Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'Bit of one!'

'You know your trouble? You drink too much champagne.'

She smiled (she would always be smiling that weekend) as she recalled the happiness of their night together. And throwing back the duvet, she got out of

bed and stood beside him for several seconds, her cheek resting on the top of his head.

'Shan't be long. Must have a shower.'

'No rush.'

'Why don't you see if you can finish the crossword before I'm dressed? Let's make it a race!'

But Morse said nothing - for he had already finished the crossword, and was thinking of the Philip Larkin line that for so many years had been a kind of mantra for him:

Waiting for breakfast while she brushed her hair.

It was late morning, as they were walking arm-in-arm down to the city centre, following the signs to the Roman Baths, that she asked him the question:

'Shall I just keep calling you 'Morse'?'.

'I'd prefer that, yes.'

'Whatever you say, sir!'

'You sound like Lewis. He always calls me 'sir'.'

'What do you call him?'

''Lewis'.'

'Does he know your Christian name?'

'No.'

'How come you got lumbered with it?'

Morse was silent awhile before answering:

'They both had to leave school early, my parents - and they never had much of a chance in life themselves. That's partly the reason, I suppose. They used to keep

on to me all the time about trying as hard as I could in life. They wanted me to do that They expected me to do that. Sort of emotional blackmail, really - when you come to think of it'

'Did you love them?'

Morse nodded. 'Especially my father. He drank and gambled far too much ... but I loved him, yes. He knew nothing really - except two things: he could recite all of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome by heart; and he'd read everything ever written about his greatest hero in life, Captain Cook - 'Captain James Cook, 1728 to 1779', as he always used to call him.'

'And your mother?'

'She was a gentle soul. She was a Quaker.'

'It all adds up then, really?' said Janet slowly.

'I suppose so,' said Morse.

'Do you want to go straight to the Roman Baths?'

'What are you thinking of?'

'Would you like a pint of beer first?'

'I'm a diabetic, you know.'

'I'll give you your injection,' she promised. 'But only if you do me one big favour... I shan't be a minute.'

Morse watched her as she disappeared into a souvenir shop alongside; watched die shapely straight legs above the high-heeled shoes, and the dark, wavy hair piled high at the back of her head. He thought he could grant her almost any favour that was asked of him.

She produced the postcard as Morse returned from the bar.

'What's that for?'he asked.

'Who's that for, you mean. That's for Sergeant Lewis ... He means a lot to you, doesn't he?'

'What? Lewis? Nonsense!'

'He means a lot to you, doesn't he?' she repeated.

Morse averted his eyes from her penetrating, knowing gaze; looked down at the frothy head on his beer; and nodded.

'Christ knows why!'

'I want you to send him this card.'

'What for? We're back at work together on Monday!'