The Secret of Annexe 3

For Lewis, the whole thing was becoming progressively more improbable; yet he found himself following Morse's deductive logic with reluctant admiration. If Morse were right there couldn't be all that many employed, fair-haired people christened Edward, in the twenty-five to forty-five age range, living in or just outside Oxford, who had spent their most recent summer holidays in the Lake District, could there? And Lewis appreciated the force of one point Morse had just made: Margaret Bowman had been willing to make two extraordinarily risky visits to her house in Charlbury Drive over the last twenty-four hours. If the first had been to fetch her building society book (or whatever) and to get some ready cash out, it couldn't really be seen as all that incriminating. But if the overriding purpose of the second, as Morse was now suggesting, had been to remove from the house any pieces of vital evidence that might have been hidden in the most improbable places...

Lewis was conscious, as he sat there in the Bowmans' bedroom that afternoon, that he had not yet even dared to mention to Morse the thought that had so obstinately lodged itself at the back of his mind. At the time, he had dismissed the idea as utterly fanciful - and yet it would not wholly go away.

‘I know it's ridiculous, sir, but - but I can't help worrying about that crane at the back of the hotel.'

'Go on!' said Morse, not without a hint of interest in his voice.

Those cranes can land the end of a girder on a sixpence: they have to - match up with the bolts and everything. So if you wanted to, you could pick up a box, let's say, and you could move it wherever you wanted - outside a window, perhaps? It's only a thought, sir, but could it just be that Bowman was murdered in the main part of the hotel! If the murderer wraps up the body, say, and hooks it on to the crane, he can pinpoint it to just outside Annexe 3, where he can get an accomplice in the room to pull the box gently in. The murderer himself wouldn't be under any suspicion at all. because he's never been near the annexe. And if it had been snowing - like the forecast said - there wouldn't be any footprints going in, would there? There's so much mess and mud outside the back of the hotel, though, that nobody's going to notice anything out of the ordinary there; and nobody's going to hear anything, either -not with all the racket of a disco going on. I know it may be a lot of nonsense, but it does bring all those people staying in the hotel back into the reckoning, doesn't it? And I think you'll agree, sir, we are getting a bit short of suspects.'

Morse, who had been listening with quiet attention, now shook his head with perplexed amusement. 'What you're suggesting, Lewis, is that the murderer's a crane-driver, is that it?'

‘It was only a thought, sir.'

'Narrows things down, though. A fair-haired crane-driver called Ted who spent a week in Windermere or somewhere ...' Morse laughed. 'You're getting worse than I am, Lewis!'

Morse rang HQ from the Bowman's house, and two men, Lewis learned, would immediately be on their way to help him undertake an exhaustive search of the whole premises at 6 Charlbury Drive.

Morse himself took the car keys and drove back thoughtfully into Oxford.

Chapter Thirty-five

Tuesday, January 7th: p.m.

No words beyond a murmured 'Good-evening’ ever passed between Hardy and Louisa Harding.

(The Early Life of Thomas Hardy)

Instead of going straight back to Kidlington HQ, Morse drove down once more into Summertown and turned into Ewert Place where he drove up to the front steps and parked the police car. The Secretary, he learned, was in and would be able to see him almost immediately.

As he sat waiting on the long wall-seat in the foyer, Morse was favourably struck (as he had been on his previous visit) by the design and the furnishings of the Delegacy. The building was surely one of the (few) high spots of post-1950 architecture in Oxford, and he found himself trying to give it a date: 1960? 1970? But before he reached a verdict, he learned that the Secretary awaited him.

Morse leaned back in the red leather armchair once again. 'Lovely building, this!'

'We're very lucky, I agree.'

'When was it built?'

‘Finished in 1965.'

'I was just comparing it to some of the hideous structures they've put up in Oxford since the war.'

'You mustn't think we don't have a few problems, though.' Really?'

'Oh, yes. We get floods in the basement fairly regularly. And then, of course, there's the flat roof: anyone who designs a building as big as this with a flat roof - in England! - hardly deserves the Queen's medal for architecture. Not in my book, anyway.'

The Secretary had spoken forcefully, and Morse found himself interested in her reaction. 'You've had trouble?'