Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“Wo’ she done? Wo’ sort of inquiry you workin’ on?”

“Murder,” said Morse softly.

Mission accomplished, Morse walked across Praed Street and into the complex of Paddington Station, where he stood under the high Departures Board and noted the time of the next train: Slough, Maidenhead, Reading, Didcot, Oxford.

Due to leave in forty minutes.

He retraced his steps to the top of the Underground entrance, crushed a cigarette stub under his heel, and walked slowly down toward the ticket office, debating the wisdom of purchasing a second Bakerloo line ticket to Piccadilly Circus — from which station he might take the opportunity of concentrating his attention on the ground-floor attractions of London’s Soho.

The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.

With a lecture A.M. and a Faculty Meeting early P.M., Julian Storrs had not been able to give Lewis much time until late P.M.; but he was ready and waiting when, at 4 o’clock precisely, the front doorbell rang at his home, a large redbricked property on Polstead Road, part of the Victorian suburb that stretches north from St. Giles’ to Summertown.

Lewis accepted the offer of real coffee, and the two of them were soon seated in armchairs opposite each other in the high-ceilinged living room, its furniture exuding a polished mahogany elegance, where Lewis immediately explained the purpose of his call.

As a result of police investigations into the murder of Rachel James, Storrs’ name had moved into the frame; well, at least his photograph had moved into the frame.

Storrs himself said nothing as he glanced down at the twin passport photograph that Lewis handed to him.

“That is you, sir? You and Ms. James?”

Storrs took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Yes.”

“You were having an affair with her?”

“We... yes, I suppose we were.”

“Did anybody know about it?”

“I’d hoped not.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Storrs talked. Though not for long...

He’d first met her just over a year earlier when he’d pulled a muscle in his right calf following an ill-judged decision to take up jogging. She was a physiotherapist, masseuse, manipulator — whatever they called such people now; and after the first two or three sessions they had met together outside the treatment room. He’d fallen in love with her a bit — a lot; must have done, when he considered the risks he’d taken. About once a month, six weeks, they’d managed to be together when he had some lecture to give or meeting to attend. Usually in London, where they’d book a double room, latish morning, in one of the hotels behind Paddington, drink a bottle or two of champagne, make love together most of the afternoon and — well, that was it.

“Expensive sort of day, sir? Rail fares, hotel, champagne, something to eat...”

“Not really expensive, no. Off-peak day returns, one of the cheaper hotels, middle-range champagne, and we’d go to a pub for a sandwich at lunchtime. Hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty pounds — that would cover it.”

“You didn’t give Ms. James anything for her services?”

“It wasn’t like that. I think — I hope — she enjoyed being with me. But, yes, I did sometimes give her something. She was pretty short of money — you know, her mortgage, HP commitments, the rent on the clinic.”

“How much, sir?”

“A hundred pounds. Little bit more sometimes, perhaps.”

“Does Mrs. Storrs know about this?”

“No— and she mustn’t!” For the first time Lewis was aware of the sharp, authoritative tone in the Senior Fellow’s voice.

“How did you explain spending so much?”

“We have separate accounts. I give my wife a private allowance each month.”

Lewis grinned diffidently. “You could always have said they were donations to Oxfam.”

Storrs looked down rather sadly at the olive-green carpet. “You’re right. That’s just the sort of depths I would have sunk to.”

“Why didn’t you get in touch with us? We made several appeals for anybody who knew Rachel to come forward. We guaranteed every confidence.”

“You must understand, surely? I was desperately anxious not to get drawn into things in any way.”

“Nothing else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was someone trying to blackmail you, sir, about your affair with her?”

“Good God, no! What on earth makes you think that?”

Lewis drank the rest of his never-hot now-cold real coffee, before continuing quietly:

“I don’t believe you, sir.”

And slowly the truth, or some of it, was forthcoming.

Storrs had received a letter about a fortnight earlier from someone — no signature — someone giving a P.O. Box address; someone claiming to have “evidence” about him which would be shouted from the rooftops unless a payment was duly made.

“Of?” asked Lewis.

“Five thousand pounds.”

“And you paid it?”

“No. But I was stupid enough to send a thousand, in fifty-pound notes.”

“And did you get this ‘evidence’ back?”

Storrs again looked down at the carpet, and shook his head.

“You didn’t act very sensibly, did you, sir?”

“In literary circles, Sergeant, that is what is called ‘litotes.’ ”

“Did you keep the letter?”

“No,” lied Storrs.

“Did you keep a note of the P.O. Box number?”

“No,” lied Storrs.

“Was it care of one of the local newspapers?”

“Yes.”

“ Oxford Mail ?”

“ Oxford Times. ”

The living room door opened, and there entered a darkly elegant woman, incongruously wearing a pair of sunglasses, and dressed in a black trouser-suit — “Legs right up to the armpits,” as Lewis was later to report.

Mrs. Angela Storrs briefly introduced herself, and picked up the empty cups.

“Another coffee, Sergeant?”

Her voice was Home Counties, rather deep, rather pleasing.

“No thanks. That was lovely.”

Her eyes smiled behind the sunglasses — or Lewis thought they smiled. And as she closed the living room door softly behind her, he wondered where she’d been throughout the interview. Outside the door, perhaps, listening? Had she heard what her husband had said? Or had she known it all along?

Then the door quietly opened again.

“You won’t forget you’re out this evening, darling? You haven’t all that much time, you know.”

Lewis accepted the cue and hurried on his questioning apace:

“Do you mind telling me exactly what you were doing between seven A.M. and eight A.M. last Monday, sir?”

“Last Monday morning? Ah!” Lewis sensed that Julian Storrs had suddenly relaxed — as if the tricky part of the examination was now over — as if he could safely resume his wonted donnish idiom.

“How I wish every question my students asked were susceptible to such an unequivocal answer! You see, I was in bed with my wife and we were having sex together. And why do I recall this so readily, Sergeant? Because such an occurrence has not been quite so common these past few years; nor, if I’m honest with you, quite so enjoyable as once it was.”

“Between, er, between seven and eight?” Lewis’s voice was hesitant.

“Sounds a long time, you mean? Huh! You’re right. More like twenty past to twenty-five past seven. What I do remember is Angela — Mrs. Storrs — wanting the news on at half past She’s a great Today fan, and she likes to know what’s going on. We just caught the tail end of the sports news — then the main headlines on the half-hour.”