Colin Dexter - Death Is Now My Neighbor

Friday, March 8

Those who are absent, by its means become present: correspondence is the consolation of life.

Sergeant Lewis had himself only just entered Morse’s office when Jane came through with the post: six official-looking letters, opened, with appropriate previous correspondence paper-clipped behind them; one square white envelope, unopened, marked “Private,” and postmarked Oxford; and an airmail letter, also unopened, marked “Personal,” and postmarked “Washington.”

Jane smiled radiantly at her boss.

“Why are you looking so cheerful?” queried Morse.

“Just nice to have you back, sir, that’s all.”

Inside the white envelope was a card, the front showing an auburn-haired woman, in a white dress, reading a book; and Morse read the brief message inside:

Geoffrey Harris Ward

Radcliffe Infirmary

March 7, 1996

We all miss your miserable presence in the ward. If you haven’tfinished smoking, we shall never meet for that G&T you promised me. Look after yourself!

Affectionately,

Janet (McQueen)

P.S. I looked through your old hospital records from many years ago. Know something? I found your Christian name!

“Why are you looking so cheerful?” asked Lewis.

But Morse made no answer, and indeed appeared to be reading the message again and again. Then he opened the letter from America.

Washington

March 4

Dear Morse,

Just read your thing in the Police Gazette. How did I know it was yours? Ah, I too was a detective! I’d have had the champagne myself. And I think the Fauré Requiem’s a bit lightweight compared with the Verdi — in spite of the imprimatur of the Papacy. I know you’ve always wept to Wagner but I’ve always wept to Verdi myself — and the best Xmas present I had was the Karajan recording of Don Carlos.

I know you’re frightened of flying, but a visit here — especially in the spring, they say — is something not to be missed in life. We’ll get together again for a jar on my return (April) and don’t leave it too long before you take your pension.

As aye,

Morse handed the letter across to Lewis.

“The old Metropolitan Commissioner!”

Morse nodded, rather proudly.

“Washington, D.C., that’ll be, sir.”

“Where else?”

“Washington, C.D. — County Durham, near enough.”

“Oh.”

“What’s your program today, sir?”

“Well, we’ve done most of the spadework—”

“Except the Harvey Clinic side of things.”

“And that’s in hand, you say?”

“Seeing the woman this morning. She’s just back from a few days’ holiday.”

“Who’s she again? Remind me.”

“I told you about her: Dawn Charles.”

“Mrs. or Miss or Ms.?”

“Not sure. But she’s the main receptionist there. They say if anybody’s likely to know what’s going on, she is.”

“What time are you seeing her?”

“Ten o’clock. She’s got a little flat out at Bicester on the Charles Church Estate. You joining me?”

“No, I don’t think so. Something tells me I ought to see Storrs again.”

Lovingly Morse put the “Girl Reading” (Perugini, 1878) back into her envelope, then looked through Sir Peter’s letter once again.

Don Carlos.

The two words stood out and stared at him, at the beginning of a line as they were, at the end of a paragraph. Not an opera Morse knew well, Don Carlos. Another “DC,” though. It was amazing how many DCs had cropped up in their inquiries — and still another one just now in the District of Columbia. And suddenly in Morse’s mind the name of the Verdi opera merged with a name he’d just heard: the “Don” chiming in with the “Dawn,” and the “Carlos” with the “Charles.”

Was it Dawn Charles (Mrs. or Miss or Ms.) who held the key to the mystery? Did they belong to her , that pair of initials in the manila file?

Morse’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Mr. Julian Storrs will have to wait a little while. I shall be coming with you, Lewis — to Bicester.”

The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the longest way.

Dawn Charles looked nervous when she opened the door of her flat in Woodpecker Way and let the two detectives through into the gray-carpeted lounge, where the elder of the two, the white-haired one, was already complimenting her on such an attractive residence.

“Bit unlucky though, really. I bought it at the top of the property boom for fifty-eight thousand. Only worth thirty-four now.”

“Oh dear!”

The man made her feel uneasy. And her mind went back to the previous summer when on returning from France she’d put the Green Channel sticker on the windscreen — only to be diverted into the Red Channel; where pleasantly, far too pleasantly, she’d been questioned about her time abroad, about the weather, about anything and everything — except those extra thousand cigarettes in the back of the boot. It had been as if they were just stringing her along; knowing the truth all the time.

But these men couldn’t possibly know the truth, that’s what she was telling herself now; and she thought she could handle things. On Radio Oxford just before Christmas she’d heard P.D. James’s advice to criminal suspects: “Keep it short! Keep it simple! Don’t change a single word unless you have to!”

“Please sit down. Coffee? I’ve only got instant, I’m afraid.”

“We both prefer instant, don’t we, Sergeant?”

“Lovely,” said Lewis, who would much have preferred tea.

Two minutes later, Dawn held a jug suspended over the steaming cups.

“Milk?”

“Please,” from Lewis.

“Thank you,” from Morse.

“Sugar?”

“Just the one teaspoonful,” from Lewis.

But a shake of the head from Morse; a slight raising of the eyebrows as she stirred two heaped teaspoonfuls into her own coffee; and an obsequious comment which caused Lewis to squirm inwardly: “How on earth do you manage to keep such a beautiful figure — with all that sugar?”

She colored slightly. “Something to do with the metabolic rate, so they tell me at the clinic.”

“Ah, yes! The clinic. I’d almost forgotten.”

Again he was sounding too much like the Customs man, and Dawn was glad it was the sergeant who now took over the questioning.

A little awkwardly, a little ineptly (certainly as Morse saw things) Lewis asked about her training, her past experience, her present position, her relationships with employers, colleagues, clients...

The scene was almost set.

She knew Storrs (she claimed) only as a patient; she’d known Turnbull (she claimed) only as a consultant; she knew Owens (she claimed) not at all.

Lewis produced the letter stating Julian Storrs’ prognosis.

“Do you think this photocopy was made at the clinic?”

“I didn’t copy it.”

“Someone must have done.”

“I didn’t copy it.”

“Any idea who might have done?”

“ I didn’t copy it.”

It was hardly a convincing performance, and she was aware that both men knew she was lying. And quietly — amid a few tears, certainly, but with no hysteria — the truth came out.

Owens she had met when the Press had come along for the clinic’s 25th anniversary — he must have seen something, heard something that night, about Mr. Storrs. After Mr. Turn-bull had died, Owens had telephoned her — they’d met in the Bird and Baby in St. Giles’ — he’d asked her if she could copy a letter for him — yes, that letter — he’d offered her £500 — and she’d agreed — copied the letter — been paid in cash. That was it — that was all — a complete betrayal of trust, she knew that — something she’d never done before — would never have done in the normal course of events. It was just the money — nothing else — she’d desperately needed the money...