Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“Just hold on a second, will you?” Morse’s eyes were blazing.

“No! No, I won’t. You talked about me as a friend, didn’t you, just now? Well, as a friend I’m telling you that you’re buggering up your health, your retirement, your life — everything!”

“Listen!” hissed Morse. “I’ve never myself tried to tell any other man how to live his life. And I will not be told, at my age, how I’m supposed to live mine. Even by you.”

After a prolonged silence, Lewis spoke again.

“Can I say something else?”

Morse shrugged indifferently.

“Perhaps it doesn’t matter much to most people whether you kill yourself or not. You’ve got no wife, no family, no relatives, except that aunt of yours in Alnwick—”

“She’s dead, too.”

“So, what the hell? What’s it matter? Who cares? Well, I care, sir. And the missus cares. And for all I know that girl Ellie Smith, she cares.”

Morse looked down at his desk. “Not any longer, no.”

“And you ought to care — care for yourself — just a bit.”

For some considerable while Morse refrained from making any answer, for he was affected by his sergeant’s words more deeply than he would ever be prepared to admit.

Then, finally:

“What about that coffee, Lewis?”

“And a sandwich?”

“And a sandwich.”

By early afternoon Morse had put most of his cards on the table, and he and Lewis had reached an agreed conclusion. No longer could either of them accept that Rachel James had been the intended victim: each of them now looked toward Geoffrey Owens as by far the likelier target. Pursuance of the abundant clues provided by the Owens file would necessarily involve a great deal of extra work; and fairly soon a strategy was devised, with Lewis and Dixon allocated virtually everything except the Soho slot.

“You know, I could probably fit that in fairly easily with the Wimbledon visit,” Lewis had volunteered.

But Morse was clearly unconvinced:

“The Soho angle’s the most important of the lot.”

“Do you honestly believe that?”

“Certainly. That’s why—”

The phone rang, answered by Morse.

Owens (he learned) had phoned HQ ten minutes earlier, just after 3 P.M., to report that his property had been burgled over the weekend, while he was away.

“And you’re dealing with it?... Good... Just the one item you say, as far as he knows?... I see... Thank you.”

Morse put down the phone; and Lewis picked up the file, looking quizzically across the desk.

But Morse shook his head. “Not the file, no.”

“What, then?”

“A valuable little ormolu clock from his living room.”

“Probably a professional, sir — one who knows his clocks.”

“Don’t ask me. I know nothing about clocks.”

Lewis grinned. “We both know somebody who does though, don’t we, sir?”

This world and the next — and after that all our troubles will be over.

No knock. The door opened. Strange entered.

“Haven’t they mentioned it yet, Morse? The pubs are open all day on Sundays now.”

As Strange carefully balanced his bulk on the chair opposite, Morse lauded his luck that Lewis had taken the Owens material down the corridor for photocopying.

“Just catching up on a bit of routine stuff, sir.”

“Really?”

“Why are you here?”

“It’s the wife,” confided Strange. “Sunday afternoons she always goes round the house dusting everything. Including me!”

Morse was smiling dutifully as Strange continued: “Making progress?”

“Following up a few things, yes.”

“Mm... Is your brain as bright as it used to be?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Mm... You don’t look quite so bright, either.”

“We’re all getting older.”

“Worse luck!”

“Not really, surely? ‘No wise man ever wished to be younger.’ ”

“Bloody nonsense!”

“Not my nonsense — Jonathan Swift’s.”

Elbows on the desk, Strange rested his large head on his large hands.

“I’m probably finishing in September, I suppose you’d heard.”

Morse nodded. “I’m glad they’re letting you go.”

“What the ’ell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I should think Mrs. Strange’ll be pleased to have you around, won’t she? Retirement, you know... Getting up late and watching all the other poor sods go off to work, especially on Monday mornings. That sort of thing. It’s what we all work for, I suppose. What we all wait for.”

“You mean,” muttered Strange, “ that’s what I’ve been flogging me guts out all this time for — thirty-two years of it? I used to do your sort of job, you know. Caught nearly as many murderers as you in me day. It’s just that I used to do it a bit different, that’s all. Mostly used to wait till they came to me. No problem, often as not: jealousy, booze, sex, next-door neighbor between the sheets with the missus. Motive — that’s what it’s all about.”

“Not always quite so easy, though, is it?” ventured Morse, who had heard the sermon several times before.

“Certainly not when you’re around, matey!”

“This case needs some very careful handling, sir. Lots of sensitive inquiries—”

“Such as?”

“About Owens, for a start.”

“You’ve got some new evidence?”

“One or two vague rumors, yes.”

“Mm... I heard a vague rumor myself this afternoon. I heard Owens’ place got burgled. I suppose you’ve heard that, too?” He peered at Morse over his half-lenses.

“Yes.”

“Only one thing pinched. Hm! A clock, Morse.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve only got one or two clock specialists on the patch, as far as I remember. Or is it just the one?”

“The one?”

“You’ve not seen him — since they let him out again?”

“Ah, Johnson! Yes. I shall have to call round to see him pretty soon, I suppose.”

“What about tomorrow? He’s probably your man, isn’t he?”

“I’m away tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“London. Soho, as a matter of fact. Few things to check out.”

“I don’t know why you don’t let Sergeant Lewis do all that sort of tedious legwork.”

Morse felt the Chief Superintendent’s small, shrewd eyes upon him.

“Division of labor. Someone’s got to do it.”

“You know,” said Strange, “if I hadn’t got a Supers’ meeting in the morning, I’d join you. See the sights... and everything.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Strange’d approve.”

“What makes you think I’d tell her?”

“She’s— she’s not been all that well, has she?”

Strange slowly shook his head, and looked down at the carpet.

“What about you, sir?”

“Me? I’m fine, apart from going deaf and going bald and hemorrhoids and blood pressure. Bit overweight, too, perhaps. What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“How’s the drinking going?”

“Going? It’s going, er...”

“ ‘Quickly?’ Is that the word you’re looking for?”

“That’s the word.”

Strange appeared about to leave. And — blessedly! — Lewis, Morse realized, must have been aware of the situation, since he had put in no appearance.

But Strange was not quite finished: “Do you ever worry how your liver’s coping with all this booze?”

“We’ve all got to die of something, they say.”

“Do you ever think about that — about dying?”

“Occasionally.”

“Do you believe in life after death?”

Morse smiled. “There was a sign once that Slough Borough Council put up near one of the churches there: NO ROAD BEYOND THE CEMETERY.”