Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

After Lewis had gone, Morse stared down at the crossword again. Seldom was it that he failed to finish things off, and that within a pretty smartish time, too. All he needed was a large Scotch... and the answer (he knew) would hit him straight between the eyes. But it was only 8:35 ^.a. and--It hit him. Scotch!

As he swiftly filled in the five remaining blank squares, he was smiling beatifically, wishing only that Lewis had been there to appreciate the coup de grace.

But Lewis wasn't.

And it was only many months later that Lewis was to learn--and then purely by accident---the answer to that clue in The Times crossword for May 25, 1994, a day (as would appear in retrospect) on which so many things of fateful consequence were destined to occur.

PART ONE

Chapter One

Pension: generally understood to mean monies grudgingly bestowed on aging hirelings after a lifetime of occasional devotion to duty (Small Enlarged English Dictionary, 12th Edition)

Just after noon on Wednesday, August 31, 1994, Chief In-spector Morse was seated at his desk in the Thames Valley Police HQ building at Kidlington, Oxon--when the phone rang.

"Morse? You're there, are you? I thought you'd probably be in the pub by now."

Morse forbore the sarcasm, and assured Chief Superin-tendent Strange--he had recognised the voice--that indeed he was there.

'°Two things, Morse but I'll come along to your office."

"You wouldn't prefer me--?"

"I need the exercise, so the wife says."

Not only the wife, mumbled Morse, as he cradled the phone, beginning now to clear the cluttered papers from the immediate desk-space in front of him.

Strange lumbered in five minutes later and sat down heavily on the chair opposite the desk.

"You may have to get that name-plate changed."

Strange and Morse had never really been friends, but never really been enemies either; and some good-natured bantering had been the order of the day following the rec-ommendation of the Sheehy Report six months earlier that the rank of Chief Inspector should be abolished. Mutual bantering, since Chief Superintendents, too, were also likely to descend a rung on the ladder.

It was a disgruntled Strange who now sat wheezing me-thodically and shaking his head slowly. "It's like losing your stripes in the Army, isn't it? It's... it's..."

"Belittling," suggested Morse.

Strange looked up keenly. "'Demeaning'--that's what I was going to say. Much better word, eh? So don't start trying to teach me the bloody English language."

Fair point, thought Morse, as he reminded himself (as he'd often done before) that he and his fellow police-officers should never underestimate the formidable Chief Superintendent Strange.

"How can I help, sir? Two things, you said."

"Ah! Well, yes. That's one, isn't it? What we've just been talking about. You see, I'm jacking the job in next year, as you've probably heard?"

Morse nodded cautiously.

"Well, that's it. It's the, er, pension I'm thinking about."

"It won't affect the pension."

"You think not?"

"Sure it won't. It's just a question of getting all the paperwork right. That's why they're sending all these forms around--"

"How do you know?" Strange's eyes shot up again, sharply focused, and it was Morse's mm to hesitate.

"I--I'm thinking of, er, jacking in the job myself, sir."

"Don't be so bloody stupid, man! This place can't afford to lose me and you."

"I shall only be going on for a couple of years, whatever happens."

"And... and you've had the forms, you say?"

Morse nodded.

"And... and you've actually filled 'em in?" Strange's voice sounded incredulous.

"Not yet, no. Forms always give me a terrible headache. I've got a phobia about form-f'filing."

No words from Morse could have been more pleasing, and Strange's moon-face positively beamed. "You know, that's exactly what I said to the wife about headaches and all that."

"Why doesn't she help you?"

"Says it gives her a headache, too."

The two men chuckled amiably.

"You'd like me to help?" asked Morse tentatively. "Would you? Be a huge relief all round, I can tell you. We could go for a pint together next week, couldn't we?

And if I go and buy a bottle of aspirin "

"Make it two pints."

"I'll make it two bottles, then."

"You're on, sir."

"Good. That's settled then."

Strange was silent awhile, as if considering some matter of great moment. Then he spoke.

"Now, let's come to the second thing I want to talk about--far more important."

Morse raised his eyebrows. "Far more important than pensions?"

"Well, a bit more important perhaps."

"Murder?"

"Murder."

"Not another one?"

"Same one. The one near you. The Mc Clure murder."

"Phillotson's on it."

"Phillotson's off it."

"But--"

"His wife's ill. Very ill. I want you to take over."

"But--"

"You see, you haven't got a wife who's very ill, have you? You haven't got a wife at all."

"No," replied Morse quietly. No good arguing with that. "Happy to take over?"

"Is Lewis--?"

"I've just had a quick word with him in the canteen.

Once he's finished his egg and chips..."

"Oh!"