Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'I think I may have earned a small brandy.'

She poured his drink; poured herself a large Dry Martini; lit a cigarette; and sat beside him on the brown-

DEATH IS NOW MY NEIGHBOUR

leather settee. She clinked her glass with his, and momentarily her eyes gleamed with potential triumph.

'To you, Sir Julian!'

'Just a minute! We've got to win the bloody thing first No pushover, old Denis, you know: good College man - fine scholar - first-class brain-'

'Married to a second-class tart!'

Storrs shook his head with an uneasy smile.

You're being a bit cruel, love.'

'Don't call me 'love' - as if you come from Rother-ham, or somewhere.'

'What's wrong with Rotherham?' He put his left arm around her shoulders, and forced an affectionate smile to his lips as he contemplated the woman he'd married just over twenty years previously - then pencil-slim, fresh- faced, and wrinkle-free.

Truth to tell, she was aging rather more quickly than most women of her years. Networks of varicose veins marred the long, still-shapely legs; and her stomach was a little distended around the waistband of the elegant trouser-suits which recently she almost invariably wore. The neck had grown rather gaunt, and there were lines and creases round her eyes. Yet the face itself was firmly featured still; and to many a man she remained an attractive woman - as she had appeared to Julian Storrs when first he had encountered her ... in those extraordinary circumstances. And few there were who even now could easily resist the invitation of those almond eyes when after some dinner party or drinks reception she removed the dark glasses she had begun to wear so regularly.

Having swiftly swallowed her Martini, Angela Storrs got to her feet and poured herself another - her husband making no demur. In fact, he was quite happy when she decided to indulge her more than occasional craving for alcohol, since then she would usually go to bed, go to sleep, and reawaken in a far more pleasant frame of mind.

'What are your chances - honestly?'

'Hope is a Christian virtue, you know that'

'Christ! Can't you think of anything better to say than that?'

He was silent awhile. 'It means a lot to you, Angela, doesn't it?'

'It means a lot to you, too,' she replied, allowing her slow words to take their full effect 'It does, doesn't it?'

*Yes,' he replied softly, 'it means almost everything to me.'

Angela got up and poured herself another Martini.

'I'm glad you said that. You know why? Because it doesn't just mean almost everything to me - it means literally everything. I want to be the Master's Wife, Julian. I want to be Lady Storrs! Do you understand how much I want that?'

Yes ... yes, I think I do.'

'So ... so if we have to engage in any 'dirty-tricks' business...'

'What d'you mean?'

'Nothing specific.'

'What d'you mean?' he repeated.

'As I say...'

'Come on! Tell me!'

'Well, let's say if it became known in the College that Shelly Cornford was an insatiable nymphomaniac ... ?'

'Thatjust isn't/air!'

Angela Starrs got to her feet and drained the last drop of her third drink:

'Who said it was?'

'Where are you going?'

'Upstairs, for a lie-down, if you don't object I'd had a few before you got back - hadn't you noticed? But I don't suppose so, no. You haven't really noticed me much at all recendy, have you?'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

But she was already leaving die room, and seemed not to hear.

Storrs took another small sip of his brandy, and pulled die copy of die previous evening's Oxford Mail from the lower shelf of die coffee-table, its front-page headline staring at him again:

MURDER AT KIDLINGTON

Woman Shot Through Kitchen Window

'What did you tell Denis?'