Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

RHT

Clipped to this was a cutting from the obituary columns of one of the national dailies — The Independent , by the look of it — announcing the death of the distinguished cancer specialist Robert H. Turnbull.

• Finally, three photographs, paper-clipped together:

(i) A newspaper photograph of a strip club, showing in turn (though indistinguishably) individual photographs of the establishment’s principal performers, posted on each side of the narrow entrance; showing also (with complete clarity) the inviting legend: SEXIEST RAUNCHIEST SHOW IN SOHO.

(ii) A full-length, black-and-white photograph of a tallish bottle-blonde in a dark figure-hugging gown, the thigh-slit on the left revealing a length of shapely leg. About the woman there seemed little that was less than genuinely attractive — except the smile perhaps.

(iii) A color photograph of the same woman seated completely naked, apart from a pair of extraordinarily thin stiletto heels, on a bar stool somewhere — her overfirm breasts suggesting that the smile in the former photograph was not the only thing about her that might be semi-artificial. The legs, now happily revealed in all their lengthy glory, were those of a young dancer — the legs of a Cyd Charisse or a Betty Grable, much better than those in the Naturist Journal…

Morse closed the file, and knew what he had read: an agenda for blackmail — and possibly for murder.

He was advised by a friend, with whom he afterward lost touch, to stay at the Wilberforce Temperance Hotel.

I hate those who intemperately denounce beer — and call it Temperance.

Socrates, on his last day on earth, avowed that death, if it be but one long and dreamless sleep, was a blessing most devoutly to be wished for. Morse, on the morning of Sunday, February 25 — without going quite so far as Socrates — could certainly look back on his own long and dreamless sleep with a rare gratitude, since the commonest features of his nights were regular visits to the loo, frequent draughts of water, occasional doses of Nurofen and Paracetamol, an intake of indigestion tablets, and finally (after rising once more from his crumpled bed linen) a tumbler of Alka-Seltzer.

The Observer was already poking thickly through the letterbox as he hurriedly prepared himself a subcontinental breakfast.

10:30 A.M.

It was 11:15 A.M. when he arrived at HQ, where Lewis had already been at work for three hours, and where he was soon regaling the chief about his visit to the newspaper offices.

A complete picture of Owens — built up from testimonials, references, records, impressions, gossip — showed a competent, hard-working, well-respected employee. That was the good news. And the bad? Well, it seemed the man was aloof, humorless, unsympathetic. In view of the latter shortcomings (Lewis had suggested) it was perhaps puzzling to understand why Owens had been sent off on a personnel management course. Yet (as the editor had suggested) some degree of aloofness, humorlessness, lack of sympathy, was perhaps precisely what was required in such a role.

Lewis pointed to the cellophane folder in which his carefully paginated photocopies were assembled.

“And one more thing. He’s obviously a bit of a hit with some of the girls there — especially the younger ones.”

“In spite of his ponytail?”

“Because of it, more likely.”

“You’re not serious?”

“And you’re never going to catch up with the twentieth century, are you?”

“One or two possible leads?”

“Could be.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for a start, the Personnel Manager who saw Owens on Monday. I’ll get a statement from him as soon as he gets back from holiday — earlier, if you’d like.”

Morse looked dubious. “Ye-es. But if somebody intended to murder Owens, not Rachel James... well, Owens’ alibi is neither here nor there really, is it? You’re right, though. Let’s stick to official procedure. I’ve always been in favor of rules and regulations.”

As Lewis eyed his superior officer with scarce disguised incredulity, he accepted the manila file handed to him across the desk; and began to read.

Morse himself now opened the “Life” section of The Observer and turned to the crossword set by Azed (for Morse, the Kasparov of cruciverbalists) and considered 1 across: “Elephant man has a mouth that’s deformed (6).” He immediately wrote in MAHOUT, but then put the crossword aside, trusting that the remaining clues might pose a more demanding challenge, and deciding to postpone his hebdomadal treat until later in the day. Otherwise, he might well have completed the puzzle before Lewis had finished with the file.

“How did you come by this?” asked Lewis finally.

“Yours not to reason how.”

“He’s a blackmailer!”

Morse nodded. “We’ve found no evidential motive for Rachel’s murder, but...”

“… dozens of ’em for his.”

“About nine , Lewis — if we’re going to be accurate.”

Morse opened the file, and considered the contents once more. Unlike that of the obscenely fat child fondler, neither photograph of the leggy blonde stripper was genuinely pornographic — certainly not the wholly nude one, which seemed to Morse strangely unerotic; perhaps the one of her in the white dress, though... “Unbuttoning” had always appealed to Morse more than “unbuttoned”; “undressing” than “undressed”; “almost naked” to completely so. It was something to do with Plato’s idea of process; and as a young classical scholar Morse had spent so many hours with that philosopher.

“Quite a bit of legwork there, sir.”

“Yes. Lovely legs, aren’t they?”

“No! I meant there’s a lot of work to do there — research, going around.”

“You’ll need a bit of help, yes.”

“Sergeant Dixon — couple of his lads, too — that’d help.”

“Is Dixon still eating the canteen out of jam doughnuts?”

Lewis nodded. “ And he’s still got his pet tortoise—”

“—always a step or two in front of him, I know.”

For half an hour the detectives discussed the file’s explosive material. Until just after noon, in fact.

“Coffee, sir?”

“Not for me. Let’s nip down to the King’s Arms in Summertown.”

“Not for me,” echoed Lewis. “I can’t afford the time.”

“As you wish.” Morse got to his feet.

“Do you think you should be going out quite so much — on the booze, I mean, sir?” Lewis took a deep breath and prepared for an approaching gale, force ten. “You’re getting worse, not better.”

Morse sat down again.

“Let me just tell you something, Lewis. I care quite a bit about what you think of me as a boss, as a colleague, as a detective — as a friend , yes! But I don’t give two bloody monkeys about what you think of me as a boozer, all right?”

“No, it’s not all right,” said Lewis quietly. “As a professional copper, as far as solving murders are concerned—”

“ Is concerned!”

“—it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter to me at all.” Lewis’s voice grew sharper now. “You do your job — you spend all your time sorting things out — I’m not worried about that. And if the Chief Constable told me you weren’t doing your job, I’d resign myself. But he wouldn’t say that— never. What he’d say — what others would say — what others are saying — is that you’re ruining yourself. Not the Force, not the department, not the murder inquiries — nothing! — except yourself. ”