Death Is Now My Neighbour (24 page)

'What do you suggest, Sergeant?'

'That's the trouble, isn't it? We can't just give him a bodyguard.'

'There's only one way of keeping an eye on him all the
time
.'

'Bring him in, you mean, sir? But we can't do that
–
not
yet
'

'No. No good bringing him in and then having to let him go. We shall need something to charge him
with
. I don't suppose
...'
Blair hesitated.
‘I
don't suppose there's any chance that
h
e
murdered Rachel James?'

‘I
don't think so, myself, no.'

'What's Morse think?'

'He
did
think so for a start, but
...
Which reminds me, sir. I'd better make another trip to the newspaper offices tomorrow.'

'Don't go and do everything yourself, Sergeant.'

'Will you promise to tell
the
Chief Inspector that?'

'No,' replied Blair as he prepared to leave; but hesita
ntly
so, since he was feeling rather worried himself now about what Lewis had said.

'What did Morse think abo
ut the possibility of Owens getti
ng himself murdered?'

'Said he could look after himself; said he was a streetwise kid from the start; said he was a survivor.' 'Let's hope he's right.' 'Sometimes he is, sir,' said Lewis.

We forget ourselves and our destinies in health; and the chief use of temporary sickness is to remind us of these concerns

(Ralph Waldo Emerson,
Journals)

Sister Janet McQueen
- an amply bosomed woman now in her early forties, single and darkly attractive to the vast majority of men - had been considerably concerned about her new patient: one E. Morse. Pate
ntly
, in spite of his superficial patter, the man knew nothing whatsoever of medicine, and appeared unaware, and strangely unconcerned, about his physical well-being; ill-being, rather.

On several occasions during the following days she'd spent some time with him, apologizing for the two-hourly check on his blood sugar levels (even during the night); explaining the vital role of the pancreas in the metabolic processes; acquainting him
with
the range, colour, purpose, and possible efficacy, of the medication and equipment now prescribed - single-use insulin syringes, Human Ultratard,
Human Actrapid, Unilet Lancets,
Exactech Reagent Strips, Enalapril Tablets, Frusemide Tablets, Nifedipine Capsules
...

He'd seemed to understand most of it, she thought. And from their first meeting she'd realized that the prematurely white-haired man was most unusual.

'Glad about the pills,' he'd said.

You are?'

'Different colours, aren't they? White, pink, brown-and-orange. Good, that is. Gives a man a bit of psychological confidence. In the past, I've always though
t that confi
dence was a bit overrated. Not so sure now, though, Sister.'

She made no answer. But his words were to remain in her mind; and she knew that she would look forward to talking with this man again.

By Tuesday evening, Morse's blood sugar level had fallen dramatically. And at coffee-time on Wednesday morning, Sister McQueen came to his bedside, the fingers of her right hand almost automatically feeling his pulse as she flicked the watch from the starched white lapel of her uniform.

'Shall I survive till the weekend?'

You hardly deserve to.'

'I'm OK now, you mean?'

She snorted in derision; but winsomely so.

You know why we didn't want you to have any visitors?'

You wanted me all to yourself?' suggested Morse. She shook her head slowly, her sensitive, slim lips widening into a saddened smile.

'No. Dr Matthews th
ought you were probably far too
worried about life - about your work — about other things, perhaps. And he didn't want to take any chances. Visitors are always a bit of a stress.'

'He needn't have worried too much about that.'

'But you're wrong, aren't you?' She got to her feet.
‘
You've had four people on the phone every day, regular callers - regular as well-adjusted bowels.'

Morse looked up at her.

'Four?'

'Somebody called Lewis - somebody called Strange -somebody called Blair. All from the police, I think.'
'Four,
you said?'

'Ah yes. Sorry. And somebody called Jane. She works for you, she said. Sounds awfully sweet'

As he lay back after Sister had gone, and switched on
the
headphones to Classic FM, Morse was again aware of how low he had sunk, since almost everything - a kindly look, a kindly word, a kindly thought, even the
thought
of a kindly thought - seemed to push him ever nearer to the rim of tears. Forget it, Morse! Forget yourself and
forget your health
! For a while anyway. He picked up
The ABC Murders
which he'd found in the meagre ward-library. He'd always enjoyed Agatha Christie: a big fat puzzle ready for the reader from page one. Perhaps it might help a
little
with the big fat puzzle waiting for him in the world outside the Radcliffe Infirmary
...
ABC.

Alexander Bonaparte Cust
Adele Beatrice Cecil.

Ann Berkeley Cox
...

Within five minutes Morse was asleep.

On Thursday afternoon, a slim, rather prissy young dietitian came to sit beside Morse's bed and to talk quickly, rationally, and at inordinate length, about such things as calories and carrots and carbohydrates.

'And if you ever feel like a pint of beer once a week, well, you just go ahead and have one! It shouldn't do you much harm.'

Morse's spirit groaned within him.

The Senior Consultant himself came round again the following morning. The insulin-drip had long gone; blood-readings were gradually reverting to a manageable level; blood pressure was markedly down.

You've been very lucky,' said Matthews.

