Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

'And you got between the sheets with him?'

Yes.'

'And you had sex? The pair of you had sex together?'

Yes.'

'How many times?'

'Only once.'

'And you enjoyed it!'

Cornford got to his feet and walked back into the entrance hall. He felt stunned, like someone who has just been kicked in the teeth by a recalcitrant shire-horse.

'Denis!' Shelly had followed him, standing beside him now as he pulled on his overcoat.

You know why I did it, Denis? I did it for you. You must know that!'

He said nothing.

'How did you know?' Her voice was virtually inaudible.

'It's not what people say, is it? It's the way they say it But I knew. I knew tonight... I knew before tonight.'

'How couldyou have known? Tell me! Please!'

Cornford turned up the catch on the Yale lock, and for a few moments stood there, the half-opened door admitting a draught of air that felt bitterly cold.

'I didn't know! Don't you see? I just hoped you'd deny everything - even if it meant you had to lie to me. But you hadn't even got the guts to lie to me! You didn't even want to spare me all this pain.'

The door banged shut behind him; and Shelly Corn-ford walked back into the lounge where she poured herself a vast gin with minimal tonic.

And wished that she were dead.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Virgil G. Perkins, author of international bestseller Enjoying Jogging (Crown Publications NY, 1992) collapsed and died whilst jogging with a group of fellow enthusiasts in St Paul yesterday. Mr Perkins, aged 26, leaves behind his wife, Beverley, their daughter, Alexis, and seven other children by previous marriages

(Minnesota Clarion, 23 December 1995)

IN THE KING'S ARMS, that square, cream-painted hostelry on the corner of Parks Road and Holywell Street, Morse had been remarkably abstemious that evening. After his first pint, he had noticed on the door the pub's recommendation in the Egon Ronay Guide (1995); and after visiting the loo to inject himself, he had ordered a spinach-and-mushroom lasagne with garlic bread and salad. The individual constituents of this particular offering had never much appealed to him; yet the hospital dietitian (as he recalled) had been particularly enthusiastic about such fare. And, let it be said, the meal had been marginally enjoyed.

It was 7.45 p.m.

A cigarette would have been a paradisal plus; and yet

somehow he managed to desist. But as he looked around him, at the college crests, the coloured prints, the photographs of distinguished local patrons, he was debating whether to take a few more calories in liquid form when the landlord was suddenly beside him.

'Inspector! I hadn't seen you come in. This is for you - it's been here a couple of weeks.'

Morse took the printed card:

Let me tell you of a moving experience - very moving! The furniture van is fetching my effects from London to Oxford at last. And on March i8th I'll be celebrating my south-facing patio with a shower of champagne at 53 Morris Villas, Cowley. Come and join me! RSVP (at above address)

Deborah Crawford

Across the bottom was a handwritten note: 'Make it, Morse! DC.'

Morse remembered her well ... a slim, unmarried blonde who'd once invited him to stay overnight in her north London flat, following a comparatively sober Metropolitan Police party; when he'd said that after such a brief acquaintance such an accommodation might perhaps be inappropriate.

Yes, that was the word he'd used: 'inappropriate'.

Pompous idiot!

But he'd given her his address, which she'd vowed she'd never forget

Which clearly she had.

1

'She was ever so anxious for you to get it,' began the landlord - but even as he spoke the door that led to Holywell Street had opened, and he turned his attention to the newcomer.

'Denis! I didn't expect to see you in tonight. No good us both running six miles on a Sunday morning if we're going to put all the weight back on on a Sunday night.'