CHAPTER EIGHT.

Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away (Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard) Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard) IN HIS EARLIER years Geoffrey Owens had been an owl, preferring to pursue whatever tasks lay before him into the late hours of the night, often through into the still, small hours. But now, in his mid-forties, he had metamorphosed into a lark, his brain seeming perceptibly clearer and fresher in the morning. It had been no hardship, therefore, when he was invited, under the new flexi-time philosophy of his employers, to start work early and finish work early - thereby receiving a small bonus into the bargain. And, since the previous September, Owens had made it his regular practice to leave his home in Bloxham Drive just before 7 a.m., incidentally thus avoiding the traffic jams which began to build up in the upper reaches of the Banbury Road an hour or so later; and, on his return journey, missing the corresponding jams the other way, as thousands of motorists left the busy heart of Oxford for the comparative peace of the northern outskirts, and the neighbouring villages - such as Kidlington. years Geoffrey Owens had been an owl, preferring to pursue whatever tasks lay before him into the late hours of the night, often through into the still, small hours. But now, in his mid-forties, he had metamorphosed into a lark, his brain seeming perceptibly clearer and fresher in the morning. It had been no hardship, therefore, when he was invited, under the new flexi-time philosophy of his employers, to start work early and finish work early - thereby receiving a small bonus into the bargain. And, since the previous September, Owens had made it his regular practice to leave his home in Bloxham Drive just before 7 a.m., incidentally thus avoiding the traffic jams which began to build up in the upper reaches of the Banbury Road an hour or so later; and, on his return journey, missing the corresponding jams the other way, as thousands of motorists left the busy heart of Oxford for the comparative peace of the northern outskirts, and the neighbouring villages - such as Kidlington.

It was, all in all, a happy enough arrangement. And one which had applied on Monday, 19 February.

Ovens had left his house at about ten minutes to seven that morning, when he had, of course, pa.s.sed the house on the corner, Number 1, where a woman had watched him go. But if he in turn had spotted her, this was in no way apparent, for he had pa.s.sed without a wave of recognition, and driven up to the junction, where he had turned right, on his way down into Oxford. But if he had not seen her, quite definitely she had seen him.

Traffic had been unusually light for a Monday (more often than not the busiest morning of the week) even at such a comparatively early hour; and without any appreciable hold-up Owens soon reached the entrance barrier of the large car park which serves the Oxfordshire Newspapers complex down in Osney Mead, just past the railway station along the Botley Road.

Owens had come to Oxford three years previously with an impressive-looking CV, in which the applicant a.s.serted his 'all-round experience in the fields of reporting, copy-editing, advertising, and personnel management'. And he had been the unanimous choice of the four members of the interviewing panel. Nor had there been the slightest reason since for them to rue their decision. In fact, Owens had proved a profitable investment. With his knowledge of English grammar way above average, his job description had quickly been modified, with an appropriate increase in salary, to include responsibility for recasting the frequently ill-constructed paragraphs of his junior colleagues, and for correcting the heinous errors in orthography which blighted not a few of their offerings; and, in addition to these new tasks, to stand in as required when the Personnel Manager was called away on conferences.

As a result of these changes, Owens himself, nominally the group's senior reporter, had become more and more desk-bound, venturing out only for the big stories. Like now. For as he stood in Bloxham Drive that morning, he was never in doubt that this would be one of those 'big stories' - not just for himself but also for the steadily increasing number of media colleagues who were already joining him.

All of them waiting ...

Waiting, in fact, until 11.30 a.m. - well before which time, as if by some sort of collective instinct, each was aware that something grotesque and gruesome had occurred in the house there numbered 17.

CHAPTER NINE.

Instead of being arrested, as we stated, for kicking his wife down a flight of stairs and hurling a lighted kerosene lamp after her, the Revd James P. Wellman died unmarried four years ago (Correction in a US journal, quoted by Burne-Jones in a letter to Lady Horner) AT I 1.15 1.15 A.M. A.M. L LEWIS suggested that someone perhaps ought to say something. suggested that someone perhaps ought to say something.

For the past hour and a half a group of police officers had been knocking on neighbourhood doors, speaking to residents, taking brief preliminary statements. But as yet nothing official had been released to the representatives of the media a.s.sembled in a street now increasingly crowded with curious onlookers.

'Go ahead!' said Morse.

'Shall I tell them all we know?'

'That won't take you long, will it?'

'No need to keep anything back?'

'For Chrissake, Lewis! You sound as if we've got got something to hide. If we have, why don't you tell something to hide. If we have, why don't you tell me? me?

'Just wondered.'

Morse's tone softened. 'It won't matter much what you tell 'em, will it?' 'All right.'

'Just one thing, though. You can remind 'em that we'd all welcome a bit of accuracy for a change. Tell 'em to stick an "h" in the middle of Bloxham Close - that sort of thing.'

'Bloxham Drive, Drive, sir.' sir.'

'Thank you, Lewis.'

