The Secret of Annexe 3

'Seven - these strands of hair are stapled to the inside of the hat he's wearing.'

Morse nodded.

'Eight - this hat is a sort of baggy, felt "cap", with a big peak, a black-grey-white check pattern, filled out with folded toilet-paper. You want to know which brand?'

'No!'

'Nine - his face is darkened all over with what's known in theatrical circles as "stage-black".' Again Morse nodded.

'Ten - this stage-black stretches down to the top of the shirt-level, just round his neck; the backs of the hands are similarly bedaubed, Morse, but not the palms.'

'Is that important?'

'Eleven' - the surgeon ignored the question - 'his light blue shirt has got six buttons down the front, all but the top one done up, long-sleeved, obviously very new and probably being worn for the first time.' No comment from Morse.

Twelve - his white trousers are made of some cheap summer-wear material, a bit worn here and there.'

'And nothing in the pockets,' said Morse; but it wasn't a question.

'Thirteen - he's got three longish chains round his neck: junk stuff that you'd find in a cheap second-hand shop.'

Morse was beginning to show the first signs of restlessness.

'Fourteen - there was a pair of sunglasses on the floor just between the two beds, the ear-hooks quite shallowly slanted.'

'As if they'd fall off his ears, you mean?'

'They did fall off his ears.'

‘I see.'

'Fifteen - a false moustache, affixed with strong adhesive, still exactly in position across the upper lip.'

'Why do you say "affixed", instead of just plain "fixed"?'

'Sixteen - a pair of high-heeled, knee-level boots: highly polished, light maroon plastic.'

'You sure it's not a woman we've got there on the bed, Max?'

'Seventeen - time of death: difficult to judge.'

'As well we might have known!'

'About sixteen to twenty-four hours before the body was found - at a guess. But the room temperature is only just above freezing point - which could upset calculations either way.'

‘So?'

For the first time, the surgeon seemed slightly less than happy with himself: 'As I say, Morse, it's very difficult.' 'But you never come up with a plain statement of when —‘

‘'They pay me to report facts.'

'And they pay me to find out who killed the poor sod, Max.’ But Morse, it seemed, was making little impression upon the mournful man who lit another cigarette before continuing.

'Eighteen - cause of death? A mighty whack, probably only one, across the front of the skull, with the bone smashed in from the top of the right eye across the nasal bridge to the left cheekbone.' Morse was silent.

'Nineteen - he wasn't a navvie, judging from his fingernails.'

'Now you're getting down to things.'

'No I'm not, Morse. I've nearly finished.'

'You're going to tell me who he is, you mean?'

‘Twenty - he had flat feet.'

'You mean he has flat feet?'

The surgeon permitted himself a bleak smile. 'Yes, Morse. When he was alive he had flat feet, and in death those feet were not unflattened.'

'What does that suggest, Max?'

'Perhaps he's a policeman, Morse.' The surgeon stood up, the cigarette ash dropping on to his black waistcoat. 'I'll let you have the written report as soon as I can. Not tonight though.' He looked at his watch. 'We've got half an hour if you want to nip up to the Gardeners'? I've got a car.'

For a moment or two, Lewis almost thought that Morse was going to resist the temptation.

Chapter Eleven

Wednesday, January 1st: p.m.

When I drink, I think; and when I think, I drink.

(RABELAIS)

'Gin and Campari for me, Morse, and buy yourself one as well. My GP keeps on telling me it's sensible to keep off the spirits.'

Soon the two old friends were seated facing each other in the lounge bar, the surgeon resting his heavy-looking dolichocephalic skull upon his left hand.

Time of death!' said Morse. 'Come on!' 'Nice drink this, Morse.'

'The science of thanatology hasn't advanced a millimetre in your time, has it?'

'Ah! Now you're taking advantage of my classical education.'

'But nowadays, Max, you can look down from one of those space-satellite things and see a house fly rubbing its hands over a slice of black pudding in a Harlem delicatessen - you know that? And yet you can't —'

'The room was as cold as a church, Morse. How do you expect—'

'You don't know anything about churches!' True enough.'

They sat silently for a while, Morse looking at the open fire where a log suddenly shifted on its foundations and sent a shower of red-glowing sparks against the back of the old grate, beside which was a stack of wood, chopped into quartered segments.

'Did you notice they'd chopped down a couple of trees at the back of the annexe, Max?' 'No.'

Morse sipped his gin. ‘I could develop quite a taste for this.'

'You think it might have been the branch of a tree or something... ? Could have been, I suppose. About two feet long, nice easy grip, couple of inches in diameter.'

'You didn't see any wood splinters?'

‘No.'

'What about a bottle?’