Death Is Now My Neighbour (21 page)

Something - some aspiration to the higher things in life, perhaps - prompted Morse to raise his eyes from the ground-floor level of the gaudily lurid fronts there to the architecture, some of it rather splendid, above.

Yet not for long.

'Come in out of the drizzle, sir! Lovely girls here.' Morse showed his ID card, and moved into the shelter of the tiny entrance foyer. 'Do you know
her?'

The young woman, black stockings and black miniskirt meeting at the top of her thighs, barely glanced at the photograph thrust under her eyes.

'No.'

'Who runs this place? I want to see him.'

'Her.
But she ain't 'ere now, is she? Why don't you call back later, handsome?'

A helmeted policeman was ambling along the opposite pavement, and Morse called him over.

'OK,' the girl said quickly. 'You bin 'ere before, right?'

'Er - one of my officers, yes.'

'Me mum used to know her, like I told the other fellah. Just a minute.'

She disappeared down the dingy stairs.

'How can I help you, sir?'

Morse showed his ID to the constable.

'Just keep your eyes on me for a few minutes.'

But there was no need.

Three minutes later, Morse had an address in Praed Street, no more than a hundred yards from Paddington Stadon where earlier, at the entrance to the Underground, he had admired the bronze statue of one of his heroes, Isambard Kingdom Brunei.

So Morse now took the Tube back. It had been a roundabout sort of journey.

She was in.

She asked him in.

And Morse, from a moth-eaten settee, agreed to sample a cup of Nescafe.

Yeah, Angie Marti
n! Toffee-nosed
little
tart, if you know wo' I mean.'

'Tell me about her.'

‘
You're the
second
one, encha?'

'Er - one of my officers, yes.'

'Nah! He wasn't from the fuzz. Couldna bin! Giv me a couple o' twennies 'e did.' 'What did he want to know?' 'Same as you, like as not.' 'She was quite a girl, they say.'

'Lovely on 'er legs, she was, if you know wo' I mean. Most of 'em, these days, couldn't manage the bleedin' Barn Dance.'

'But
she
was good?'

‘
Yeah. The men used to love 'er. Suck fivers down 'er boobs and up 'er suspenders, if you know wo' I mean.' 'She packed 'em in?' Yeah.'

'And then?'

"Then there was this fellah, see, and he got to know 'er and see 'er after the shows, like, and 'e got starry-eyed, the silly sod. Took 'er away. Posh sort o' fellah, if you know wo' I mean. Dresses, money, 'otels - all that sorto' thing.'

'Would you remember
his
name?'

Yeah. The other fellah - 'e showed me his photo, see?'

'His name?'

'Julius Caesar, I fink it was.'

Morse showed her the photograph of Mr and Mrs Julian Storrs.

Yeah. That's 'im an' 'er. That's Angie.'

'Do you know why I'm asking about her?'

She looked at him shrewdly, an inch or so of grey roots merging into a yellow mop of wiry hair.

Yeah, I got a good idea.'

'My, er, colleague told you?'

'Nah! Worked it out for meself, dint I? She was tryin' to forget wo' she was, see? She dint want to say she were a cheap tart who'd open 'er legs for a fiver, if you know wo' I mean. Bi' o' class, tho', Angie. Yeah. Real bi' o' class.'

'Will you be prepared to come up to Oxford - we'll pay your expenses, of course - to sign a statement?'

'Oxford? Yeah. Why not? Bi' o' class, Oxford, innit?'

'I suppose so, yes.'

'Wo' she done? Wo' sort of enquiry you workin' on?' 'Murder,' said Morse so
ftly
.

Mission accomplished Morse walked across Praed Street and into the complex of Paddington Station, where he stood under the high Departures Board and noted the time of the next train: Slough, Maidenhead, Reading, Didcot, Oxford.

Due to leave in forty minutes.

He retraced his steps to the top of the Underground entrance, crushed a cigarette-stub under his heel, and walked slowly down towards the ticket-office, debating the wisdom of purchasing a second Bakerloo line ticket to Piccadilly Circus - from which station he might take the opportunity of concentrating his attention on the ground-floor attractions of London's Soho.

The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible

(Jean Kerr,
Where Did You Put the Aspirin})

With a lecture a.m
. and a Faculty Meeti
ng early p.m., Julian Storrs had not been able to give
Lewis much time unti
l late p.m.; but he was ready and waiting when, at
4
o'clock precisely,
the
front doorbell rang at his home, a large red-bricked property in Polstead Road, part of the Victorian suburb that stretches north from St Giles' to Summertown.

Lewis accepted the offer of real coffee, and the two of them were soon seated in armchairs opposite each other in the high-ceilinged living-room, its furniture exuding a polished mahogany elegance, where Lewis immediately explained the purpose of his call.

As a result of police investigations into the murder of Rachel James, Storrs' name had moved into the frame; well, at least his photograph had moved into the frame.

Storrs himself said nothing as he glanced down at the twin passport photograph that Lewis handed to him.

'That wyou, sir? You and Ms James?'

Storrs took a deep breath, then exhaled. Yes.'

You were having an affair with her?'

'We
...
yes, I suppose we were.'

'Did anybody know about it?'

'I'd hoped not.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

Storrs talked. Though not for long
...

