Death is now my neighbour - Morse 12 Read online

  Death is now my neighbour - Morse 12

  Book Jacket

  Series: Morse [12]

  Tags: Mystery

  SUMMARY:

  As he drove his chief down to Kidlington, Lewis returned the conversation to where it had begun. 'You haven't told me what you think about this fellow Owens ' the dead woman's next-door neighbour.' 'Death is always the next-door neighbour,' said Morse sombrely. The murder of a young woman . . . A cryptic 'seventeenth-century' love poem . . . And a photograph of a mystery grey-haired man . . . More than enough to set Chief Inspector E. Morse on the trail of a killer. And it's a trail that leads him to Lonsdale College, where the contest between Julian Storrs and Dr Denis Cornford for the coveted position of Master is hotting up. But then Morse faces a greater, far more personal crisis . . .

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR COLIN DEXTER

  Death is Now My Neighbour

  'Dexter... has created a giant among fictional detectives and has never short-changed his readers.' The Times

  The Daughters of Cain

  'This is Colin Dexter at his most excitingly devious.' Daily Telegraph

  The Way Through the Woods

  'Morse and his faithful Watson, Sergeant Lewis, in supreme form ... Hallelujah.' Observer

  The Jewel That Was Ours

  'Traditional crime writing at its best; the kind of book without which no armchair is complete.' Sunday Times

  The Wench is Dead

  'Dextrously ingenious.' Guardian

  The Secret of Annexe 3

  'A plot of classical cunning and intricacy.' Times Literary Supplement

  The Riddle of the Third Mile

  'Runs the gamut of brain-racking unputdownability.' Observer

  The Dead of Jericho

  'The writing is highly intelligent, the atmosphere melancholy, the effect haunting.' Daily Telegraph

  Service of All the Dead

  'A brilliantly plotted detective story.' Evening Standard

  The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

  'Morse's superman status is reinforced by an ending which no ordinary mortal could have possibly unravelled.' Financial Times

  Last Seen Wearing

  'Brilliant characterisation in original whodunnit.' Sunday Telegraph

  Last Bus to Woodstock

  'Let those who lament the decline of the English detective story reach for Colin Dexter.' Guardian

  DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

  Colin Dexter graduated from Cambridge University in 1953 and has lived in Oxford since 1966. Death is Now My Neighbour is his twelfth Inspector Morse novel, following most recently The Daughters of Cain, The Way Through the Woods and The Jewel That Was Ours.

  The Way Through the Woods and The Wench is Dead were awarded Gold Daggers by the Crime Writers' Association for best crime novel of the year, and Colin Dexter has also been awarded Silver Daggers for Service of All the Dead and The Dead of Jericho.

  The Inspector Morse novels have been adapted for the small screen, with huge success, in Carlton/Central Television's series starring John Thaw and Kevin Whately. In 1993 Colin Dexter achieved a long-held ambition - a speaking part (two words) in the seventh Inspector Morse series.

  By the same author

  Last Bus to Woodstock Last Seen Wearing The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn Service of All the Dead The Dead of Jericho The Riddle of the Third Mile The Secret of Annexe 3 The Wench is Dead The Jewel That Was Ours The Way Through the Woods The Daughters of Cain Morse's Greatest Mystery and other stories

  COLIN DEXTER

  DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

  PAN BOOKS

  First published 1996

  ISBN o 330 36785 4

  Copyright© 1996 Colin Dexter

  For

  Joan Templeton with gratitude

  Acknowledgements

  The author and publishers wish to thank the following who have kindly given permission for use of copyright materials:

  Extract from The Dance by Philip Larkin reproduced by permission of Faber 8c Faber Ltd;

  Extract from the News of the World reproduced by permission of the News of the World;

  Extract from Fowler's Modern English Usage reproduced by permission of Oxford University Press; Ace Reporter by Helen Peacocke reproduced by kind permission of the author;

  Extract from Major Barbara by Bernard Shaw reproduced by permission of The Society of Authors on behalf of the Bernard Shaw Estate;

