Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'When was that?'

'Mid-seventies.'

'Wasn't that when Soho was full of sex clubs and striptease joints?'

'And more. Gets a bit boring, all that stuff though, after a time.'

'Yes. So they tell me.'

'I read your piece today in the Oxford Mail,' said Morse as the two men walked towards reception. 'You write well.'

'Thank you.'

'I can't help remembering you said 'comparatively' crime-free area.'

'That was in yesterday's.'

'Oh.'

'Well ... we've only had one burglary diis last year, and we've had no joy-riders around since the council put the sleeping-policemen in. We still get a bit of mindless

vandalism, of course - you'll have seen the young trees we tried to plant round the back. And litter - litter's always a problem - and graffiti... And someone recently unscrewed most of the latches on the back gates - you know, the things that click as the gates shut'

'I didn't know there was a market for those,' muttered Morse.

'And you're wasting your time if you put up a name for your house, or something like that I put a little notice on my front gate. Lasted exactly eight days. Know what it was?'

Morse glanced back at the corporate work-force seated in front of VDU screens at desks cluttered with in-trays, out-trays, file-cases, handbooks, and copy being corrected and cosseted before inclusion in forthcoming editions of Oxford's own Times, Mail, Journal, Star...

' 'No Free Newspapers'?' he suggested sotto voce.

Morse handed in his Visitor badge at reception.

'You'll need to give me another thing to get out with.'

'No. The barrier lifts automatically when you leave.'

'So once you're in ...'

She smiled. 'You're in! It's just that we used to get quite a few cars from the Industrial Estate trying it on.'

Morse turned left into the Botley Road and drove along to the Ring-Road junction where he took the northbound A34, coming off at the Pear Tree Roundabout,

and thence driving rather too quickly up the last stretch to Kidlington HQ - where he looked at his wristwatch again.

Nine and a half minutes.

Only nine and a half minutes.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data (Conan Doyle, Scandal in Bohemia)

As MORSE CLIMBED the stairs to Lewis's office he was experiencing a deep ache in each of his calves.

'Hardest work I've done today, that!' he admitted as, panting slightly, he flopped into a chair.

'Interview go OK, sir?'

'Owens? I wouldn't trust that fellow as far as I could kick him.'

'Which wouldn't be too far, in your present state of health.'

'Genuine journalist he may be - but he's a phoney witness, take it from me!'

'Before you go on, sir, we've got the preliminary postmortem report here.'

'You've read it through?'

'Tried to. Bullet-entry in the left sub-mandibular-'

'Lew-is! Spare me the details! She was shot through the window, through the blind, in the morning twilight. You mustn't expect much accuracy about the thing! You've been watching too many old cowboy

films where they mow down the baddies at hundreds of yards.'

'Distance of about eighteen inches to two feet, that's what it says, judging from-'

'What's it say about the time?

'She's not quite so specific there.'

'Why the hell not? We told her exactly when the woman was shot!'

'Dr Hobson says the temperature in the kitchen that morning wasn't much above zero.'

'Economizing everywhere, our Rachel,' said Morse rather sadly.