He'd first met her just over a year earlier when he'd pulled a muscle in his right calf following an ill-judged decision to take up jogging. She was a physiotherapist, masseuse, manipulator - whatever they called such people now; and after the first two or three sessions they had met together
outside
the treatment room. He'd fallen in love
with
her a bit - a lot; must have done, when he considered
the
risk
s he'd taken. About once a month
, six wee
ks, they'd managed to be togeth
er when he
had some lecture to give or meeti
ng to attend. Usually in London, wher
e they'd book a double room, lati
sh morning, in one of the hotels behind Paddington, drink a
bottle
or two of champagne, make love together most of the afternoon and - well, that was it.

'Expensive sort of day, sir? Rail-fares, hotel, champagne, something to eat

'Not really expensive, no. Off-peak day returns, one of the cheaper hotels, middle-range champagne, and we'd go t
o a pub for a sandwich at lunchti
me. Hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty pounds - that would cover it.'

You didn't give Ms James anything for her services?'

'It wasn't like that. I think - I hope - she enjoyed being with me. But, yes, I did sometimes give her something. She was pretty short of money - you kn
ow, her mortgage, HP commitm
ents, the rent on the clinic' 'How much, sir?'

'A hundred pounds. Littl
e bit more sometimes, perhaps.'

'Does Mrs Storrs know about this?'

'No - and she mustn
t!' For the first time Lewis was aware of the sharp, authoritative tone in the Senior Fellow's voice.

'How did you explain spending so much?'

'We have separate accounts. I give my wife a private allowance each month.'

Lewis grinned diffi
de
ntly
. You could always have said they were donations to Oxfam.'

Storrs looked down rather sadly at the olive-green carpet. You're right. That's just the sort of depths I would have sunk to.'

'Why didn't you get in touch with us? We made several appeals for anybody who knew Rachel to come forward. We guaranteed every confidence.'

You must understand, surely? I was desperately anxious not to get drawn into things in any way.'

'Nothing else?'

'What do you mean?'

'Was someone Dying to blackmail you, sir, about your affair with her?'

'Good God, no! What on earth makes you think that?'

Lewis drank
the
rest of his never-hot now-cold real coffee, before continuing qui
etly
:

‘I
don't believe you, sir.'

And slowly the truth, or some of it, was forthcoming.

Storrs had received a letter about a fortnight earlier from someone - no signature - someone giving a PO Box address; someone claiming to have 'evidence' about him which would be shouted from the rooftops unless a payment was duly made.

'Of?' asked Lewis.

'Five thousand pounds.'

'And you paid it?'

'No. But I was stupid enough to send a thousand, in fifty-pound notes.'

'And did you get this "evidence" back?'

Storrs again looked down at the carpet, and shook his head.

'You
didn't act very sensibly, did you, sir?' 'In literary circles, Sergeant, that is what is called "litotes".'

'Did you keep the letter?' 'No,' lied Storrs.

'Did you keep a note of the PO Box number?' 'No,' lied Storrs.

'Was it care of one of the local newspapers?' 'Yes.'

'Oxford Mail’
'Oxford Times'

The living-room door opened, and there entered a darkly elegant woman, incongruously wearing a pair of sunglasses, and dressed in a black trouser-suit - 'Legs right up to the armpits', as Lewis was later to report

Mrs Angela Storrs briefly introduced herself, and picked up the empty cups.

'Another coffee, Sergeant?'

Her voice was Home Counties, rather deep, rather pleasing.

'No thanks. That was lovely.'

Her eyes smiled behind the sunglasses - or Lewis thought they smiled. And as she closed the living-room door softly behind her, he wondered where she'd been throughout the interview. Outside the door, perhaps, listening? Had she heard what her husband had said? Or had she known it all along?

Then the door qui
etly
opened again.

You won't forget you're out this evening, darling? You haven't
all
that much
time
, you know.'

Lewis accepted the cue and hurried on his questioning apace:

'Do you mind telling me exa
ctly
what you were doing between seven a.m. and eight a.m. last Monday, sir?'

'Last Monday morning? Ah!' Lewis sensed that Julian Storrs had suddenly relaxed - as if the tricky part of the examination was now over - as if he could safely resume his wonted donnish idiom.

'How I wish every question my students asked were susceptible to such an unequivocal answer! You see, I was in bed with my wife and we were having sex together. And why do I recall this so readily, Sergeant? Because such an occurrence has not been quite so common these past few years; nor, if I'm honest with you, quite so enjoyable as once it was.'

'Between, er, between seven and eight?' Lewis's voice was hesitant.

'Sounds a long time, you mean? Huh! You're right. More like twenty past to twenty-five past seven. What I do remember is Angela - Mrs Storrs - wanting the news on at half past. She's a great
Today
fan, and she likes to know what's going on. We just caught the tail-end of the sports news - then the main headlines on the half-hour.'

'Oh!'

'Do you believe me?'

'Would Mrs Storrs remember
...
as clearly as you, sir?'

Storrs gave a sli
ghtly
bitter-sounding laugh. 'Why don't you ask her? Shall I tell her to come through? I'll leave you alone.'

Yes, I think that would be helpful.'

Storrs got to his feet and walked towards the door.

'Just one more question, sir.' Lewis too rose to his feet. 'Don't you think you were awfully naive to send off that money? I think anyone could have told you
,
you weren't going to get anything back - except another blackmail note.'