  Extract from The Brontes by Juliet Barker reproduced by permission of Weidenfeld and Nicolson; Extract from The Dry Salvages by ‘I. S. Eliot reproduced by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd; Extract from Summoned by Bells by John Betjeman reproduced by permission of John Murray (Publishers) Ltd; Extract from Aubade by Philip Larkin reproduced by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd;

  Extract from May-Day Song for North Oxford by John

  Betjeman, from Collected Poems of John Betjeman, reproduced by permission of John Murray (Publishers) Ltd; Extract from This Be the Verse by Philip Larkin reproduced by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd; Extract by Philip Larkin on p. 345 reproduced by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.

  Every effort has been made to trace all copyright holders but if any has been inadvertently overlooked, the author and publishers will be pleased to make the necessary arrangement at the first opportunity.

  Quickly, bring me a beaker of wine, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever

  (ARISTOPHANES)

  DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

  PROLEGOMENON

  January, 1996

  A decided boon, therefore, are any multiple-choice items for those pupils in our classrooms who are either inured to idleness, or guilty of wilful ignorance. Such pupils, if simply and appropriately instructed, have only to plump for the same answer on each occasion — let us say, choice (a) from choices (a) (b) (c) (d) — in order to achieve a reasonably regular score of some 25% of the total marks available. This is a wholly satisfactory return for academic incompetence

  (Crosscurrents in Assessment Criteria: Theory and Practice, HMSO, 1983)

  'WHAT TIME DO you call this, Lewis?'

  "The missus's fault. Not like her to be late with the breakfast.'

  Morse made no answer as he stared down at the one remaining unsolved clue: 'Stand for soldiers? (5-4)'

  Lewis took the chair opposite his chief and sat waiting for some considerable while, leafing through a magazine.

  'Stuck, sir?' he asked finally.

  'If I was - if I were - I doubt I'd get much help from you.'

  ‘You never know,' suggested Lewis good-naturedly. 'Perhaps—'

  'Ah!' burst out Morse triumphantly - as he wrote in TOASTRACK. He folded The Times away and beamed across at his sergeant.

  "You - are - a - genius, Lewis.'

  'So you've often told me, sir.'

  'And I bet you had a boiled egg for breakfast - with soldiers. Am I right?'

  'What's that got—?'

  'What are you reading there?'

  Lewis held up the title page of his magazine.

  'Lew-is! There are more important things in life than the Thames Valley Police Gazette.'

  'Just thought you might be interested in one of the articles here ...'

  Morse rose to the bait. 'Such as?'

  'There's a sort of test - you know, see how many points you can score: ARE YOU REALLY WISE AND

  CULTURED?'

  'Very doubtful in your case, I should think.'

  ‘You reckon you could do better than I did?'

  'Quite certain of it.'

  Lewis grinned. ' Quite certain, sir?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'Want to have a go, then?' Lewis's mouth betraye
d gentle amusement as Morse shrugged his indifference. 'Multiple-choice questions - you know all about—?' 'Get on with it!'

  'All you've got to do is imagine the world's going to end in exactly one week's time, OK? Then you've got to answer five questions, as honestly as you can.'

  'And you've already answered these questions yourself?'

  Lewis nodded.

  'Well, if you can answer them ... Fire away!' Lewis read aloud from the article:

  Question One

  Given the choice of only four CDs or cassettes, which one of the following would you be likely to play at least once?

  A Beatles album

  Faure's Requiem

  An Evening with Victor Borge

  The complete overtures to Wagner's operas

  With a swift flourish, Morse wrote down a letter.

  Question Two

  Which of these videos would you want to watch?

  Casablanca (the film)

  England's World Cup victory (1966)

  Copenhagen Red-Hot Sex (2 hours)

  The Habitat of the Kingfisher (RSPB)

  A second swift flourish from Morse.

  Question Three

  With which of the following women would you wish to spend some, if not all, of your surviving hours?

  Lady Thatcher

  Kim Basinger

  Mother Teresa

  Princess Diana

  A third swift flourish.

  Question Four

  If you could gladden your final days with one of the following, which would it be?