'I don't deserve it,' admitted Morse.

'No. You don't'

'When are you going to let me go?'

'Home? Tomorrow, perhaps. Work? Up to you. I'd take a fortnight off myself - but then I've got far more sense than you have.'

Well before lunchtime on Saturday, already dressed and now instructed to await an ambulance, Morse was seated in the entrance corridor of the Geoffrey Harris Ward when Sister McQueen came to sit beside him.

'I'm almost sorry to be going,' said Morse. You'll miss us?' 'I'll miss
you.'
'Really?
’

'Could I ring you - here?' asked Morse diffide
ntly
. 'In those immortal words: "Don't ring us - we'll ring you."'

You mean you will
ring me?'

She shook her head. 'Perhaps not And it doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that you look after yourself. You're a nice man - a very nice man! - and I'm so glad we met'

'If I did come to see you, would you look after me?'

'Bed and Breakfast, you mean?' She smiled. You'd always be welcome in the McQueen Arms.'

She stood up as an ambulance-man came through the flappy doors.

'Mr Morse?' he asked.

'I'd love to be in the McQueen arms,' Morse managed to say, very qui
etly
.

As he was driven past the Neptune fountain in the forecourt of the Radcliffe Infirmary, he wondered if Sister had appreciated that shift in key, from the uppercase Arms to the lower-case arms.

He hoped she had.

Sunday, 3 March

Important if true

(Inscription A.W. Kinglake wished to see on all churches)

Forgive us for loving familiar hymns and religious feelings more than Thee, O Lord

(From the United Presbyterian Church Litany)

'But I'd better
not call before the
Archers'
omnibus?' Lewis had suggested the previous evening.

'Don't worry about that.
I
've kept up with events in Ambridge all week. And
I
don't want to hear 'em again.
I
just wonder when these scriptwr
iters will understand that beauti
ful babies are about as boring as happy marriages.'

'About ten then, sir?'

Morse, smartl
y dressed in clean white shirt and semi-well-pressed grey flannels, was listening to the last few minutes of the
Morning Service
on Radio
4
when Lewis
was quickly admitted - and cauti
oned.

'Sh! My favourite hymn.'

In the silence that followed, the two men sat listening with Morse's bleating, uncertain baritone occasionally accompanying the singing.

'Didn't know you were still interested in that sort of thing,' volunteered Lewis after it had finished.

‘I
still love the old hymns - the more sentimental the better, for my taste. Wonderful words, didn't you think?' And softly, but witii deep intensity, he recited a few lines he'd just sung:

I
trace the rainbow through the rain

And feel the promise is not vain

That Morn shall tearless be.'

But Lewis, who had noted the moisture in Morse's eyes, and who had sensed that the promise of the last line might soon be broken, immediately injected a more joyful note into the conversation.

'It's really good to have you back, sir.'

Appare
ntly
unaware that any reciprocal words of gratitude were called for, Morse asked about the case; and learned that the police were perhaps 'treading water' for the time being, and that Chief Superintendent Blair was nominally i/c pro tern.

'David Blair. Best copper in the county' (Lewis was about to nod a partial agreement) 'apart from me, of course.'

And suddenly Lewis felt very happy that he was back in harness with this arrogant, ungracious, vulnerable, lovable man with whom he had worked so closely for so many years; a man who looked somewhat slimmer, somewhat paler than when he had last seen him, but who sounded not a whit less brusque as he now asked whether Lewis had checked up on the
time
when Storrs had left home for his last visit with Rachel to Paddington, and the time when
the
postman had delivered the mail in Polstead Road that same morning. And Lewis had.

9
.
45-9
-50
am-
9
.10
-9
.20
a.m. Respecti
vely.

'From which, Lewis, we may draw
what
conclusions?' 'Precious few, as far as I can see.'

'Absolutely! What other new facts have you got for me?'

So Lewis told him.

It was ten minutes short of noon when Morse dropped the mini-bombshell.

'The Cherwell, do you th
ink, Lewis? The landlord there always keeps a decent pint.'

'But beer's full of sugar, isn't it? You can't—'

'Lewis! This diabetes business is all about
balance,
that's all. I've got to take all
this
insulin because I can't produce any insulin
myself -
to counteract any sugar intake. But if I didn't have any sugar intake to counteract, I'd be in one helluva mess. I'd become
hypoglycaemic,
and you know what
that
means.'

Not having the least idea, Lewis remained silent as Morse took out a black pen-like object from his pocket, screwed of
f one end, removed a white plasti
c cap from the needle
there
, twisted a calibrator at the other end, unbuttoned his shirt, and plunged the needle deep into his midriff.

Lewis winced involuntarily.

But Morse, looking up like some young child expecting prais
e after taking a very nasty-tasti
ng medicine, seemed wholly pleased with himself.

'See? That'll take care of things. No problem.'

With great care, Lewis walked back from the bar with a pint of Bass and a glass of orange juice.

'I've been waiting a long time for this,' enthused Morse, burying his nose into the froth, taking a gloriously gratifying draught of real ale, and showing, as he relaxed back, a circle of blood on his white shirt just above the waist.