Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

“Trying to climb aboard the gravy train herself?”

“Exactly. Money! You said right at the start that we needed a motive for Rachel’s murder; and I suspect she’d somehow got to know about his own blackmailing activities and was threatening to expose him.”

Lewis was looking decidedly impatient.

“Sir! Could we please get along to Owens’ office first, and get a few simple facts established?”

“Just what I was about to suggest. We shall have to get down there and find out everything we can about him. See the editor, the subeditor, his colleagues, that personnel fellow — especially him! Go through his desk and his drawers. Get hold of his original application, if we can. Try to learn something about his men friends, his girlfriends, his enemies, his habits, what he liked to eat and drink, his salary, any clubs he belonged to, his political leanings—”

“We know he voted Conservative, sir.”

“—the newspaper he took, where he usually parked his car, what his job prospects were — yes, plenty to be going on with there.”

“Quite a list. Good job there’s two of us, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“Hefty agenda — that’s all I’m saying.”

“Not all that much really. Far easier than it sounds. And if you get off straightaway...” Morse looked at his wristwatch: 10:45 A.M.

Lewis frowned. “You mean you’re not joining me?”

“Not today, no.”

“But you just said—”

“One or two important things I’ve got to do after lunch.”

“Such as?”

“Well, to be truthful, I’ve been told to take things a bit more gently. And I suppose I’d better take a bit of notice of my medical advisers.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t get me wrong, mind! I’m feeling fine. But I think a little siesta this afternoon...”

“ Siesta? That’s what they have in Spain in the middle of the summer when the temperature’s up in the nineties — but we’re in England in the middle of winter and it’s freezing outside.”

Morse looked down at his desk, a little sheepishly, and Lewis knew that he was lying.

“Come on, sir! It’s something to do with that invite you had, isn’t it? Deborah Crawford?”

“In a way.”

“Why are you being so secretive about it? You wouldn’t tell me yesterday either.”

“Only because it needs a bit more thinking about, that’s all.”

“ ‘You and me together’ — isn’t that what you said?”

Morse fingered the still-cellophaned cigarettes, almost desperately.

“Si’ down then, Lewis.”

It is the nature of an hypothesis, when once a man has conceived it, that it assimilates every thing to itself as proper nourishment, and, from the first moment of your begetting it, it generally grows the stronger by every thing you see, hear, read, or understand.

“It wasn’t Deborah Crawford, Lewis — it was her initials, ‘DC.’ When we found that list in the manila file, I jumped the gun. I automatically assumed that ‘JS’ was Julian Storrs — I think I was right about that — and I assumed that ‘DC’ was Denis Cornford — and I think I was wrong about that. As things have turned out I don’t believe Owens ever knew Cornford at all, or his missus, for that matter. But he knew another ‘DC’: the woman at Number 1 Bloxham Close — Adèle Beatrice Cecil — the ABC lass Owens knew well enough to call by her nickname, ‘Della.’ ‘DC.’ And the more I think about her, the more attractive a proposition I find it.”

“Well, most men would, sir. Lovely looker!”

Ignoring the pleasantry, Morse continued: “Just consider for a minute what an important figure she is in the case. She’s the prime witness, really. She’s the one who sees Owens leave for work about sevenish on the morning Rachel was murdered; she’s the one who rings Owens an hour or so later to tell him the police are on Bloxham Close” (again Lewis let it go) “and gives him a headstart on all the other newshounds. That’s what she says, isn’t it? But she might not be telling the truth!”

Lewis sat in silence.

“Now, as I recall it, your objection to Owens himself ever being a suspect was the time factor. You argued that he couldn’t have gone to work that morning, parked his car, been seen in the newspaper offices, got in his car again, driven back to Kidlington, murdered Rachel, driven back to Osney Mead again , taken the phone call from Della Cecil, driven back to Kidlington again, to be on hand with his mobile and his notebook while the rest of the press are pulling their socks on. He could never have done all that in such a short space of time, you said. Impossible! And of course you were right—”

“Thank you, sir.”

“—in one way; and quite wrong in another. Let’s stick to our original idea that the list of initials we found was a blackmail list, and that she’s on it — Della Cecil. He’s got something on her, too. So when he asks her to help him in his plan to get Rachel out of the way, she’s little option but to cooperate.”

“Have you any idea what this ‘Plan’ was, sir?”

“That’s the trouble. I’ve got far too many ideas.”

“Want to try me?”

“All right. They’re all the same sort of plan, really — any plan to cut down that time business you’re so worried about. Let me just outline a possible plan, and see what you think of it. Ready? Owens drives out to work, at ten to seven, let’s say — and she follows him, in her own car. When he’s parked the car, when his entry’s recorded, he goes into the building, makes sure he’s seen by somebody — doesn’t matter who it is — then immediately leaves via a side door and gets into her car, parked along the street in front of the offices. Back in Kidlington, he murders Rachel James, about half past seven, and doesn’t return to work at all . He’s got a key and he goes into Della’s house — and waits. At the appropriate time, when the police arrive, a call is made to his own office — he knows there’ll be no one there! — and a message is left or isn’t left on the answer phone. All that matters is that a telephonic communication is established, and gets recorded on those BT lists we all get, between her phone and Owens’ phone in his office. Then all he’s got to do is to emerge amid all the excitement once the murder’s reported — the police, the local people, the Press, the TV... Well?”

“You make it up as you go along, sir.”

Morse’s face betrayed some irritation. “Of course I bloody do! That’s what I’m here for. I just told you. If once we accept there could be two people involved — two cars — there are dozens of possibilities. It’s like permutating your selection on the National Lottery. I’ve just given you one possibility, that’s all.”

“But it just couldn’t—”

“What’s wrong with it? Come on! Tell me!”

“Well, let’s start with the car—”

“ Cars, plural.”

“All right. When he’s parked his car—”

“I didn’t say that. I deliberately said parked the car, if you’d been listening. It could have been his — it could have been hers: It’s the card number that’s recorded there, not the car number. She could have driven his car — he could have driven hers — and at any point they could have swapped. Not much risk. Very few people around there at seven. Or eight, for that matter.”

“Is it my turn now?” asked Lewis quietly.