no drugs--certainly no drugs; nothing much at all apart from the pe-destrian possessions of an undistinguished, unattractive man, whose only memorable achievement in life had been the murder of an Oxford don.
There had been just that one discovery, though, which had raised a few eyebrows, including (and particularly) the eyebrows of Brenda Brooks. Although only 217 pounds was in Brooks's current account at Lloyds Bank (Carfax branch), a building society book, found in a box beside Brooks's bed, showed a very healthy balance stashed away in the Hali-fax--a balance of 19,500 pounds pence The box had been locked, but Brenda Brooks had not demurred when Lewis had asked her permission to force the lid a task which he had ac-complished with far more permanent damage than had been effected by the (still unidentified) thief at the Pitt Rivers Museum....
'You think he's dead?.' asked Lewis.
'Every day that goes by makes it more likely.'
'We need a body, though.'
'We do, At least--with Mc Clure--we had a body.'
'And a weapon.'
'And a weapon.'
'But with Brooks we've still not got a body.'
'And still not got a weapon,' added Morse rather miser-ably.
Ten minutes later, without knocking, Strange lumbered into the office. He had been on a week's furlough to the west coast of Scotland and had returned three days earlier. But this was his first day back at HQ, having attended a two-day Superintendents' Conference at Eastboume. He looked less than happy with life. 'How're things going, Morse?'
'Progressing, sir,' said Morse uneasily.
Strange looked at him sourly. 'You mean they're not progressing, is that it?'
'We're hoping for some developments--'
'Augh, don't give me that bullshit! Just tell me where we are--and don't take all bloody day over it.'
So Morse told him.
He knew (he said)--well, was ninety-nine per cent certain---at Brooks had murdered Mc Clure: they'd got the knife from Brooks's kitchen, without any blood on it, agreed--but now they'd got his bike, with blood on it--Mc Clure's blood on it. The only thing missing was Brooks himself. No news of him. No trace of him. Not yet. He'd last been seen by his wife, Brenda Brooks, and by Mrs. Stevens by the two of them together---on the afternoon of Wednesday, September 7, the afternoon that the knife was stolen from the Pitt Rivers.
'Where does that leave 'Sounds as if you might just holiday yourself.'
'For what it's worth, sir, I us then?' asked Strange. as well have taken a week's think the two women are ly ing to us. I don't think they did see him that Wednesday afternoon. I think that one of them-or both of them-- murdered Brooks. But not on that Wednesday--and not on the Thursday, either. I think that Brooks was murdered the day before, on the Tuesday; and I think that all this Pitt Rivers thingummy is a blind, arranged so that we should think there was a link-up between the two things. I think that they got somebody, some accomplice, to pinch the Af-rican knife--well, any knife from one of the cabinets there--'
'All fight. You think--and you seem to be doing one helluva lot of 'thinking,' Morse--that the knife was stolen the day after Brooks was murdered.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Go on.'
Morse was very conscious that he had scarcely thought through his conclusions with any definitive clarity, but he ploughed on: 'It's all to do with their alibis. They couldn't have stolen the knife themselves--they were on a school bus going to Stratford. And so if we all make the obvious link, which we da, between the murder of Brooks and the theft, then they're in the clear, pretty well. You see, if Brooks's body is ever found, which I very strongly doubt--'
'What makes you say that?'
'Because if he's found, he won't have the Pitt Rivers knife stuck in him at all. It'll be another knife like as not another kitchen knife. But they're certainly never going to let us find the body. That would mean the alibis they've fixed up for themselves have gone for a Burton.'
'What's the origin of that phrase?'
Morse shook his head. 'Something to do with beer, is it T'
Strange looked at his watch: just after midday. 'You know I was a bit surprised to find you here, Morse. I thought you'd probably gone for a Burton yourself.'
Morse smiled dutifully, and Lewis grinned hugely, as Strange continued: 'It's all too fanciful, mate. Stop thinking so much--and do something. Let's have a bit of action.'
'There's one other thing, sir. Lewis here got on to it.... '
Morse gestured to his sergeant, the latter now taking up the narrative.
'Fellow called Davies, Ashley Davies. He's got quite a few connections with things, sir. He was on Staircase G in Drinkwater Quad when Matthew Rodway was there--had a fight with him, in fact, and got himself kicked out' he looked at Morse 'rusticated. The fight was about a girl, a girl called Eleanor Smith; and she was the girl who was Dr. Mc Clure's mistress. And now, Davies has got himself en gaged to be married to her--and she's Brooks's step- daughter.'
'That's good, Lewis. That's just the sort of cumulative evidence I like to hear. Did he murder Brooks?'
'It's not that so much, sir. It's just that the Chief Inspec-tor here...'