With which, a morose-looking Morse eased himself back in the armchair in the front sitting-room, and continued his cursory examination of the papers, letters, doc.u.ments, photographs, taken from the drawers of a Queen-Anne-style escritoire - a rather tasteful piece, thought Morse. Family heirloom, perhaps.

Family...

Oh dear!

That was always one of the worst aspects of suicides and murders: the family. This time with Mum and Dad and younger sister already on their way up from Torquay. Still, Lewis was wonderfully good at that sort of tiling. Come to think of it, Lewis was quite good at several things, really - including dealing with the Press. And as Morse flicked his way somewhat f.e.c.klessly through a few more papers, he firmly resolved (although in fact he forgot) to tell his faithful sergeant exactly that before the day was through.

Immediately on confronting his interlocutors, Lewis was invited by the TV crew to go some way along the street so that he could be filmed walking before appearing in front of the camera talking. Normal TV routine, it was explained: always see a man striding along somewhere before seeing his face on the screen. So, would Sergeant Lewis please oblige with a short perambulation? No, Sergeant Lewis wouldn't.

What he would do, though, was try to tell them what they wanted to know. Which, for the next few minutes, he did.

A murder had occurred in the kitchen of Number 17 Bloxham Drive: B-L-OX-H-A-M - One of the neighbours (unspecified) had earlier alerted the police to suspicious circ.u.mstances at that address - A patrol car had been on the scene promptly; forced open the front door; discovered the body of a young woman - The woman had been shot dead through the rear kitchen window - The body had not as yet been officially identified - The property appeared to show no sign - no other other sign - of any break-in - sign - of any break-in - That was about it, really.

Amid the subsequent chorus of questions, Lewis picked out the raucous notes of the formidable female reporter from the Oxford Star: Oxford Star: 'What time was all this, Sergeant5'

As it happened, Lewis knew the answer to that question very well. But he decided to be economical with the details of the surprisingly firm evidence already gleaned ...

The Jacobs family lived immediately opposite Number 17, where the lady of the house, in dressing-gown and curlers, had opened her front door a few minutes after 7 a.m. in order to pick up her two pints of Co-op milk from the doorstep. Contemporaneously, exactly so, her actions had been mirrored across the street where another woman, also in a dressing-gown (though without curlers), had been picking up her own single pint. Each had looked across at the other; each had nodded a matutinal greeting.

'You're quite sure? sure? Lewis had insisted. 'It was still a bit dark, you know.' Lewis had insisted. 'It was still a bit dark, you know.'

'We've got some streetlamps, haven't we, Sergeant?'

You are sure, then.'

'Unless she's got - unless she had a twin sister.'

'Sure about the time, time, too? That's very important.' too? That's very important.'

She nodded. 'I'd just watched the news headlines on BBC1 - I like to do that. Then I turned the telly off. I might have filled the kettle again ... but, like I say, it was only a few minutes past seven. Five past, at the outside.'

It therefore seemed virtually certain that there was a time-span of no more than half an hour during which the murder had occurred: between 7.05 a.m., when Mrs Jacobs had seen her neighbour opposite, and 7.35 a.m. or so, when Mrs Norris had first noticed the hole in the window. It was unusual - very very unusual - for such exact.i.tude to be established at so early a stage in a murder enquiry; and there would be little need in this case for the police to be dependent upon (what Morse always called) those prevaricating pathologists ... unusual - for such exact.i.tude to be established at so early a stage in a murder enquiry; and there would be little need in this case for the police to be dependent upon (what Morse always called) those prevaricating pathologists ...

'About quarter past seven,' answered the prevaricating Lewis.

'You're quite sure}' sure}' It was exactly the same question Lewis himself had asked. It was exactly the same question Lewis himself had asked.

'No, not sure at all. Next question?'

'Why didn't everybody hear the shot?' (The same young, ginger-headed reporter.) 'Silencer, perhaps?'

'There'd be the sound of breaking gla.s.s surely?' (A logically minded man from the Oxford Star.) Oxford Star.) A series of hand gestures and silent lip-movements from the TV crew urged Lewis not to look directly into the camera.

Lewis nodded. 'Yes. 'Yes. In fact several of the neighbours think they heard something - two of them certainly did. But it could have been lots of things, couldn't it?' In fact several of the neighbours think they heard something - two of them certainly did. But it could have been lots of things, couldn't it?'

'Such as?' (The importunate ginger-k.n.o.b again.) Lewis shrugged. 'Could have been the milkman dropping a bottle-?'

'No broken gla.s.s here, though, Sergeant.'

'Car backfiring? We don't know.'

'Does what the neighbours heard fit in with the time all right?' (The TV interviewer with his fluffy cylindrical microphone.) 'Pretty well, yes.'

The senior reporter from the Oxford Mail Oxford Mail had hitherto held his peace. But now he asked a curious question, if it was a question: had hitherto held his peace. But now he asked a curious question, if it was a question: 'Not the two immediate immediate neighbours, were they?' neighbours, were they?'

Lewis looked at the man with some interest.

'Why do you say that?'

'Well, the woman who lives there' (a finger pointed to Number ig) 'she was probably still asleep at the time, and she's stone-deaf without her hearing-aid.'

