Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

Lewis, who had begun to feel considerable irritation at Morse's earlier brusque demands, was now completely mollified.

Til be off then, sir.'

'No you won't! I shan't be more than a few minutes. You can run me down to Summertown.'

(Almost completely mollified.)

Tfou still haven't told me what-' began Lewis as he waited at the traffic-lights by South Parade.

But a clean-shaven Morse had suddenly stiffened in his safety-belt beside him.

'What did you say the name of that other fellow was, Lewis? The chap who's standing against Storrs?'

'Cornford, Denis Cornford. Married to an American girl.'

''DC', Lewis! Do you remember in the manila file? Those four sets of initials?'

Lewis nodded, for in his mind's eye he could see that piece of paper as clearly as Morse:

AM DC JS CB

'There they are,' continued Morse, 'side-by-side in the middle - Denis Cornford and Julian Storrs, flanked on either side by Angela Martin - I've little doubt! - and -might it be? - Sir Clixby Bream.'

'So you think Owens might have got something on all-?'

'Slow down!' interrupted Morse. 'Just round the comer here.'

Lewis turned left at the traffic-lights into Marston Ferry Road and stopped immediately outside the Sum- mertown Health Centre.

'Wish me well,' said Morse as he alighted.

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tuesday, 27 February

The land of Idd was a happy one. Well, almost There was one teeny problem. The King had sleepless nights about it and the villagers were very scared. The problem was a dragon called Diabetes. He lived in a cave on top of a hill. Every day he would roar loudly. He never came down the hill but everyone was still very scared just in case he did -

(Victoria Lee, The Dragon ofldf)

FROM THE WAITING-ROOM on the first floor, Morse heard his name called.

'How can I help?' asked Dr Paul Roblin, a man Morse had sought so earnestly to avoid over the years, unless things were bordering on the desperate.

As they were now.

'I think I've got diabetes.'

'Why do you think that?'

'I've got a book. It mentions some of the symptoms.'

'Which are?'

'Loss of weight, tiredness, a longing for drink.'

'You've had the last one quite a while though, haven't you?'

Morse nodded wearily. 'I've lost weight; I could sleep all the time; and I drink a gallon of tap-water a day.'

'As wettas the beer?'

Morse was silent, as Roblin jabbed a lancet into the little finger of his left hand, squeezed the skin until a domed globule appeared, then smeared the blood on to a test-strip. After thirty seconds, he looked down at the reading. And for a while sat motionless, saying nothing. 'How did you get here, Mr Morse?'

'Car.'

'Is your car here?'

'No, I had a lift. Why?'

'Well, I'm afraid I couldn't let you drive a car now.'

'Why's that?'

'It's serious. Your blood sugar level's completely off the end of the chart. We shall have to get you to the Radcliffe Infirmary as soon as we can.'

'What are you telling me?'

'You should have seen me way before this. Your pancreas has packed in completely. You'll probably be on three cjr four injections of insulin a day for the rest of your life. You may well have done God-knows-what damage to your eyes and your kidneys - we shall have to find out. The important thing is to get you in hospital immediately.'

He reached for the phone.

'I only live just up the road,' protested Morse.

Roblin put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'They'll have a spare pair of pyjamas and a toothbrush. Don't