Death is now my neighbour - Morse 12 Page 9

  Owens remained silent

  "You've always been a journalist?'

  ‘Yes.'

  'Which papers ... ?' ‘I started in London.' 'Whereabouts?' 'Soho - around there.' 'When was that5' 'Mid-seventies.'

  'Wasn't that when Soho was full of sex clubs and striptease joints?'

  'And more. Gets a bit boring, all that stuff though, after a time.'

  'Yes. So they tell me.'

  ‘I read your piece today in the Oxford Mail,' said Morse as the two men walked towards reception. 'You write well.'

  'Thank you.'

  ‘I can't help remembering you said "comparatively" crime-free area.'

  'That was in yesterday's.' 'Oh.'

  'Well ... we've only had one burglary this last year, and we've had no joy-riders around since the council put the sleeping-policemen in. We still get a bit of mindless vandalism, of course - you'll have seen the young trees we tried to plant round the back. And litter - litter's always a problem - and graffiti ... And someone recently unscrewed most of the latches on the back gates - you know, the things that click as the gates shut.'

  'I didn't know there was a market for those,' muttered Morse.

  'And you're wasting your time if you put up a name for your house, or something like that. I put a little notice on my front gate. Lasted exactly eight days. Know what it was?'

  Morse glanced back at the corporate work-force seated in front of VDU screens at desks cluttered with in-trays, out-trays, file-cases, handbooks, and copy being corrected and cosseted before inclusion in forthcoming editions of Oxford's own Times, Mail, Journal, Star...

  '"No Free Newspapers"?' he suggested sotto voce.

  Morse handed in his Visitor badge at reception.

  You'll need to give me another thing to get out with.'

  'No. The barrier lifts automatically when you leave.' 'So once you're in ...'

  She smiled. You're in! It's just that we used to get quite a few cars from the Industrial Estate trying it on.'

  Morse turned left into the Botley Road and drove along to the Ring-Road junction where he took the northbound A34, coming off at the Pear Tree Roundabout, and thence driving rather too quickly up the last stretch to Kidlington HQ - where he looked at his wristwatch again.

  Nine and a half minutes. Only nine and a half minutes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data (Conan Doyle, Scandal in Bohemia)

  As MORSE CLIMBED the stairs to Lewis's office he was experiencing a deep ache in each of his calves.

  'Hardest work I've done today, that!' he admitted as, panting slightly, he flopped into a chair.

  'Interview go OK, sir?'

  'Owens? I wouldn't trust that fellow as far as I could kick him.'

  'Which wouldn't be too far, in your present state of health.'

  'Genuine journalist he may be - but he's a phoney witness, take it from me!'

  'Before you go on, sir, we've got the preliminary post-mortem report here.'

  You've read it through?'

  'Tried to. Bullet-entry in the left sub-mandibular—' 'Lew-is! Spare me the details! She was shot through the window, through the blind, in the morning twilight. You mustn't expect much accuracy about the thing! You've been watching too many old cowboy

  films where they mow down the baddies at hundreds of yards.'

  'Distance of about eighteen inches to two feet, that's what it says, judging from—'

  'What's it say about the time?'

  'She's not quite so specific there.'

  'Why the hell not? We told her exactly when the woman was shot!'

  'Dr Hobson says the temperature in the kitchen that morning wasn't much above zero.'

  'Economizing everywhere, our Rachel,' said Morse rather sadly.

  'And it seems you get this sort of "refrigeration factor"—'

  'In which we are not particularly interested, Lewis, because we know—' Morse suddenly stopped. 'Unless ... unless our distinguished pathologist is suggesting that Rachel may have been murdered just a little earlier than we've been assuming.'

  'I don't think she's trying to suggest anything, sir. Just giving us the facts as far as she sees them.'

  ‘I suppose so.'

  'Do you want to read the report?'

  ‘I shall have to, shan't I, if you can't understand it?'

  ‘I didn't say that—'

  But again Morse interrupted him, almost eagerly now recounting his interview with Owens ...