  Two dozen bottles of vintage champagne

  Five hundred cigarettes

  A large bottle of tranquillizers

  A barrel of real ale

  Flourish number four, and the candidate (confident of imminent success, it appeared) sat back in the black-leather armchair.

  Question Five

  Which of the following would you read during this period?

  Cervantes' Don Quixote

  Dante's The Divine Comedy

  A bound volume of Private Eye (1995)

  Homer's Iliad

  This time Morse hesitated some while before writing on the pad in front of him. 'You did the test yourself, you say?'

  Lewis nodded. 'Victor Borge; the football; Princess

  Diana; the champagne; and Private Eye. Just hope Princess Di likes Champers, that's all.'

  "There must be worse ways of spending your last week on earth,' admitted Morse.

  'I didn't do so well, though - not on the marking. I'm not up there among the cultured and the wise, I'm afraid.'

  'Did you expect to be?'

  'Wouldn't you?'

  'Of course.'

  'Let's hear what you picked, then.'

  'My preferences, Lewis' (Morse articulated his words with precision) 'were as follows: (b); (c); (b); (c); none of them.'

  Turning to the back page, Lewis reminded himself of the answers putatively adjudged to be correct.

  'I don't believe it,' he whispered to himself. Then, to Morse: You scored the maximum!'

  'Axe you surprised?'

  Lewis shook his head in mild bewilderment.

  You chose, what, the Requiem?'

  'Well?'

  'But you've never believed in all that religious stuff.'

  'It's important if it's true, though, isn't it? Let's just say it's a bit like an insurance policy. A beautiful work, anyway.'

  'Says here: "Score four marks for (b). Sufficient recommendation that it was chosen by three of the last four Popes for their funerals."'

  Morse lifted his eyebrows. You didn't know that?'

  Lewis ignored the question and continued: 'Then you chose the sex video!'

  'Well, it was either that or the kingfisher. I've already seen Casablanca a couple of times - and no one's ever going to make me watch a football match again.'

  'But I mean, a sex video ...'

  Morse, however, was clearly unimpressed by such obvious disapprobation. 'It'd be the choice of those three Popes as well, like as not'

  'But it all gets - well, it gets so plain boring after a while.'

  'So you keep telling me, Lewis. And all I'm asking is the chance to get as bored as everybody else. I've only got a week, remember.'

  ‘I like your next choice, though. Beautiful girl, Kim Basinger. Beautiful'

  'Something of a toss-up, that - between her and Mother Teresa. But I'd already played the God-card.'

  'Then' (Lewis considered the next answer) 'Arrghh, come off it, sir! You didn't even go for the beer! You're supposed to answer these questions honestly.'

  'I've already got plenty of booze in,' said Morse. 'Certainly enough to see me through to Judgment Day. And I don't fancy facing the Great Beyond with a blinding hangover. It'll be a new experience for me -tranquillizers...'

  Lewis looked down again, and proceeded to read out the reasons for Morse's greatest triumph. 'It says here, on Question Five, "Those choosing any of the suggested titles are clearly unfit for high honours. If any choice whatsoever is made, four marks will therefore be deducted from the final score. If the answer is a timid dash - or similar - no marks will be awarded, but no marks will be deducted. A more positively negative answer - e.g. 'Come off it!' - will be rewarded with a bonus of four marks."' Again Lewis shook his head. 'Nonsense, isn't it? "Positively negative", I mean.'

  'Rather nicely put, I'd've thought,' said Morse.

  'Anyway,' conceded Lewis, 'you score twenty out of twenty according to this fellow who seems to have all the answers.' Lewis looked again at the name printed below the article.' "Rhadamanthus" - whoever he is.'

  'Lord Chief Justice of Appeal in the Underworld.'

  Lewis frowned, then grinned. "You've been cheating! You've got a copy—'

  'No!' Morse's blue eyes gazed fiercely across at his sergeant. 'The first I saw of that Gazette was when you brought it in just now.'

  'If you say so.' But Lewis sounded less than convinced.

