“Oh dear! Did, er, did Watson spot that as well?”
“He did.”
“You know, if that fellow could only stop losing things, he’d probably make ‘inspector.’ ”
“He can have my job any time he likes!”
“Can’t you just cut the bottom off the photos?” suggested Morse.
“Trouble is, I’d cut off the flat numbers as well if I did that — the way they’ve turned out; then they might just as well have been taken in Timbuktu as in Bannister Close.”
“I take your point,” said Morse.
“Anyway, I didn’t come here to burden you with my troubles. As I say, I just wanted to thank you — in person. I didn’t want to say anything over the blower — can’t be too careful. So — if we can... if we can just, well, draw a veil over things? And I’m sorry I’ve been such a cretin.”
Morse got to his feet and stood in front of Crawford.
“Don’t say that.” He spoke in a kindly fashion, oblivious (it appeared) that this was the self-same word he’d used so recently himself to describe his fellow officer. “You could do with a drink.”
“I could do with two,” corrected Crawford.
Morse went to his drinks-cabinet and took out the Glenfiddich, at the same time switching on again, albeit softly, the “In Paradisum” from the Fauré Requiem.
(xiii)
I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.
(Christopher Isherwood, Goodbye to Berlin)
Four days later, on Wednesday 6 April, an oblong buff envelope (“Please Do Not Bend”) arrived by Registered Delivery at the Thames Valley Police HQ, addressed to Chief Inspector Morse.
Inside the envelope, together with two very glossy black-and-white photographs, was an invoice — and a letter:
Morse, old boy,
Sorry about the delay — Easter post and all that. Not bad, are they? Cheque please, as per invoice, asap. No extra fee charged for knocking over that bloody dustbin! What will you think of next?
Pity I couldn’t get the crutch in — he’d turned too far round. Interesting configuration of the left ear, though. I trust you’ll approve of the “topographically recognizable setting” (your specification). In fact the capsized Tory poster is a nice little prop, don’t you reckon?
By the way, what the hell are they doing voting Tory down there?
Yours aye,
Manuel (McS)
PS Did I mention the cheque — asap?
Morse looked at the two photographs; and like the Almighty surveying one of his acts of Creation, he saw that they were good.
He reached for the phone and rang Inspector Crawford to tell him of his eleventh-hour reprieve — soon learning from Sergeant Wilkins that Crawford had just been called in to see Strange. He’d pass the message on, though.
(xiv)
Confessions are good for the soul but bad for the reputation.
(Thomas Robert Dewar)
When, half an hour later, Crawford came in, Morse reached into a drawer for the envelope. But it was Crawford, looking preternaturally pleased with himself, who immediately seized the initiative.
“I was just going to call you. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”
“Watson’s unearthed his lost exhibits?”
“Better than that.”
“They’ve just appointed PC Watson Chief Constable?”
Crawford blurted it out: “Muldoon! He’s changed his plea — through his lawyer. He’s pleading guilty as charged on all counts. And he’s come clean on the Jericho and Botley places. Very interesting what he’s told us about them. Complete change of heart, that’s what he’s had, Muldoon — with the, er, encouragement of some, you know — one or two little privileges.”
“Well done!” said Morse, quietly slipping the envelope back into its drawer.
“And Strange? He’s over the moon.”
“Everybody’ll be pleased.”
“Lucky though, wasn’t I?” said Crawford reflectively.
“We all deserve a little bit of luck now and then,” said Morse.
After Crawford had gone, Morse once more took the photographs from their envelope, and looked at them briefly again — especially at that neatly sliced left ear — before slowly tearing them up and dropping the pieces into his waste-paper basket.
Then he wrote out a cheque, and addressed an envelope to Manuel McSevich, Esquire, The Studio, High St., Abingdon, Oxon. It seemed to Morse a quite disproportionate sum to pay; yet, perhaps, not totally exorbitant — considering the nature of the entertainment which that most unusual of evenings had provided.
(xv)
If children grew up according to early indications, we should have nothing but geniuses.
(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
Only very occasionally did Superintendent Strange patronize the canteen at HQ. But that lunchtime, as the solitary Morse sat at the corner table, his back to his colleagues, rather dejectedly sipping a bowl of luke-warm leek soup, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Can I join you?”
Morse nodded a supererogatory “yes,” as Strange unloaded from his tray a vast plateful of steak-and-kidney pie, two bread rolls, and a substantial wodge of treacle-tart covered — nay smothered — with custard.
“You heard about Muldoon, Morse?”
“Inspector Crawford told me the good news.”
Strange rubbed his hands gleefully. “Excellent, isn’t it? Excellent! Not the slightest suspicion of any undue police pressure either — you know that!”
“So I understand, sir.”
“Above suspicion, eh? Like Caesar’s wife.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“You couldn’t remember her name, could you?”
“No.”
“Crawford could, though.”
Morse nodded. Crawford was clearly the flavour of the month. So be it.
“You’re not eating much?” queried Strange, forking another great gobbet of meat into his mouth.
“I’m not very hungry today.”
“It’s a wonder you’re not in the pub, then. You’re usually thirsty enough.”
The reminder did little to lighten Morse’s mood; and in sycophantic fashion he quickly sought to change the drift of the conversation.
“How’s that little grandson of yours, sir?”
“Fine. Absolutely fine! Did I show you his latest photo?”
Morse nodded, hurriedly. “Still behaving himself?”
For a few seconds, Strange looked slightly uneasy — before leaning over the almost empty plate of treacle-tart, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“To tell you the truth, Morse, his mother rang us only last night. Seems she left him with a baby-sitter when she went to church for Easter-morning service. And d’you know what the little bugger did? He went and bit the bloody baby-sitter’s hand!”
“Just a temporary lapse,” suggested Morse.
“Course it was! We can’t be good all the time, can we? None of us can.”
Morse nodded slowly. “No, sir. We all have the occasional moment when we’re not — we’re not particularly proud of ourselves.”
Strange appeared gratified by this latter sentiment; and after spooning up his last mouthful of custard he sat back, replete and relaxed. Taking out his wallet, he extracted, just as he had done a week earlier, the latest snapshot of Grandson Number One (two years, three months).