  '... So don't you see, Lewis? He could have done it Quarter of an hour it took me, to the newspaper offices via Banbury Road; ten minutes back via the Ring Road. So if he left home about ten to seven - clocked into the car park at seven, say - hardly anything on the roads -then drove straight out of the car park - there's no clocking out there - that's the system they have - drove hell for leather back to Bloxham Close - ' 'Drive, sir.'

  ' - parks his car up on the road behind the houses' (Morse switched now to the vivid present tense) ' - goes through the vandalized fence there - down the grass slope - taps on her window - the thin blinds still drawn' (Morse's eyes seemed almost mesmerized) ' - sees her profile more clearly as she gets nearer - for a second or two scrutinizes the dark outline at the gas-lit window - '

  'It's electric there.'

  ' - then he fires through the window into her face -and hits her just below the jaw.'

  Lewis nodded this time. 'The sub-mandibular bit, you're right about that.'

  'Then he goes up the bank again - gets in his car -back to Osney Mead. But he daren't go into the car park again - of course not! So he leaves his car somewhere near, and goes into the office from the rear of the car park. Nobody much there to observe his comings and goings - most of the people get in there about eightish, so I learn. Quod erat demonstrandum! I know you're going to ask me what his motive was, and I don't know. But this time we've found the murderer before we've found the motive. Not grumbling too much about that, are you?'

  ‘Yes! It just won't hold water.'

  'And why's that?'

  "There's this woman from Number 1, for a start. Miss Cecil—'

  'Delia - Owens called her Delia.'

  'She saw him leave, didn't she? About seven o'clock? That's why she knew he'd be at his desk when she rang him as soon as she saw the police arrive - just after eight.'

  'One hour - one whole hour! You can do a lot in an hour.'

  ‘You still can't put a quart into a pint pot.'

  'We've now gone metric, by the way, Lewis. Look, what if they're in it together - have you thought of that? Owens is carrying a torch for that Miss Cecil, believe me! When I happened to mention Julian Storrs - '

  ‘You didn't do that, surely?'

  ‘ - and when I said he'd been seen knocking at one of the other doors there -' 'But nobody—'

  ' - he was jealous, Lewis! And there are only two houses in the Close' (Lewis gave up the struggle) 'occupied by nubile young women: Number 17 and Number 1, Miss James and Miss Cecil, agreed?'

  ‘I thought you just said they were in it together.'

  ‘I said they might be, that's all. I'm just thinking aloud, for Christ's sake! One of us has got to think. And I'm a bit weary and I'm much underbeered. So give me a chance!'

  Lewis waited a few seconds. Then:

  'Is it my turn to speak, sir?'

  Morse nodded weakly, contemplating the threadbare state of Lewis's carpet.

  ‘I don't know whether you've been down the Botley Road in the morning recently - even in the fairly early morning - but it's one of the worst bottlenecks in Oxford. You drove there and back in mid-afternoon, didn't you? But you want Owens to do three journeys between Kidlington and Osney Mead. First he drives to work - perhaps fairly quickly, agreed. Twenty minutes, say? He drives back - a bit quicker? Quarter of an hour, say. He parks his car somewhere - it's not going to be in Bloxham Drive, though. He murders his next-door neighbour. Drives back into Oxford after that - another twenty, twenty
-five minutes at least now. Finds a parking space - and this time it's not going to be in the car park, as you say. Walks or runs to his office, not going in the front door, either - for obvious reasons. Gets into his office and is sitting there at his desk when his girlfriend - if you're right about that - rings him up and tells him he'll be in for a bit of a scoop if he gets out again to Bloxham Drive. It's just about possible, sir, if all the lights are with him every time, if almost everybody's decided to walk to work that morning. But it's very improbable even then. And remember it's Monday morning - the busiest morning of the week in Oxford.'

  Morse looked hurt.

  "You still think it's just about possible?'

  Lewis considered the question again.

  'No, sir. I know you always like to think that most murders are committed by next-door neighbours or husbands or wives—'

  'But what if this woman at Number 1 isn't telling us the truth?' queried Morse. 'What if she never made that phone-call at all? What if she's in it with him? What if she's more than willing to provide him with a nice little alibi? You see, you're probably right about the time-scale of things. He probably wouldn't have had time to get back here to Kidlington, commit the murder, and then return to the office and be sitting quietly at his desk when she rang him.' 'So?’