  'Not surprised, are you, to find me perched up there on the topmost twig amongst the intelligentsia?'

  '"The wise and the cultured", actually.'

  'And that's another thing. I think I shall go crackers if I hear three things in my life much more: "Hark the Herald Angels Sing"; Eine Kleine Nachtmusik; and that wretched bloody word "actually".'

  'Sorry, sir.'

  Suddenly Morse grinned. 'No need to be, old friend. And at least you're right about one thing. I did cheat -in a way.'

  "You don't mean you... ?' Morse nodded.

  It had been a playful, pleasant interlude. Yet it would have warranted no inclusion in this chronicle had it not been that one or two of the details recorded herein were to linger significantly in the memory of Chief Inspector E. Morse, of the Thames Valley Police HQ.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  In hypothetical sentences introduced by 'if and referring to past time, where conditions are deemed to be 'unfulfilled', the verb will regularly be found in the pluperfect subjunctive, in both protasis and apodosis

  (Donet, Principles of Elementary Latin Syntax)

  IT IS PERHAPS unusual to begin a tale of murder with a reminder to the reader of the rules governing conditional sentences in a language that is incontrovertibly dead. In the present case, however, such a course appears not wholly inappropriate.

  If (if) Chief Inspector Morse had been on hand to observe the receptionist's dress - an irregularly triangled affair in blues, greys, and reds - he might have been reminded of the uniform issued to a British Airways stewardess. More probably, though, he might not, since he had never flown on British Airways. His only flight during the previous decade had occasioned so many fears concerning his personal survival that he had determined to restrict all future travel to those (statistically) far more precarious means of conveyance - the car, the coach, the train, and the steamer.

  Yet almost certainly the Chief Inspector would have noted, with approval, the receptionist herself, for in Yorkshire she w
ould have been reckoned a bonny lass: a vivacious, dark-eyed woman, long-legged and well figured; a woman - judging from her ringless, well-manicured fingers - not overtly advertising any marital commitment, and not averse, perhaps, to the occasional overture from the occasional man.

  Pinned at the top-left of her colourful dress was a name-tag: 'Dawn Charles'.

  Unlike several of her friends (certainly unlike Morse) she was quite content with her Christian name. Sometimes she'd felt slightly dubious about it; but no longer. Out with some friends in the Bird and Baby the previous month, she'd been introduced to a rather dashing, rather dishy undergraduate from Pembroke College. And when, a little later, she'd found herself doodling inconsequentially on a Burton beer-mat, the young man, on observing her sinistrality, had initiated a wholly memorable conversation.

  'Dawn? That wyour name?'

  She'd nodded.

  'Left-handed?'

  She'd nodded.

  'Do you know that line from Omar Khayyam? "Dreaming when Dawn's left hand was in the sky ..." Lovely, isn't it?'

  Yes, it was. Lovely.

  She'd peeled the top off the beer-mat and made him write it down for her.

  Then, very quietly, he'd asked her if he could see her again. At the start of the new term, perhaps?

  She'd known it was silly, for there must have been at least twenty years difference in their ages. If only ... if only he'd been ten, a dozen years older...

  But people did do silly things, and hoped their silly hopes. And that very day, 15 January, was the first full day of the new Hilary Term in the University of Oxford.

  Her Monday-Friday job, 6-10 p.m., at the clinic on the Banbury Road (just north of St Giles') was really quite enjoyable. Over three years of it now, and she was becoming a fixture there. Most of the consultants greeted her with a genuine smile; several of them, these days, with her Christian name.

  Nice.

  She'd once stayed at a four-star hotel which offered a glass of sherry to incoming guests; and although the private Harvey Clinic was unwilling (perhaps on medical grounds?) to provide such laudable hospitality, Dawn ever kept two jugs of genuine coffee piping hot for her clients, most of them soberly suited and well-heeled gentlemen. A number of whom, as she well knew, were most seriously ill.

  Yes, there had been several occasions when she had heard a few brief passages of conversation between consultant and client which she shouldn't have heard; or which, having heard, she should have forgotten; and which she should never have been willing to report to anyone.