Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'BUT I'D BETTER not call before the Archers' omnibus?' Lewis had suggested the previous evening.

'Don't worry about that. I've kept up with events in Ambridge all week. And I don't want to hear 'em again. I just wonder when these scriptwriters will understand that beautiful babies are about as boring as happy marriages.'

'About ten then, sir?'

Morse, smartly dressed in clean white shirt and semi-well-pressed grey flannels, was listening to the last few minutes of the Morning Service on Radio 4 when Lewis was quickly admitted - and cautioned.

'Sh! My favourite hymn.'

In the silence that followed, the two men sat listening with Morse's bleating, uncertain baritone occasionally accompanying the singing.

'Didn't know you were still interested in that sort of thing,' volunteered Lewis after it had finished.

'I still love the old hymns - the more sentimental the better, for my taste. Wonderful words, didn't you think?' And softly, but with deep intensity, he recited a few lines he'd just sung:

7 trace the rainbow through the rain And feel the promise is not vain That Morn shall tearless be.'

But Lewis, who had noted the moisture in Morse's eyes, and who had sensed that the promise of the last line might soon be broken, immediately injected a more joyful note into the conversation.

'It's really good to have you back, sir.'

Apparently unaware that any reciprocal words of gratitude were called for, Morse asked about the case; and learned that the police were perhaps 'treading water' for the time being, and that Chief Superintendent Blair was nominally i/c pro tern.

'David Blair. Best copper in the county' (Lewis was about to nod a partial agreement) 'apart from me, of course.'

And suddenly Lewis felt very happy that he was back in harness with this arrogant, ungracious, vulnerable, lovable man with whom he had worked so closely for so

many years; a man who looked somewhat slimmer, somewhat paler than when he had last seen him, but who sounded not a whit less brusque as he now asked whether Lewis had checked up on the time when Storrs had left home for his last visit with Rachel to Paddington, and the time when the postman had delivered the mail in Polstead Road that same morning. And Lewis had.

9-45-9-50 a-m-9.io-g.2oa.m.

Respectively.

'From which, Lewis, we may draw what conclusions?' 'Precious few, as far as I can see.' 'Absolutely! What other new facts have you got for me?'

So Lewis told him.

It was ten minutes short of noon when Morse dropped the mini-bombshell.

'The Cherwell, do you think, Lewis? The landlord there always keeps a decent pint.'

'But beer's full of sugar, isn't it? You can't-'

'Lewis! This diabetes business is all about balance, that's all. I've got to take all this insulin because I can't produce any insulin myself - to counteract any sugar intake. But if I didn't have any sugar intake to counteract, I'd be in one helluva mess. I'd become hypoglycaemic, and you know what that means.'

Not having the least idea, Lewis remained silent as Morse took out a black pen-like object from his pocket,

screwed off one end, removed a white plastic cap from the needle there, twisted a calibrator at the other end, unbuttoned his shirt, and plunged the needle deep into his midriff.

Lewis winced involuntarily.

But Morse, looking up like some young child expecting praise after taking a very nasty-tasting medicine, seemed wholly pleased with himself.

'See? That'll take care of things. No problem.'

With great care, Lewis walked back from the bar with a pint of Bass and a glass of orange juice.

'I've been waiting a long time for this,' enthused Morse, burying his nose into the froth, taking a gloriously gratifying draught of real ale, and showing, as he relaxed back, a circle of blood on his white shirt just above the waist.

After a period of silence, during which Morse several times raised his glass against the window to admire the colour of the beer, Lewis asked the key question.

'What have they said about you starting work again?'

'What do you say about us seeing Storrs and Owens this afternoon?'

'You'll have a job with Storrs, sir. Him and his missus are in Bath for the weekend.'

'What about Owens?'

'Dunno. Perhaps he's away, too - on another of his personnel courses.'