Inspector Morse 11 The Daughters of Cain

"You think they could be mine T'

Rather weary, too, was Morse's smile.

"We've got to have some suspects, haven't we? In fact my sergeant hem's got a long list of 'em."

She turned to Lewis. "Whereabouts am I on the list?"

"We always try to put the most attractive at the top, don't we, sir?"

Morse nodded his agreement, wishing only that he'd thought of such a splendid rejoinder himself.

"And when exactly am I supposed to have murdered that shithouse?"

She looked from one to the other, and Morse in mm looked to Lewis the Interlocutor.

"Perhaps," said the latter slowly, "when you got back from Birmingham that Wednesday?"

"I see.... And did I pinch the knife as well?"

"I we don't think you could have done that because, as you told us, you didn't get back into Oxford until after the museum had closed. We checked up on the train time: it got into Oxford Station at 16:35--just three minutes late."

"You still don't sound as if you believe me."

"We don't think you took the knife," said Morse.

The slight but perceptible stress on the "you" was clearly not lost on Suspect Number One.

"You suggestin' somebody else pinched it then slipped it to me on the way home from the railway station? Then I just called in to have a chat with him and decided to mur-der the old bugger there and then--is that what you're thinking?"

"There are more unlikely scenarios than that," said Morse quietly.

"Oh, not you! How I hate that bloody word 'scenario.'"

She had touched a raw spot, for Morse hated the word, too. Yet he'd not been able to come up with anything bet-ter; and he made no protest as Ellie Smith continued, changing down now into her lower-gear register of speech. "And what am I s'posed to 'ave done with 'im then?"

"Well, we were hoping you could give us a few ideas yourself."

"Is this tumin' into a bleedin' interview or something T' "No," said Morse simply. "You're under no obligation to answer anything. But sooner or later we're going to have to ask all sorts of questions. Ask you, ask your mother...

Where is your mother, by the way T' "Abroad somewhere."

"How do you know that?"

"She sent me a postcard."

"Where from?"

'Whe postmark was smudged--I couldn't read it."

"Must have had a stamp on it?"

"Yeah. I'm no good at them names of foreign countries, though."

"Some of them aren't very difficult, you know. 'France,' for instance?"

She made no reply.

"Have you still got the postcard.'?"

"No. Threw it away, didn't I?"

"What was the picture on it T' "A river, I think."

"Not the Thames.'?"

"Not the Thames."

"You're not being much help, you know."

"That's where you're wrong, though."

She produced a small pasteboard business card and handed it to Morse.

"You were asking me about that Wednesday, weren't you? Well, I met a fellow on the train, and he got a bit, you know, a bit friendly and flirty, like; said if I ever wanted any, you know, work or anything..."

Morse looked at the white card: "Mike Williamson, Modelling and Photographic Agency," with a Reading ad-&ess and telephone number.

"He'll remember me--for sure, Inspector. I can promise you that."

She smiled, her eyes momentarily recapturing the sparkle that Morse could recall so well.

"Better check, Lewis."

But as Lewis got up and moved towards the phone, Morse held up his hand: "Office next door, please."

"Why did you want him out of the way?"

Morse ignored the question, feeling quite irrationally jealous, "What did this fellow offer you?"

"Oh, Christ, come off it!" Her eyes flashed angrily now.

"What the 'ell d'you think? He just thought I was an intel ligent, illeducated, expensive prostitute--which I am."

"Which you were."

"Which I am, Morse. By the way, you don't mind me calling you 'Morse,' do you? I did ask you--remember'.

I could call you something more pally and civilised but "What about Mr. Davies? When you're married--"

"To Ashley? That's all off. He came last night and stayed up till God knows when, talking about it--g round and round in the same old circles. But I just can'l through with it. I like him--he's nice. But I just... I don't fancy him, that's all; and I could never love hit never. So it's not fair, is it? Not fair on him. Not fair me, either, really."

"So you won't be nee, ding me any more--for the w ding," said Morse slowly.

"'Fraid not, no, There wouldn't have been awe, dd anyway, though, would there--not if you're going to For a brief while the two looked at each other across 1 desk, their eyes locked together with a curiously disturbi intimacy.

The phone rang.

It was Strange; and Ellie got to her feet.

"Please, stay!" whispered Morse, his hand over tl mouthpiece. "Yes, sir. Yes... Can you just give me fi'. minutes...? I'll be straight along."

"Why d'you want me to stay?" she asked, after Mort had put down the receiver.

He took the little black box from the drawer and hande it to her.

"It's not wrapped up, I'm afraid. I'm not much good that sort of thing."

"Wha--?" She held the box in her left hand and opene it with her right, taking hold of the gold chain lovingly an( gently, and slowly lifting up St. Anthony.