Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

The Chief Inspector had not spoken a single word to 'the woman he'd so recently heralded as his key-witness in the case; and the troth was that, like some maverick magnet, he had felt half repelled, half attracted by the strange crea-ture seated there, with her off-hand (deliberately common, perhaps?) manner of speech; with her lack of any respect for the dignity of police procedure; with her contempt con-cerning the well-being of her step-father, Mr. Edward Brooks.

A note had been brought into the room a few minutes earlier and handed to Morse. And now, with the interview apparently nearing its end, Morse jerked his head towards the door and led the way into the corridor. The press, he told Lewis, had got wind of the Pitt Rivers business, and questions were being asked about a possible linkage with the murder enquiry. Clearly some of the brighter news ed itors were putting two and two together and coming up with an aggregate considerably higher than the sum of the component parts. Lewis had better go and mollify the me-dia, and not worry too much about concealing any confi-dential information--which shouldn't be terribly difficult since there was no confidential information. He himself, Morse, would see that Ms. Smith was escorted safely home.

Chapter Forty-three

The scenery in the play was beautiful, but the actors got in front of it (ALEXANDER WOOLLCOTT)

She spoke as Morse came up to the first roundabout on his way towards Oxford: "Have you got any decent music in this car?"

"Such as what?"

"Well, your nice sergeant played me some Mozart. Fellah playin' the. clarinet."

"Jack Brymer, was it?"

"Dunno. He was great, though. It'd pay him to join a jazz group."

"You think so?"

"If he's lookin' to the future."

"He's about eighty."

"Really? Ah well, you're no chicken yourself, are you?" Morse, unsmiling, kept his eyes on the road.

"Your sergeant said you was ttyin' to educate his musical tastes."

"Did be T'

"You don't think I need a bit of educatin'?"

"I doubt it. I'd guess you're a whole lot better educated than you pretend to be. For all I know, you're probably quite a sensitive and appreciative lass--underneath."

"Yeah? Christ! What the 'ell's that s'posed to mean?"

Morse hesitated before answering her. "I'll tell you what your trouble is, shall I? You're suffering from a form of in-verted snobbery, that's all. Not unusual, you know, in girls---in young ladies of... in young ladies like you."

"If that's supposed to be a bloody insult, mister, you couldn't a' done much bleedin' better, could you?"

"I'm only guessing--don't be cross. I don't know you at all, do I? We've never even spoken--"

"Except on the phone. Remember?"

Morse almost managed a weak smile as he waited at the busy Cutteslowe roundabout.

"I remember."

"Great, that was. You know, pretendin' to be somebody else. I sometimes think I should a' been an actress."

"I think you are an actress--that's exactly what I was saying."

"Well, Fll tell you somethin'. Right at this minute there's one thing I'd swap even for an Oscar."

"What's that?"

"Plate of steak and chips. I'm starvin'."

"Do you know how much steak costs these days?"

"Yeah .3 pounds 99 penceat the King's Arms just down the road here: salad and chips chucked in. I saw it on the way up."

"It says 'French Fries,' though, on the sign outside. You see, that's exactly what I meant about "

"Yeah, you told me. I'm sufferin' summat chronic from inverted snobbery."

"Don't you ever eat?" demanded Ellie, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her blouse, and draining her third glass of red wine.

"Not very often at meal-times, no."

"A fellah needs his calories, though. Got to keep his strength up--if you know what I mean."

"I usually take most of my calories in liquid form at lunchtimes."

"Funny, isn't it? You bein' a copper and all that--and then drinkin' all the beer you do."

"Don't worry. I'm the only person in Oxford who gets more sober the more he drinks."

"How do you manage that?"

"Years of practice. I don't recommend it though."

"Wouldn't help you much with a bleedin' Breathalyser, would it?"

"No," admitted Morse quietly.

"Do you know when you've had enough?"

"Not always."

"You had enough now?"

"Nearly."

"Can I buy you something?"

"You know, nineteen times out of twenty... But I've got to drive you home and then get back to give Sergeant Lewis his next music lesson."

"What's all them weasel words s'posed to mean?"

"Pint of Best Bitter," said Morse. "If you insist."

"Would you ever think of giving me a music lesson.9'

' she asked, as after a wait at the lights in Longwall Street the Jaguar made its way over Magdalen Bridge.

"No."

"Why not?"

"You want me to be honest?"

"Why not?"

"I just couldn't stick looking at those rings in your nose."

She felt the insult like a slap across the face; and had the car still been queuing at the Longwall lights she would have jumped out of the Jaguar and left him. But they were travelling now quite quickly up the Iffiey Road, and by the time they reached Princess Street she was feeling fraction-ally less furious.