Death Is Now My Neighbour (29 page)

And wished that she were dead.

Virgil G. Perkins, author of international bestseller
Enjoying Jogging
(Crown Publications NY,
1992)
collapsed and died whilst jogging with a group of fellow enthusiasts in St Paul yesterday. Mr Perkins, aged
26,
leaves behind his wife, Beverley, their daughter, Alexis, and seven other children by previous marriages

(Minnesota Clarion,
23
December
1995)

In the King's Arms
, that square, cream-painted hostelry on the corner of Parks Road and Holywell Street, Morse had been remarkably abstemious that evening. After his first pint, he had nodced o
n the door the pub's recommendati
on in the
Egon Ronay Guide
(1995);
and after visiting the loo to inject himself, he had ordered a spinach-and-mushroom lasagne with garlic bread and salad. The individual constituents of this particular offering had never much appealed to him; yet the hospital dietitian (as he recalled) had been particularly enthusiastic about such fare. And, let it be said, the meal had been marginally enjoyed. It was
7.45
p.m.

A cigarette would have been a paradisal pl
us; and yet
somehow he managed to desist. But as he looked around him, at the college crests, the coloured prints,
the
photographs of distinguished local patrons, he was debating whether to take a few more calories in liquid form when the landlord was suddenly beside him.

'Inspector! I hadn't seen you come in. This is for you - it's been here a couple of weeks.'

Morse took the printed card:

Let me tell you of a moving experience - very moving! The furniture van is fetching my effects from London to Oxford at last. And on March
18th
I'll be celebrating my south-facing patio with a shower of champagne at
53
Morris Villas, Cowley. Come and join me! RSVP (at above address)

Deborah Crawford

Across the bottom was a handwritten note: 'Make it, Morse! DC

Morse remembered her well
...
a slim, unmarried blonde who'd once invited him to stay overnight in her north London flat, foll
owing a comparatively sober Met
ropolitan Police party; when he'd said that after such a brief acquaintance such an accommodation might perhaps be inappropriate.

Yes, that was the word he'd used: 'inappropriate'.

Pompous idiot!

But he'd given her his address, which she'd vowed she'd never forget.

Which clearly she had.

'She was ever so anxious for you to get it,' began the landlord - but even as he spoke the door
that
led to Holywell Street had opened, and he turned his attention to the newcomer.

'Denis! I didn't expect to see you in tonight. No good us both running six miles on a Sunday morning if we're going to put all the weight back on on a Sunday night.'

Morse looked up, his face puzzled.

‘
You mean - you went jogging - together - this morning? What time was that?'

'Far too early, wasn't it, David!'

The landlord smiled. 'Stupid, really. On a Sunday morning, too.'

'What time?' repeated Morse.

'Quarter to seven. We met outside the pub here.'

'And where did the pair of you run?'

'Five
of us actually, wasn't it, Denis? We ran up to
the
Plain, up the Iffley Road, across Donnington Bridge, along the Abingdon Road up to Carfax, then through Cornmarket and St Giles' up to the Woodstock Road as far as North Parade, then across to the Banbury, South Parks, and we got back here

'Just before eight,' added Cornford, pointing to Morse's empty glass.

'What's it to be?'

'No, it's my round—'

'Nonsense!'

'Well, if you insist.'

In fact, however, it was the landlord who insisted, and who now walked to the bar as
Cornford
seated himself. You told me earlier' (Morse was anxious to get things straight) 'you'd been on your own when you went out jogging.'

'No. If I did, you m
isunderstood me. You said, I th
ink, "Just you?" And when I said yes, I'd assumed
that
you were asking if both of us had gone - Shelly and me.'

'And she didn't go?'

'No. She never does.'

'She just stayed in bed?'

'Where else?'

Morse made no sugge
sti
on.

'Do you ever go jogging, Inspector?' The question was wearily mechanical.

'Me? No. I walk a bit, though. I sometimes walk down to Summertown for a newspaper. Just to keep fit.'

Cornford almost grinned. 'If you're going to be Master of Lonsdale, you're supposed to be fit. It's in the Statutes somewhere.'

'Makes you wonder how Sir Clixby ever managed it!'

Cornford's answer was unexpected.

You know, as you get older it's difficult for young people to imagine you were ever young yourself - good at games,
that
sort of thing. Don't you agree?'

'Fair point, yes.'

'And the Master was a very fine hockey player - had an England trial, I understand.'

The landlord came back
with
two pints of bitter; then returned to his bar-tending duties.

Cornford was uneasy, Morse felt sure of that. Something regarding his wife, perhaps? Had
she
had anything to do with the murder of Geoffrey Owens? Unlikely, surely. One thing looked an odds-on certainty, though: if Denis Cornford had ever figured on the suspect list, he figured there no longer.

Very soon, after a few desultory passages of conversation, Morse had finished his beer, and was taking his leave, putting Deborah's card into the inside pocket of his jacket, and forgetting it.

