At which point, Crawford’s careful, albeit clumsy, planning would enter its critical phase.
The outward appearance of Bannister Close might well be fairly familiar to Muldoon. Although he had visited the flat only once (as it appeared) there was the real possibility that he might recognize some aspect of the block — its architectural style, its black-painted balcony, the colours of its doors and windows — even in semi-darkness. And no risks could be taken.
Therefore...
Muldoon, still handcuffed, would be dropped off at the rear of the block, where a main road ran behind the back of the properties. In the interests of public safety a five-foot fence of vertical wooden slats had been erected to separate this road from Bannister Close. But as in so many parts of the Estate, vandals had been at work here too, and several irregular gaps had been kicked through the fencing; and (Crawford had done his homework) there was a most convenient opening, two or three feet wide, in the stretch almost immediately behind Number 14.
Easy.
And since a fairly steep grassy slope led down from the fence to the concreted path running beside the rear entrance to the flats, it seemed wholly unlikely that a man with only one leg was going to be too deeply engrossed in his environment.
The flat originally raided was on the first floor, with access only via an external stairway, one at each end of the block. But by a stroke of good fortune, the flat beneath it, on the ground floor, was empty; had been empty for several months — the For Sale notice stuck into the scratty patch of weedy waste which passed itself off in the property’s specification as “a small front garden.” And it was to be in the living-room of this flat (Crawford had decreed) that the scene was to be set: off screen, and on screen, as it were.
One of Crawford’s old colleagues, now a senior member of the Obscene Publications Squad — a man with the not inappropriate name of Cox — would be providing an outsize TV screen, together with a veritable feast of video-sex for the viewers. Only five viewers though: Cox himself, Crawford, Wilkins, Lewis — and Muldoon.
An inviting tray of Beamish stout would be available, and the four police officers would each nonchalantly help themselves from it, drinking straight from the cans — no glasses! And a man who had tasted no alcohol for a week — and an Irishman, to boot — would surely speedily succumb.
And if he didn’t? Well, no real worry.
Quite a few props would be required to set the stage and — wait for it! — behold now Crawford’s coup de grâce! A ridiculously oversized furniture-van had been hired to convey a carpet, four chairs, a settee, a table, a large TV set...
Wait!
... and this van would still be parked outside the property when, after the final curtain, Muldoon would emerge — through the front door. And there, bang in front of him, instead of a potentially recognizable prospect, would stand the great pantechnicon, blocking anything and everything — particularly the council houses opposite.
And now — O Napoleon! — mark a stroke of rare genius. Not only would the van serve to bring the props; not only would it conceal the view over that unlovely neighbourhood; it would also house the photographer, who would once more capture Muldoon on film outside the very place of which earlier he had so vehemently denied all knowledge. This time, though, from much closer quarters — from behind a grille (removed) in the side of the van, with a camera loaded with 1000 ASA film, and positioned on a tripod to prevent any shake.
And that would be that. A whole series of shots this time. And (Crawford had averred) if DC Watson or some other incompetent idiot lost those, then good luck to Muldoon and his co-criminals! The police wouldn’t deserve to catch, or the courts to convict them.
But that wouldn’t happen again.
For Muldoon it would be back to Oxford. Back to prison. And very soon, if there were any justice in life, back to prison for life. For whatever the dishonesty of the scheme devised against him, Muldoon was a cruel and murderous bastard.
There could be no mistake on that score.
(x)
If I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behaviour.
(Henry David Thoreau)
Such was Lewis’s account — of Crawford’s account — itself, in turn, transmuted in Morse’s mind to the heightened version presented to the reader in the preceding paragraphs.
When it was finished, Morse looked almost as puzzled as (apparently) the prisoner himself had looked earlier.
“Has Muldoon got any idea that things have gone missing?”
“Seems not, sir.”
“He must be suspicious, though — about being offered something for nothing? It’s surely very improbable, isn’t it, that he’s going to spill any beans?”
“We do get informers, though. And they get paid.”
“Unusual currency — sex-videos.”
“Well, that’s his particular taste, according to Crawford. They found dozens of ’em in his room. Not natural, is it?”
“Not all that un-natural, would you say?”
“Have you seen some of these videos?”
“No, Lewis. Unlike you, I’ve lived a very sheltered life. I have tried to get invited along to one of these porno-parties, but everybody seems to think I’m above such things.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy ’em, sir. They make you feel — well, cheap, somehow.”
“Perhaps most of us are cheap.”
Lewis shook his head. “And goodness knows what the missus would say if she knew.”
“Need she know?”
“You’d understand better if you were married, sir.”
Morse was silent for a short while before continuing. “I’ll tell you one thing: I wish I could understand Crawford better. Why doesn’t he do things a bit more simply?”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Well, if he’s lost a beer-can, why doesn’t he just give the fellow another beer-can — and then stick it in the exhibits locker?”
“I’m not sure. But I think he feels it’ll salve his conscience a bit if it comes from Blackbird Leys, you know — not from the prison.”
“What’s the difference? It’s dishonest either way.”
“You’d have to ask Crawford that. I don’t know.”
“And why not just fiddle the photo? I know a Spanish chap — name of McSevich—”
“Spanish? With a name like that?”
“Like you, Lewis, I am not privy to some of the greater mysteries in life. All I know is that this chap’s a wizard with a camera. He can stick a ghost in the middle of a group-photograph — all that sort of fake stuff. He can probably let you have a snap of the Home Secretary outside a strip-club — in his jock-strap.”
“In the dark.”
Morse grinned. “No problem.”
“That would be even more dishonest, though.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I think — I think I understand why Crawford’s doing it this way.”
“You do? Well, tell me. Come on! Come on, Lewis! Try!”
Lewis took a deep breath. It was going to be difficult — but he would try.
“Look at it this way, sir. If I — let’s say I was being unfaithful to the missus and going off somewhere with a lady-friend. Let’s say I’d told the missus I was going by train — but I wasn’t really going by train at all, because this lady-friend was going to pick me up in her car somewhere, all right?”