'Really?'

'And the man who lives there' (a finger pointed to Number 15) 'he'd already left for work.'

Lewis frowned. 'Can you tell me how you happen to know all this, sir?'

'No problem,' replied Geoffrey Owens. 'You see, Sergeant, I live at Number 15.'

CHAPTER TEN.

Where lovers lie with ardent glow, Where fondly each forever hears The creaking of the bed below - Above, the music of the spheres (Viscount Mumbles, 1797-1821) 1797-1821) WHEN L LEWIS RETURNED from his encounter with the media, Morse was almost ready to leave the murder-house. The morning had moved towards noon, and he knew that he might be thinking a little more clearly if he were drinking a little - or at least be starting to think when he started to drink. from his encounter with the media, Morse was almost ready to leave the murder-house. The morning had moved towards noon, and he knew that he might be thinking a little more clearly if he were drinking a little - or at least be starting to think when he started to drink.

'Is there a real-ale pub somewhere near?'

Lewis, pleasantly gratified with his handling of the Press and TV, was emboldened to sound a note of caution.

'Doesn't do your liver much good - all this drinking.'

Surprisingly Morse appeared to accept the reminder with modest grace.

'I'm sure you're right; but my medical advisers have warned me it may well be unwise to give up alcohol at my age.'

Lewis was not impressed, for he had heard the same words - exactly the same words - on several previous occasions.

'You've had a good look around, sir?'

'Not really. I know I know I always find the important things. But I always find the important things. But I want want you you to have a look around. You usually manage to find the unimportant things - and often they're the things that really matter in the end.' to have a look around. You usually manage to find the unimportant things - and often they're the things that really matter in the end.'

Lewis made little attempt to disguise his pleasure, and straightway relented.

'We could go up to the Boat at Thrupp?'

'Excellent'

You don't want to stay here any longer?'

'No. The SOCOs'll be another couple of hours yet'

You don't want to see ... her her again?' again?'

Morse shook his head. ' 'I know what she looks like - know what she looks like -looked like.' He picked up two coloured photographs and one postcard, and made towards the front door, handing over the keys of the maroon Jaguar to Lewis. You'd better drive - if you promise to stick to the orange juice.' like.' He picked up two coloured photographs and one postcard, and made towards the front door, handing over the keys of the maroon Jaguar to Lewis. You'd better drive - if you promise to stick to the orange juice.'

Once on their way, Lewis reported the extraordinarily strange coincidence of the press-man, Owens, living next-door to the murdered woman. But Morse, who always looked upon any coincidence in life as the norm rather than the exception, was more anxious to set forth the firm details he had himself now gleaned about Ms Rachel James, for there could now be no real doubt of her ident.i.ty.

'Twenty-nine. Single. No offspring. Worked as a freelance physiotherapist at a place in the Banbury Road. CV says she went to school at Torquay Comprehensive; left there in 1984 with a clutch of competent O-levels, three A-levels - two Bs, in Biology and Geography, and an E in Media Studies.'

'Must have been fairly bright.'

'What do you mean? You need to be a moron to get an E in Media Studies,' a.s.serted Morse, who had never seen so much as a page of any Media Studies syllabus, let alone a question paper.

He continued: 'Parents, as you know, still alive, on their way here-' "You'll want me to see them?'

'Well, you are are good at that sort of thing, aren't you? And if the mother's like most women she'll probably smell the beer as soon as I good at that sort of thing, aren't you? And if the mother's like most women she'll probably smell the beer as soon as I open the door.' open the door.'

'Good reason for you to join me on the orange juice.'

Morse ignored the suggestion. 'She bought the property there just over four years ago for 65,000 and the value's been falling ever since by the look of things, so the poor la.s.s is one of those figuring in the negative equity statistics; took out a mortgage of 55,000 - probably Mum and Dad gave her the other 10,000; and the saleable value of Number 17 is now 40,000, at the most.'

'Bought at the wrong time, sir. But some people were were a bit irresponsible, don't you think?' a bit irresponsible, don't you think?'

'I'm not an economist, as you know, Lewis. But I'll tell you what would have helped her. Helped so many in her boots.'

'A win on the National Lottery?'

'Wouldn't help many, many, that, would it? No. What she could have done with is a healthy dose of inflation. It's a good thing - inflation - you know. Especially for people who've got nothing to start with. One of the best things that happened to some of us. One year I remember I had three jumps in salary.' that, would it? No. What she could have done with is a healthy dose of inflation. It's a good thing - inflation - you know. Especially for people who've got nothing to start with. One of the best things that happened to some of us. One year I remember I had three jumps in salary.'

'Not many would agree with you on that, though, would they? Conservative and Labour both agree about inflation.'

'Ah! Messrs Bull and Thomas, you mean?' You noticed the stickers?'

'I notice most things. It's just that some of them don't register - not immediately.'

'What'll you have, sir?'

'Lew-is! We've known each other long enough, surely.'

As Morse tasted the hostelry's Best Bitter, he pa.s.sed over a photograph of Rachel James.