Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

(Terence Benczik, A Possible Future for Computer Technology)

UNTIL THE AGE OF twelve, Morse's reading had comprised little beyond a weekly diet of the Dandy comic, and a monthly diet of the Meccano Magazine - the legacy of the latter proving considerably the richer, in that Morse had retained a lifelong delight in model train-sets and in the railways themselves. Thus it was that as he stood on Platform One at Oxford Station, he was much looking forward to his journey. Usually, he promised himself a decent read of a decent book on a trip like this. But such potential pleasures seldom materialized; hadn't materialized that afternoon either, when the punctual 2.15 p.m. from Oxford arrived fifty-nine minutes later at Paddington, where Morse immediately took a taxi to New Scotland Yard.

Although matters there had been prearranged, it was

purely by chance that Morse happened to meet Paul Condon, the Metropolitan Commissioner, in the main entrance foyer.

'They're ready for you, Morse. Can't stay myself, I'm afraid. Press conference. It's not just the ethnic minorities I've upset this time - it's the ethnic majorities, too. All because I've published a few more official crime- statistics.'

Morse nodded. He wanted to say something to his old friend: something about never climbing in vain when you're going up the Mountain of Truth. But he only recalled the quotation after stepping out of the lift at the fourth floor, where Sergeant Rogers of the Porn Squad was awaiting him.

Once in Rogers' office, Morse produced the photograph of the strip-club. And immediately, with the speed of an experienced ornithologist recognizing a picture of a parrot, Rogers had identified the premises.

'Just off Brewer Street.' He unfolded a detailed map of Soho. 'Here - let me show you.'

The early evening was overcast, drizzly and dank, when like some latter-day Orpheus Morse emerged from the depths of Piccadilly Circus Underground; whence, after briefly consulting his A-Z, he proceeded by a reasonably direct route to a narrow, seedy-looking thoroughfare, where a succession of establishments promised XXXX videos and magazines (imported), sex shows (live), striptease (continuous) - and a selection of freshly made sandwiches (various).

And there it was! Le Club Sexy. Unmistakably so, but prosaically and repetitively now rechristened Girls Girls Girls. It made the former proprietors appear comparatively imaginative.

Something - some aspiration to die higher diings in life, perhaps - prompted Morse to raise his eyes from die ground-floor level of die gaudily lurid fronts there to the architecture, some of it rather splendid, above.

Yet not for long.

'Come in out of the drizzle, sir! Lovely girls here.'

Morse showed his ID card, and moved into the shelter of die tiny entrance foyer.

'Do you know herT

The young woman, black stockings and black miniskirt meeting at die top of her diighs, barely glanced at the photograph dirust under her eyes.

'No.'

'Who runs diis place? I want to see him.'

'Her. But she ain't 'ere now, is she? Why don't you call back later, handsome?'

A helmeted policeman was ambling along die opposite pavement, and Morse called him over.

'OK,' die girl said quickly. 'You bin 'ere before, right?'

'Er- one of my officers, yes.'

'Me mum used to know her, like I told die otfier fellah. Just a minute.'

She disappeared down die dingy stairs.

'How can I help you, sir?'

Morse showed his ID to die constable.

'Just keep your eyes on me for a few minutes.'

But there was no need.

Three minutes later, Morse had an address in Praed Street, no more than a hundred yards from Paddington Station where earlier, at the entrance to the Underground, he had admired the bronze statue of one of his heroes, Isambard Kingdom Brunei.

So Morse now took the Tube back. It had been a roundabout sort of journey.

She was in.

She asked him in.

And Morse, from a moth-eaten settee, agreed to sample a cup of Nescafe.

'Yeah, Angie Martin! Toffee-nosed little tart, if you know wo' I mean.'

Tell me about her.'

'You're the second one, encha?'

'Er - one of my officers, yes.'

'Nah! He wasn't from the fuzz. Couldna bin! Giv me a couple o' twennies 'e did.'