Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“ I trace the rainbow through the rain

And feel the promise is not vain

That Morn shall tearless be. ”

But Lewis, who had noted the moisture in Morse’s eyes, and who had sensed that the promise of the last line might soon be broken, immediately injected a more joyful note into the conversation.

“It’s really good to have you back, sir.”

Apparently unaware that any reciprocal words of gratitude were called for, Morse asked about the case; and learned that the police were perhaps “treading water” for the time being, and that Chief Superintendent Blair was nominally i/c pro tem.

“David Blair. Best copper in the county,” Lewis was about to nod a partial agreement, “apart from me, of course.”

And suddenly Lewis felt very happy that he was back in harness with this arrogant, ungracious, vulnerable, lovable man with whom he had worked so closely for so many years; a man who looked somewhat slimmer, somewhat paler than when he had last seen him, but who sounded not a whit less brusque as he now asked whether Lewis had checked up on the time when Storrs had left home for his last visit with Rachel to Paddington, and the time when the postman had delivered the mail in Polstead Road that same morning.

And Lewis had.

9:45–9:50 A.M.

9:10–9:20 A.M.

Respectively.

“From which, Lewis, we may draw what conclusions?”

“Precious few, as far as I can see.”

“Absolutely! What other new facts have you got for me?”

So Lewis told him.

It was ten minutes short of noon when Morse dropped the mini-bombshell.

“The Cherwell, do you think, Lewis? The landlord there always keeps a decent pint.”

“But beer’s full of sugar, isn’t it? You can’t—”

“Lewis! This diabetes business is all about balance , that’s all. I’ve got to take all this insulin because I can’t produce any insulin myself — to counteract any sugar intake. But if I didn’t have any sugar intake to counteract, I’d be in one helluva mess. I’d become hypoglycemic , and you know what that means.”

Not having the least idea, Lewis remained silent as Morse took out a black penlike object from his pocket, screwed off one end, removed a white plastic cap from the needle there, twisted a calibrator at the other end, unbuttoned his shirt, and plunged the needle deep into his midriff.

Lewis winced involuntarily.

But Morse, looking up like some young child expecting praise after taking a very nasty-tasting medicine, seemed wholly pleased with himself.

“See? That’ll take care of things. No problem.”

With great care, Lewis walked back from the bar with a pint of Bass and a glass of orange juice.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” enthused Morse, burying his nose into the froth, taking a gloriously gratifying draught of real ale, and showing, as he relaxed back, a circle of blood on his white shirt just above the waist.

After a period of silence, during which Morse several times raised his glass against the window to admire the color of the beer, Lewis asked the key question.

“What have they said about you starting work again?”

“What do you say about us seeing Storrs and Owens this afternoon?”

“You’ll have a job with Storrs, sir. Him and his missus are in Bath for the weekend.”

“What about Owens?”

“Dunno. Perhaps he’s away, too — on another of his personnel courses.”

“One easy way of finding out, Lewis. There’s a telephone just outside the Gents.”

“Look, sir! For heaven’s sake! You’ve been in the hospital a week—”

“Five days, to be accurate, and only for observation. They’d never have let me out unless—”

But he got no further.

The double doors of the Cherwell had burst open and there, framed in the doorway, jowls aquiver, stood Chief Superintendent Strange — looking around, spying Morse, walking across, and sitting down.

“Like a beer, sir?” asked Lewis.

“Large single-malt Scotch — no ice, no water.”

“And it’s the same again for me,” prompted Morse, pushing over his empty glass.

“I might have known it,” began Strange, after regaining his breath. “Straight out of hospital and straight into the nearest boozer.”

“It’s not the nearest.”

“Don’t remind me! Dixon’s already carted me round to the Friar Bacon — the King’s Arms — the Dew Drop — and now here. And it’s about time somebody reminded you that you’re in the Force to reduce the crime level, not the bloody beer level.”

“We were talking about the case when you came in, sir.”

“ What case?” snapped Strange.

“The murder case — Rachel James.”

“Ah yes! I remember the case well; I remember the address, too: Number 17 Bloxham Drive, wasn’t it? Well, you’d better get off your arse, matey,” at a single swallow, he drained the Scotch which Lewis had just placed in front of him, “because if you are back at work, you can just forget that beer and get over smartish to Bloxham Drive again. Number 15, this time. Another murder. Chap called Owens — Geoffrey Owens. I think you’ve heard of him?”

For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face.

Déjà vu.

The street, the police cars, the crowd of curious onlookers, the SOCOs — repetition almost everywhere, as if nothing was found only once in the world. Just that single significant shift: the shift from one terraced house to another immediately adjacent.

Morse himself had said virtually nothing since Strange had brought the news of Owens’ murder; and said nothing now as he sat in the kitchen of Number 15, Bloxham Drive, elbows resting on the table there, head resting on his hands. For the moment his job was to bide his time, he knew that, during the interregnum between the activities of other professionals and his own assumption of authority: a necessary yet ever frustrating interlude, like that when an in-flight stewardess rehearses the safety drill before takeoff.

By all rights he should have felt weary and defeated; but this was not the case. Physically, he felt considerably fitter than he had the week before; and mentally, he felt eager for that metaphorical takeoff to begin. Some people took little or no mental exercise except that of jumping to conclusions; while Morse was a man who took excessive mental exercise and who still jumped to dubious conclusions, as indeed he was to do now. But as some of his close colleagues knew — and most especially as Sergeant Lewis knew — it was at times like this, with preconceptions proved false and hypotheses undone, that Morse’s brain was wont to function with astonishing speed, if questionable lucidity.

As it did now.

Lewis walked through just before 2 P.M.

“Anything I can do for the minute, sir?”

“Just nip out and get me the Independent on Sunday , will you? And a packet of Dunhill.”

“Do you think—?” But Lewis stopped and waited as Morse reluctantly took a five-pound note from his wallet.

For the next few minutes Morse was aware that his brain was still frustrated and unproductive. And there was something else, too. For some reason, and for a good while now, he had been conscious that he might well have missed a vital clue in the case (cases!) which so far he couldn’t quite catch. It was a bit like going through a town on a high-speed train when the eyes had almost caught the name of the station as it flashed so tantalizingly across the carriage window.

Lewis returned five minutes later with the cigarettes, which Morse put unopened into his jacket pocket; and with the newspaper, which Morse opened at the Cryptic Crossword (“Quixote”), glanced at 1 across: “Some show dahlias in the Indian pavilion (6)” and immediately wrote in “HOWDAH.”