Forgetting it only temporarily, though; for later that same evening he was to look at it again - more carefully. And with a sudden, strange enlightenment.

Is it nothing to you, all ye
that pass by? Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me, wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me in the day of his fierce anger

(Lamentations,
ch.
I, v.
12)

Feeling a wonderful
sense of relief, Shelly
Cornford
heard the scratch of the key in
the
front door at twenty-five past eleven. For over two hours she had been sitting upright against the pillows, a white bedjacket over her pyjamas, her mind tormented with the terrifying fear that her husband had disappeared into the dark night, never to return: to throw himself over Magdalen Bridge, perhaps; to lay himself across the railway lines; to slash his wrists; to leap from some high tower. And it was to
little
avail that she'd listened to any logic that her tortured mind could muster: that the water was hardly deep enough, perhaps; that the railway lines were inaccessible; that he had no razor in his pocket; that Carfax Tower, St Mary's, St Michael's - all were now long shut
...

Come back to me, Denis! I don't care what happens to
me;
but come back tonight!
Oh, God -
please,
God -let him come back safely. Oh, God, put an end to this, my overwhelming misery!

His words before he'd slammed the door had pierced their way into her heart. "You hadn't even got the guts to lie to me
...
You didn't even want to spare me all this pain.'

Yet how wrong he'd been, with bot
h his accusati
ons!

Her mother had never ceased recalling that Junior High School report: 'She's such a gutsy
little
girl.' And the simple, desperately simple, truth was that she loved her husband far more than anything or anyone she'd ever loved before. And yet
..
. and yet she remembered so painfully clearly her assertion earlier that same evening: that more than anything in the world she wanted Denis to be Master.

And now? The centre of her life had fallen apart. Her heart was broken. There was no one to whom she could turn.

Except, perhaps
...

And again and again she recalled that terrible conversation:

'Clixby?'

'Shelly!'

'Are you alone?'

‘
Yes. What a lovely surprise. Come over!'

'Denis knows all about us!'

'What?'

'Denis knows all about us!'

'"All" about u
s? What d'you mean? There's noth
ing for him
to
know - not really.'

'Nothing?"Was
it nothing to you?'

‘
You sound like the book of
Proverbs
- or is it
Ecclesiastes?'

'It
didn't
mean anything to you, did it?'

'It was only the
once,
properly, my dear. For heaven's sake!'

‘
You just don't understand, do you?'

'How did he find out?'

'He didn't.'

'I don't follow you.'

'He just guessed. He was talking to you tonight—' 'After Hall, you mean? Of course he was. You were there.'

'Did you say anything? Please, tell me!'

'What? Have you taken leave of your senses?'

'Why did he say he
knew,
then?'

'He was just guessing - you just said so yourself.'

'He must have had some reason.'

'Didn't you deny it?'

'But it was true!'

'What
the
hell's that got to do with it? Don't you see? All you'd got to do was to deny it.' 'That's exa
ctly
what Denis said.'

'Bloody intelligent man, Denis. I just hope you appreciate him. He was right, wasn't he? All you'd got to do was to deny it'

'And that's what you wanted me to do?'

' You 're
not really being very intelligent, are you?'

'I just can't believe what you're saying.'

'It would have been far kinder.'

'Kinder to
you,
you mean?'

'To me, to you, to Denis - to everybody.'

'God! You're a shit, aren't you?'

'Just hold your horses, girl!'

'What are you going to do about it?'

'What do you mean - "do" about it? What d'you expect me to do?'

'I don't know. I've no one to talk to. That's why I rang you.'

'Well, if there's anything—'

'But there is! I want help. This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.'

'But don't you see, Shelly? This is something you and Denis have got to work out for yourselves. Nobody else—'

'God! You
are
a shit, aren't you! Shit with a capital "S".'

'Look! Is Denis there?'

'Of course he's not, you fool.'

'Please don't call me a fool, Shelly! Get a hold on yourself and put things in perspective - and just remember who you're talking to!'

'Denis!'

You get back to bed. I'll sleep in the spare room.' 'No.
I'll
sleep in there—
¹

'I don't give a sod who sleeps where. We're just not sleeping in the same room, that's all.'

His eyes were still full of anger and anguish, though his voice was curiously calm. 'We've got to talk about this. For a start, you'd better find out the rights and wrongs and the rest of it about people involved in divorce on the grounds of adultery. Not tonight, though.'

'Denis! Please let's talk
now-
please! - just for a
little
while.'

'What the hell about? About
me}
You know all about me, for Christ's sake. I'm half-pissed - and soon I'm going to be fully pissed - and as well as that I'm stupid -and hurt - and jealous - and possessive - and old-fashioned - and faithful
...
You following m
e? I've watched most of your anti
cs, but I've never been too worried. You know why? Because I knew you
loved
me. Deep down I knew there was a bedrock of love underneath our marriage. Or I
thought
I knew.'