Lewis, as Morse earlier, showed himself perfecdy competent at ignoring a question.
'I've had a session on die phone with Ox and Cow Newspapers, sir - still at work there, quite a few of diem. Owens' car-park card is number 14922 and it was regis-
tered by the barrier contraption there at 7.04 on Monday morning. Seems he's been in fairly early these last couple of months. Last week, for example, Monday to Friday, 7.37, 7.06, 7.11, 7.00, 7.18.'
'So what? Shows he can't get up that early on Monday mornings.'
'That's not all, though.'
'It is, Lewis! It's still the
'Please listen to me for a change, sir. The personnel fellow who looked out the car-park things for me, he just happened to be in earlyish last Monday morning himself: 7.22. There weren't many others around then, but one of the ones who was ... Guess who, sir?'
'Oh dear!' said Morse for the second time that evening.
Yep. Owens! Pony-tail'n'all.'
'Oh.'
In that quiet monosyllable Lewis caught the depth of Morse's disappointment Yet he felt far from dismayed himself, knowing full well as he did, after so many murder investigations with the pair of them in harness, that Morse's mind was almost invariably at its imaginative peak when one of his ill-considered, top-of-the-head hypotheses had been razed to the ground - in this case by some lumbering bulldozer like himself. And so he understood the silence at the other end of the line: a long silence, like that at the Cenotaph in commemoration of the fallen.
Lewis seldom expected (seldom received) any thanks. And in truth such lack of recognition concerned him
little, since only rarely did Morse show the slightest sign of graciousness or gratitude to anyone.
Yet he did so now.
'Thank you, my old friend.'
At the bar Morse ordered a pint of Bass and proceeded to drink it speedily.
At the bar Morse ordered a second pint of Bass and proceeded to drink it even more speedily - before leaving and driving out once more to Bloxham Drive, where no one was abroad and where the evening's TV programmes appeared to be absorbing the majority of the households.
Including Number 17.
The Jaguar door closed behind him with its accustomed aristocratic click, and he walked slowly through the drizzle along the street. Still the same count: six for Labour; two for the Tories; and two apparendy unprepared to parade their political allegiances.
Yes! YES!
Almost everything (he saw it now so clearly) had been pushing his mind towards that crucial clue - towards the breakthrough in the case.
It had not been Owens who had murdered Rachel James - almost certainly he
And that late evening, as if matching his slow-paced walk, a slow and almost beatific smile had setded round the mouth of Chief Inspector Morse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Friday, 23 February
Thirteen Unlucky: The Turks so dislike the number that the word is almost expunged from their vocabulary. The Italians never use it in making up the numbers of their lotteries. In Paris, no house bears that number
As LEWIS PULLED into Bloxham Drive, he was faced with an unfamiliar sight: a smiling, expansive-looking Morse was leaning against the front gate of Number
It was 9.05 a.m.
Lewis just caught the tail-end of things. 'So it'll be a waste of time - staying on here much longer. You won't expect me to go into details, of course, but I can tell you that we've finished our investigations in this house.'
If the 'this' were spoken with a hint of some audial semi-italicization, it was of no moment, for no one appeared to notice it
'Any leads? Any new leads?'
'To the murder of Rachel James, you mean?'
'Who else?'
'No. No new leads at all, really... Well, perhaps one.'
On which cryptic note, Morse raised his right hand to forestall the universal pleas for clarification, and with a genial - perhaps genuine? - smile, he turned away.
'Drive me round the block a couple of times, Lewis. I'd rather all these people buggered off, and I don't think they're going to stay much longer if they see us go.'
