Death is Now My Neighbour

'So?'

'So if... What do most couples do after they've had sex together?'

'Depends, I suppose.' Lewis looked uneasily at his superior. 'Go to sleep?'

Morse smiled waywardly. 'It's as tiring as that, is it?'

'Well, if they did it more than once.'

"Then she - she, Lewis - stays awake and goes quiedy through his pockets and finds the blackmail letter. By the way, did you ask him when he received it?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, find out! She sees the letter and she knows she 1 can blackmail him. Not about die affair diey're having,

perhaps - diey're bodi in dial togedier - but about somediing else she discovered from die letter ... You know, I suspect dial our Ms James was getting a bit of a handful for our Mr Storrs. What do you dunk?' (But Lewis was given no time at all to think.) 'What were die last couple of dates they went to London togedier?'

'That's somediing else I shall have to check, sir.'

'Well, check it! You see, we've been coming round to die idea diat somebody was trying to murder Owens, K haven't we? And murdered Rachel by mistake. But

perhaps we're wrong, Lewis. Perhaps we're wrong.'

Morse looked flushed and excited as he drained his iced water and got to his feet

'I'd better have a quick shave.'

'What else have you got on your programme-?'

'As I say, you see what happens when you start talking nonsense! You're indispensable, old friend. Absolutely indispensabld'

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 worry!'

"You don't realize-' began Morse.

'Hello? Hello! Can you get an ambulance here -Summertown Health Centre - straightaway, please ... The RadclifFe Infirmary... Thank you.'

"You don't realize I'm in the middle of a murder enquiry.'

But Roblin had dialled a second number, and was already speaking to someone else.

'David? Ah, glad you're there! Have you got a bed available? ... Bit of an emergency, yes ... He'll need an insulin-drip, I should think. But you'll know ... Yes ... Er, Mr Morse - initial "E". He's a chief inspector in the Thames Valley CID.'

Half an hour later - weight (almost thirteen stone), blood pressure (alarmingly high), blood sugar level (still off the scale), details of maternal and paternal grandparents' deaths (ill-remembered), all of these duly recorded - Morse found himself lying supine, in a pair of red-striped pyjamas, in the Geoffrey Harris Ward in the Radcliffe Infirmary, just north of St Giles', at the bottom of the Woodstock Road. A tube from the insulin-drip suspended at the side of his bed was attached to his right arm by a Sellotaped needle stuck into him just above the inner wrist, allowing little, if any, lateral movement without the sharpest reminder of physical agony.

It was this tube that Morse was glumly considering when the Senior Consultant from the Diabetes Centre came round: Dr David Matthews, a tall, sum, Mephis-tophelian figure, with darkly ascetic, angular features.

'As I've told you all, I'm in the middle of a murder enquiry,' reiterated Morse, as Matthews sat on the side of the bed.

'And can I tell you something? You're going to forget all about that, unless you want to kill yourself. With a little bit of luck you may be all right, do you understand? So far you don't seem to have done yourself all that much harm. Enough, though! But you're going to have to forget everything about work - everything - if you're going to come through this business without too much damage. You do know what I mean, don't you?'

Morse didn't. But he nodded helplessly.

'Only here four or five days, if you do as we tell you.'

'But, as I say-'

'No "buts", I'm afraid. Then you might be home Saturday or Sunday.'

'But there's so much to do!' remonstrated Morse almost desperately.

'Weren't those the words of Cecil Rhodes?'

'Yes, I think they were.'

'The last words, if I recall aright.'

Morse was silent

And the Senior Consultant continued: 'Look, there are three basic causes of diabetes - well, that's an oversimplification. But you're not a medical man.'

'Thank you,'said Morse.

'Hereditary factors, stress, excessive booze. You'd score five ... six out of ten on the first. Your father had diabetes, I see.'