Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'Not tonight.'

'Very short, sir.'

He handed Morse the single, neatly typed paragraph:

Ballistics Report: Prelim.

17 Bloxham Drive, Kidlington, Oxon

.577 heavy-calibre revolver. One of the Howdah pistols probably - perhaps the Lancaster Patent four-barrel. An old firing-piece but if reasonably well cared for could be in good working nick like as not in 1996.

Ace. to recent catalogues readily available in USA: $370 to $700. Tests progressing.

ASH 22.ii.96

Morse handed the report back. 'I'm not at all sure I know what 'calibre' means. Is it the diameter of the bullet or the diameter of the barrel?'

'Wouldn't they be the same, sir?'

Morse got up and walked wearily to the door once more.

'Perhaps so, Lewis. Perhaps so.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A Conservative is one who is enamored of existing evils, as .distinguished from the Liberal, who wishes to replace them with others

(Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary)

MORSE DID NOT go straight home to his North Oxford flat that evening; nor, mirabUe dictu, did he make for the nearest hostelry - at least not immediately. Instead, he drove to Bloxham Drive, pulling in behind the single police car parked outside Number 17, in which a uniformed officer sat reading the Oxford Mail

'Constable Brogan, sir,' was the reply in answer to Morse's question.

'Happen to know if Number i 's at home?'

'The one with the N-reg Rover, you mean?'

Morse nodded.

'No. But she keeps coming backwards and forwards all the time. She seems a very busy woman, that one.'

'Anything to report?'

'Not really, sir. We keep getting a few gawpers, but I just ask them to move along.'

'Gendy, I trust'

'Very gently, sir.'

'How long are you on duty for?'

'Finish at midnight.'

Morse pointed to the front window. 'Why don't you nip in and watch the telly?'

'Bit cold in there.'

'You can put the gas-fire on.'

'It's electric, sir.'

'Please yourself.'

'Would that be official, sir?'

'Anythingl say's official, lad.'

'My lucky night, then.'

Mine, too, thought Morse as he looked over his shoulder to see an ash-blonde alighting from her car outside Number i.

He hastened along the pavement in what could be described as an arrested jog, or perhaps more accurately as an animated walk.

'Good evening.'

She turned towards him as she inserted her latchkey.

·Yes?'

'A brief word - if it's possible ... er...'

Morse fumbled for his ID card. But she forestalled the need.

'Another police sergeant, are you?'

'Police, yes.'

'I can't spare much time - not tonight. I've got a busy few hours ahead.'