  'So she's lying. Just like he is! He got back here - easy! -murdered Rachel James - and stayed here, duly putting in an appearance as the very first reporter on the scene!'

  'I'm sorry, sir, but she isn't lying, not about this. I don't know what you think the rest of us have been doing since Monday morning but we've done quite a bit of checking up already. And she's not lying about the phone-call to Owens' office. One of the lads went along to BT and confirmed it. The call was monitored and it'll be listed on the itemized telephone bill of the subscriber - Number 1 Bloxham Drive!'

  'Does it give the time?'

  Lewis appeared slightly uneasy. 'I'm not quite sure about that'

  'And if our ace-reporter Owens is privileged enough to have an answerphone in his office - which he is...'

  Ye-es. Perhaps Morse was on to something after all. Because if the two of them had, for some reason, been working together... Lewis put his thoughts into words:

  You mean he needn't have gone in to work at all ... Ye-es. You say that electronic gadget records the number on your card, and the time - but it doesn't record the car itself, right?'

  Morse nodded encouragement. And Lewis, duly encouraged, continued:

  'So if somebody else had taken his card - and if stayed in the Drive all the time

  Morse finished it off for him: 'He's got a key to Number 1 - he's in there when she drives off - he walks along the back of the terrace - shoots Rachel James - goes back to Number 1 - rings up his own office number - waits for the answerphone pips - probably doesn't say anything - just keeps the line open for a minute or two - and Bob's your father's brother.'

  Lewis sighed. 'I'd better get on with a bit of fourth-grade clerical checking, sir - this parking business, the phone-call, any of his colleagues who might have seen him—'

  'Or her.'

  'It's worth checking, I can see that'

  'Tomorrow, Lewis. We're doing nothing more today.'

  'And this woman at Number 1 ?'

  'Is she a nice-looking lass?'

  'Very much so.'

  'You leave that side of things to me, then.'

  Morse got to his feet and went to the door. But then returned, and sat down again.

  'That "refrigeration factor" you mentioned, Lewis - time of death and all that. Interesting, isn't it? So far, we've been assuming that the bullet went through the window and ended up in the corpse, haven't we? But if - just if - Rachel James had been murdered a bit earlier, inside Number 17, and then someone had fired through the window at some later stage ... You see what I mean? Everybody's alibi is up the pole, isn't it?'

  'There'd be another bullet, though, wouldn't there?

  We've got the one from Rachel's neck; but there'd be another one somewhere in the kitchen if someone fired—'

  'Not necessarily the murderer, remember!'

  'But if someone fired just through the window, without aiming at anything

  'Did the SOCOs have a good look at the ceiling, the walls - the floorboards?'

  "They did, yes.'

  'Somebody might have picked it up and pocketed it.'

  'Who on earth—'

  'I've not the faintest idea.'

  'Talking of bullets, sir, we've got another little report -from ballistics. Do you want to read it?' 'Not tonight.' 'Very short, sir.'

  He handed Morse the single, neatly typed paragraph:

  Ballistics Report: Prelim.

  17 Bloxham Drive, Kidlington, Oxon

  .577 heavy-calibre revolver. One of the Howdah pistols probably - perhaps the Lancaster Patent four-barrel. An old firing-piece but if reasonably well cared for could be in good working nick like as not in 1996.

  Acc. to recent catalogues readily available in USA: $370 to $700. Tests progressing.

  ASH

  22.11.96

  Morse handed the report back. 'I'm not at all sure I know what "calibre" means. Is it the diameter of the bullet or the diameter of the barrel?'

  'Wouldn't they be the same, sir?'

  Morse got up and walked wearily to the door once more.

  'Perhaps so, Lewis. Perhaps so.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A Conservative is one who is enamored of existing evils, as distinguished from the Liberal, who wishes to replace them with others

  (Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary)

  MORSE DID NOT go straight home to his North Oxford flat that evening; nor, mirabile dictu, did he make for the nearest hostelry - at least not immediately. Instead, he drove to Bloxham Drive, pulling in behind the single police car parked outside Number 17, in which a uniformed officer sat reading the Oxford Mail.

