carefully eased the door open, and disappeared within — before reappearing and beckoning a tense and jumpy Morse to join him.

“Do you want the lights on?” asked Johnson as he played the thin beam of his large torch around the kitchen.

“What do you think?”

“Yes. Let’s ’ave ’em on. Lemme just go and pull the curtains through ’ere.” He moved into the front living room, where Morse heard a twin swish, before the room burst suddenly into light.

An ordinary, somewhat spartan room: settee; two rather tatty armchairs; dining table and chairs; TV set; electric fire installed in the old fireplace; and above the fireplace, on a mantelpiece patinated deep with dust, the only object perhaps which any self-respecting burglar would have wished to take — a small, beautifully fashioned ormolu clock.

Upstairs, the double bed in the front room was unmade, an orange bath towel thrown carelessly across the duvet; no sign of pajamas. On the bedside table two items only: Wilbur Smith’s The Seventh Scroll in paperback, and a packet of BiSoDoL Extra indigestion tablets. An old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe monopolized much of the remaining space, with coats/suits/trousers on their hangers, and six pairs of shoes neatly laid in parallels at the bottom; and on the shelves, to the left, piles of jumpers, shirts, pants, socks, and handkerchiefs.