A grim-faced Sergeant she was a friendly, pleasant Lewis, after once again resident who would be sadly examining the white Mini missed. still parked outside the prop-Similar tributes were paid erty, would make no comment by other local inhabitants other than confirming that who are finding it difficult to various leads were being come to terms with their followed, neighbourhood being the Rachel's parents, who live scene of such a terrible in Devon, have identified the murder and a centre of body as that of their daugh-interest for the national ter, and a bouquet of white media. lilies bearing the simple For the present, however, inscription 'To our darling Bloxham Drive has been daughter' lies in cellophaned sealed off to everyone except wrapping beside the front local residents, official gate of No. 17. reporters and a team of The tragedy has cast a police officers carefully dark cloud over the voting searching the environs of No. taking place today for the 17. election of a councillor to But it seems inevitable replace Terry Burgess who that the street will soon be a died late last year following magnet for sightseers, drawn a heart attack.
'Nicely written,' conceded Morse. 'Bit pretentious, perhaps ... and I do wish they'd all stop
'No mistakes?'
Morse eyed his sergeant sharply. 'Have I missed something?'
Lewis said nothing, smiling inexplicably, as Morse read through the article again.
'Well, I'd've put a comma after 'reporters' myself. Incidentally, do you know what such a comma's called?'
'Remind me.'
'The 'Oxford Comma'.'
'Of course.'
'Why are you grinning?'
'That's just it, sir. It's that 'grim-faced'. Should be 'grin-faced', shouldn't it? You see, the missus rang me up half an hour ago: she's won fifty pounds on the Premium Bonds. Bond, really. She's only got one of'em.'
'Congratulations!'
'Thank you, sir.'
For a final time Morse looked through the article, wondering whether the seventeenth word from the beginning and the seventeenth word from the end had anything to do with the number of the house in which Rachel James had been murdered. Probably not (Morse's life was bestrewn with coincidences.)
Ts that pony-tailed ponce still out there?' he asked suddenly.
Lewis looked out of the front window.
'No, sir. He's gone.'
'Let's hope he's gone to one of those new barbers' shops you were telling me about?' (Morse's views were beset with prejudices.)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
She is disturbed
When the phone rings at 5 a,m.
And with such urgency
Aware that one of these calls
Will summon her to witness another death
Commanding more words than she
The outside observer can provide - and yet
Note-pad poised and ready
She picks up the receiver
(Helen Peacocke,
Ax 2.25 P.M. THAT same day, Morse got into the maroon Jaguar and after looking at his wristwatch drove off. First, down to the Cutteslowe Roundabout, thence straight over and along the Banbury Road to the Martyrs' Memorial, where he turned right into Beaumont Street, along Park End Street, and out under the railway bridge into Botley Road, where just beyond the river bridge he turned left into the Osney Industrial Estate.
There was, in fact, one vacant space in the limited parking-lots beside the main reception area to Oxford City and County Newspapers; but Morse pretended not
to notice it. Instead he asked the girl at the reception desk for the open-sesame to the large staff car-park, and was soon watching the black-and-white barrier lift as he inserted a white plastic card into some electronic contraption there. Back in reception, the same young girl retrieved the precious ticket before giving Morse a VISITOR badge, and directing him down a corridor alongside, on his left, a vast open-plan complex, where hundreds of newspaper personnel appeared too preoccupied to notice die 'Visitor'.
Owens (as Morse discovered) was one of the few employees granted some independent square-footage there, his small office hived off by wood-and-glass partitions.
'You live, er, she lived next-door, I'm told,' began Morse awkwardly.
Owens nodded.
'Bit of luck, I suppose, in a way - for a reporter, I mean?'
'For me, yes. Not much luck for her, though, was it?'
