Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'A few little things, I suppose. For instance-'

'Not now!'

'Aren't you going to tell me how your meeting went?'

'Not now! Let's call it a day.'

As the two detectives walked out of the HQ block, Morse asked his question casually:

'By the way, did you discover which swish hotel they're at in Bournemouth?'

Back in his flat, Morse made two phone<alls: the first to Bournemouth; the second to the Cutteslowe Estate. Yes, a Mr Geoffrey Owens was present at the conference there. No, Mr Malcolm Johnson had not yet had a chance to make his recce - of course he hadn't! But, yes, he would repair the omission forthwith in view of the providential opportunity now afforded (although Johnson's own words were considerably less pretentious).

'And no more booze today, Malcolm!'

'What me - drink? On business? Never! And you better not drink, neither.'

'Two sober men - that's what the job needs,' agreed Morse.

'What time you pickin' me up then?'

'No. You're picking me up. Half past seven at my place.'

'OK. And just remember you got more to lose than I 'ave, Mr Morse.'

Yes, far more to lose, Morse knew that; and he felt a shudder of apprehension about the risky escapade he was undertaking. His nerves needed some steadying.

He poured himself a goodly measure of Glenfiddich; and shortly thereafter fell deeply asleep hi the chair for more than two hours.

Bliss.

Johnson parked his filthy F-reg Vauxhall in a fairly convenient lay-by on die Deddington Road, the main thoroughfare which runs at the rear of die odd-numbered houses in Bloxham Drive. As instructed, Morse stayed behind, in the murky shadow of the embankment, as Johnson eased himself through a gap in the perimeter fence, where vandals had smashed and wrenched away several of die vertical slats, and dien, widi surprising agility, descended die steep stretch of slippery grass dial led down to die rear of die terrace.

The coast seemed clear.

Morse looked on nervously as die locksman stood in his trainers at die back of Number 15, patiendy and mediodically doing what he did so well. Once, he snapped to taut attention hard beside die wall as a light was switched on hi one of die nearby houses, dirowing a yellow rectangle over die glistening grass - and dien switched off.

Six minutes.

By Morse's watch, six minutes before Johnson turned the knob, carefully eased the door open, and disappeared within - before reappearing and beckoning a tense and jumpy Morse to join him.

'Do you want the lights on?' asked Johnson as he played the thin beam of his large torch around the kitchen.

'What do you think?'

'Yes. Let's 'ave 'em on. Lemme just go and pull the curtains through 'ere.' He moved into the front living-room, where Morse heard a twin swish, before the room burst suddenly into light.

An ordinary, somewhat spartan room: settee; two rather tatty armchairs; dining-table and chairs; TV set; electric fire installed in the old fireplace; and above the fireplace, on a mantelshelf patinated deep with dust, the only object perhaps which any self-respecting burglar would have wished to take - a small, beautifully fashioned ormolu clock.

Upstairs, the double-bed in the front room was unmade, an orange bath-towel thrown carelessly across the duvet; no sign of pyjamas. On the bedside table two items only: Wilbur Smith's The Seventh Scroll in paperback, and a packet of BiSoDoL Extra indigestion tablets. An old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe monopolized much of the remaining space, widi coats/suits/ trousers on their hangers, and six pairs of shoes neady laid in parallels at the bottom; and on the shelves, to the left, piles of jumpers, shirts, pants, socks, and handkerchiefs.

The second bedroom was locked.

'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.

Two and a half minutes later, Morse was taking stock of a smaller but clearly more promising room: a large book-case containing a bestseller selection from over the years; one armchair; one office chair; the latter set beneath a veneered desk with an imitation leather top, four drawers on either side, and between them a longer drawer with two handles - locked.

'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.

Ninety seconds only this time, and clearly the locksman was running into form.

The eight side-drawers contained few items of interest: stationery, insurance documents, car documents, bank statements, pens and pencils - but in the bottom left-hand drawer a couple of pornographic paperbacks. Morse opened Topless in Torremolinos at random and read a short paragraph.

In its openly titillating way, it seemed to him surprisingly well written. And there was that one striking simile where the heroine's bosom was compared to a pair of fairy-cakes - although Morse wasn't at all sure what a fairy- cake looked like. He made a mental note of the author, Ann Berkeley Cox, and read the brief dedication on the tide page, 'For Geoff From ABC', before slipping the book into the pocket of his mackintosh.

Johnson was seated in an armchair, in die living-room, in the dark, when Morse came down die stairs holding a