  'Constable Brogan, sir,' was the reply in answer to Morse's question.

  'Happen to know if Number 1 's at home?'

  'The one with the N-reg Rover, you mean?'

  Morse nodded.

  'No. But she keeps coming backwards and forwards all the time. She seems a very busy woman, that one.' 'Anything to report?'

  'Not really, sir. We keep getting a few gawpers, but I just ask them to move along.' 'Gently, I trust'

  'Very gently, sir.'

  'How long are you on duty for?'

  'Finish at midnight.'

  Morse pointed to the front window. 'Why don't you nip in and watch the telly?' 'Bit cold in there.' You can put the gas-fire on.' 'It's electric, sir.' 'Please yourself!' 'Would that be official, sir?' 'Anything I say's official, lad.' 'My lucky night, then.'

  Mine, too, thought Morse as he looked over his shoulder to see an ash-blonde alighting from her car outside Number 1.

  He hastened along the pavement in what could be described as an arrested jog, or perhaps more accurately as an animated walk.

  'Good evening.'

  She turned towards him as she inserted her latchkey. Yes?'

  'A brief word - if it's possible ... er ...' Morse fumbled for his ID card. But she forestalled the need.

  'Another police sergeant, are you?' 'Police, yes.'

  'I can't spare much time - not tonight. I've got a busy few hours ahead.'

  'I shan't keep you long.'

  She led the way through into a tastefully furbished and furnished front room, taking off her ankle-length white mackintosh, placing it over the back of the red-leather settee, and bidding Morse sit opposite her as she smoothed the pale blue dress over her hips and crossed her elegant, nylon-clad legs.

  'Do you mind?' she asked, lifting a cigarette in the air.

  'No, no,' muttered Morse, wishing only that she'd offered one to him.

  'What can I do for you?' She had a slightly husky, upper-class voice, and Morse guessed she'd probably attended one of the nation's more prestigious public schools.

  'Jus
t one or two questions.'

  She smiled attractively: 'Go ahead.'

  'I understand that my colleague, Sergeant Lewis, has spoken to you already.'

  'Nice man - in a gentle, shy sort of way.'

  'Really? I'd never quite thought of him

  'Well, you're a bit older, aren't you?'

  'What job do you do?'

  She opened her handbag and gave Morse her card. 'I'm the local agent for the Conservative Party.' 'Oh dear! I am sorry,' said Morse, looking down at the small oblong card:

  Adele Beatrice Cecil

  Conservative Party Agent

  1 Bloxham Drive Kidlington, Oxon, OX5 2NY

  For information please ring 01865 794768

  'Was that supposed to be a sick joke?' There was an edge to her voice now.

  'Not really. It's just that I've never had a friend who's a Tory, that's all.'

  'You mean you didn't vote for us today?'

  ‘I don't live in this ward.'

  'If you give me your address, I'll make sure you get some literature, Sergeant'

  'Chief Inspector, actually,' corrected Morse, oblivious of the redundant adverb.

  She tugged her dress a centimetre down her thighs. 'How can I help?'

  'Do you know Mr Owens well?'

  'Well enough.'

  'Well enough to hand him a newspaper scoop?' Yes.'

  'Have you ever slept with him?'

  'Not much finesse about you, is there?'

  'Just a minute,' said Morse softly. 'I've got a terrible job to do - just up the street here. And part of it's to ask some awkward questions about what's going on in the Close—'

  'Drive.'

  'To find out who knows who - whom, if you prefer it' 'They did teach us English grammar at Roedean, yes.' You haven't answered my question.' Adele breathed deeply, and her grey eyes stared across almost fiercely. 'Once, yes.'

  'But you didn't repeat the experience?'

  'I said "once" - didn't you hear me?' ‘You still see him?'

  'Occasionally. He's all right: intelligent, pretty well read, quite good fun, sometimes - and he promised he'd vote Conservative today.'

  'He sounds quite compatible.'

  'Are you married, Inspector?'

  'Chief Inspector.'