Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

Td hoped not.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

Storrs talked. Though not for long...

He'd first met her just over a year earlier when he'd pulled a muscle in his right calf following an ill-judged decision to take up jogging. She was a physiotherapist, masseuse, manipulator - whatever they called such people now; and after the first two or three sessions they had met together outside the treatment room. He'd fallen in love with her a bit - a lot; must have done, when he considered the risks he'd taken. About once a month, six weeks, they'd managed to be together when he had some lecture to give or meeting to attend. Usually in London, where they'd book a double room, latish mom-ing, in one of the hotels behind Paddington, drink a bottle or two of champagne, make love together most of the afternoon and - well, that was it.

'Expensive sort of day, sir? Rail-fares, hotel, champagne, something to eat...'

'Not really expensive, no. Off-peak day returns, one of the cheaper hotels, middle-range champagne, and we'd go to a pub for a sandwich at lunchtime. Hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty pounds - that would cover it.'

'You didn't give Ms James anything for her services?'

'It wasn't like that I think - I hope - she enjoyed

being with me. But, yes, I did sometimes give her something. She was pretty short of money - you know, her mortgage, HP commitments, the rent on the clinic.'

'How much, sir?'

'A hundred pounds. Little bit more sometimes, perhaps.'

'Does Mrs Storrs know about this?'

'No - and she mustn't!' For the first time Lewis was aware of the sharp, authoritative tone in the Senior Fellow's voice.

'How did you explain spending so much?'

'We have separate accounts. I give my wife a private allowance each month.'

Lewis grinned diffidently. You could always have said they were donations to Oxfam.'

Storrs looked down rather sadly at the olive-green carpet. 'You're right That's just the sort of depths I would have sunk to.'

'Why didn't you get in touch with us? We made several appeals for anybody who knew Rachel to come forward. We guaranteed every confidence.'

'You must understand, surely? I was desperately anxious not to get drawn into things in any way.'

'Nothing else?' .

'What do you mean?'

'Was someone trying to blackmail you, sir, about your affair with her?'

'Good God, no! What on earth makes you think that?'

Lewis drank the rest of his never-hot now-cold real coffee, before continuing quiedy:

'I don't believe you, sir.'

And slowly the truth, or some of it, was forthcoming.

Storrs had received a letter about a fortnight earlier from someone - no signature - someone giving a PO Box address; someone claiming to have 'evidence' about him which would be shouted from the rooftops unless a payment was duly made.

'Of?' asked Lewis.

'Five thousand pounds.'

'And you paid it?'

'No. But I was stupid enough to send a thousand, in fifty-pound notes.'

'And did you get this 'evidence' back?'

Storrs again looked down at the carpet, and shook his head.

'You didn't act very sensibly, did you, sir?'

'In literary circles, Sergeant, that is what is called 'litotes'.'

'Did you keep the letter?'

'No,' lied Storrs.

'Did you keep a note of the PO Box number?'

'No,' lied Storrs.

'Was it care of one of the local newspapers?'

·Yes.'

'Oxford Mail?'