Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

That was about it, really.

Amid the subsequent chorus of questions, Lewis picked out the raucous notes of the formidable female reporter from the Oxford Star:

'What time was all this, Sergeant?'

As it happened, Lewis knew the answer to that question very well. But he decided to be economical with the details of the surprisingly firm evidence already gleaned...

COLIN DEXTER

The Jacobs family lived immediately opposite Number 17, where the lady of the house, in dressing-gown and curlers, had opened her front door a few minutes after 7 a.m. in order to pick up her two pints of Coop milk from the doorstep. Contemporaneously, exacdy so, her actions had been mirrored across the street where another woman, also in a dressing-gown (though widiout curlers), had been picking up her own single pint. Each had looked across at the other; each had nodded a matutinal greeting.

'You're quite sure? Lewis had insisted. 'It was still a bit dark, you know.'

'We've got some streetlamps, haven't we, Sergeant?'

'You are sure, dien.'

'Unless she's got - unless she had a twin sister.'

'Sure about the time, too? That's very important'

She nodded. T'd just watched the news headlines on BBCi - I like to do that Then I turned the telly off. I might have filled the ketde again ... but, like I say, it was only a few minutes past seven. Five past, at die outside.'

It therefore seemed virtually certain diat diere was a time-span of no more than half an hour during which the murder had occurred: between 7.05 a.m., when Mrs Jacobs had seen her neighbour opposite, and 7.35 a.m. Or so, when Mrs Norris had first noticed die hole in die window. It was unusual - very unusual - for such exactitude to be established at so early a stage in a murder enquiry; and diere would be litde need in tiiis case for die police to be dependent upon (what Morse always called) diose prevaricating padiologists ...

DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

'About quarter past seven,' answered the prevaricating Lewis.

'You're quite sure?' It was exactly the same question Lewis himself had asked.

'No, not sure at all. Next question?'

'Why didn't everybody hear the shot?' (The same young, ginger-headed reporter.)

'Silencer, perhaps?'

'There'd be the sound of breaking glass surely?' (A logically minded man from the Oxford Star.)

A series of hand gestures and silent lip-movements from the TV crew urged Lewis not to look direcdy into the camera.

Lewis nodded. 'Yes. In fact several of die neighbours diink diey heard somediing - two of diem certainly did. But it could have been lots of diings, couldn't it?'

'Such as?' (The importunate ginger-knob again.)

Lewis shrugged. 'Could have been die milkman dropping a botde-?'

'No broken glass here, diough, Sergeant.'

'Car backfiring? We don't know.'

'Does what die neighbours heard fit in widi die time all right'' (The TV interviewer widi his fluffy cylindrical microphone.)

'Pretty well, yes.'

The senior reporter from die Oxford Mail had hidierto held his peace. But now he asked a curious question, if it was a question:

'Not die two immediate neighbours, were they?'

Lewis looked at die man widi some interest

'Why do you say that''

COLIN DEXTER

'Well, the woman who lives there' (a finger pointed to Number 19) 'she was probably still asleep at the time, and she's stone-deaf without her hearing-aid.'

'Really?'

'And the man who lives there' (a finger pointed to Number 15) 'he'd already left for work.'

Lewis frowned. 'Can you tell me how you happen to know all this, sir?'

'No problem,' replied Geoffrey Owens. 'You see, Sergeant, /live at Number 15.'

64

CHAPTER TEN

Where lovers lie with ardent glow, Where fondly each forever hears The creaking of the bed below - Above, the music of the spheres (Viscount Mumbles, 1797-1821)