have me in tears in a minute. "
"I'm only trying to say one thing, sir. Count me out!"
"You won't even think about it?"
"No."
'you do realize that I don't need to plead with you about this? I don't want
to pull rank on you. Morse, but just rem em- her that I can.
All right? "
"Try someone else, sir, as I say."
"OK. Forget what I just said. Let's put it this way. It's a favour I'm
asking. Morse a personal favour."
"What makes you think I'll still be here?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
But Morse, it appeared, was barely listening as he stared out of the window
on to his little patch of greenery where a small bird with a grey crown and
darkish-brown bars across its back had settled beneath the diminishing column
of peanuts.
"Look!" (He handed the binoculars to Strange. ) "Few nuts and some of these
rare species decide to take up special residence. I shall have to check up
on the plumage but. . ."
Strange had already focused the binoculars with, as it seemed to Morse, a
practised familiarity.
"Know anything about bird-watching, sir?"
"More than you, I shouldn't wonder."
"Beautiful little fellow, isn't he?"
"She!"
"Pardon?"
"Immature female of the species."
"What species?"
"Passer domesticus. Morse. Can't you recognize a bloody house-sparrow when
you see one?"
For the fourteenth time Morse found himself re-appraising the quirkily
contradictory character that was Chief Superintendent Strange.
"And you'll at least think about things? You can promise me that, surely?"
Morse nodded weakly.
And Strange smiled comfortably.
"I'm glad about that. And you'll be pleased about one thing. You'll have
Sergeant Lewis along with you. I ... did have a word with him, just before I
came here, and he's ' " You mean you've already . . "
Strange flicked a stubby finger against his empty, expensive, cut-glass
tumbler: "A little celebration, perhaps?"
^
chapter four He and the sombre, silent Spirit met They knew each other
both for good and ill; Such was their power, that neither could forget His
former friend and future foe; but still There was a high, immortal, proud
regret In it her eye, as if 'twere less their will Than destiny to make the
eternal years Their date of war, and their
"Champ Clos' the spheres (Byron, The Vision of Judgment, XXXII) it is
possible for persons to be friendly towards each other without being friends.
It is also possible for persons to be friends without being friendly towards
each other. The relationship between Morse and Strange had always been in
the latter category.
"Read through this as well!" Strange's tone was semi- peremptory as he
thrust a folded sheet of ruled A4 across at Morse, in the process knocking
his glass on to the parquet flooring. Where it broke into many pieces.
"Ah! Sorry about that!"
Morse rose reluctantly to fetch brush and pan from the kitchen.
"Could have been worse, though," continued Strange. "Could have been full,
eh?"
As Morse carefully swept up the slivers of the cut-glass tumbler originally
one of a set of six (now three) which his
mother had left him he experienced an irrational anger and hatred wholly
disproportionate to the small accident which had occurred. But he counted up
to twenty; and was gradually feeling better, even as Strange extolled the
bargain he'd seen in the Covered Market recently: glasses for only 50p apiece.
"Better not have any more Scotch, I suppose."
"Not if you're driving, sir."
"Which I'm bloody not. I'm being driven. And if I may say so, it's a bit
rich expecting me to take lessons in drink-driving from you! But you're
right, we've had enough."
A further count, though this time only to ten, prolonged Morse's invariably
slow reading of the two handwritten para- graphs, and he said nothing as he
finally put the sheet aside.
It was Strange who spoke: "Perhaps, you know, on second thoughts, we might,
er . . . anither wee dram?"
"Not for me, sir."
"That was meant to be the " royal we". Morse."
Morse decided that a U-turn was merely a rational readjustment of a
previously mistaken course, and he obliged accordingly - for both of them,
with Strange's measure poured into one of the cheap-looking wine glasses he'd
bought a few weeks earlier from the Covered Market, for only 50p apiece.
"Is this' (Morse pointed to the paper) 'what our dutiful duty sergeant
transcribed from the phone calls?"
"Well, not quite, no." (Strange seemed curiously hesitant. ) "That's what 7
wrote down, as far as I - we could fix the exact words. Very difficult
business when you get things second- hand, garbled--' Morse interrupted.
"No problem, surely? We do record every- thing that comes into HQ."
"Not so easy as that. Some of these recordings are poor-quality reception;
and when, you know, when somebody's speaking quietly, muffled sort of voice .
. ."
Morse smiled thinly as he looked directly across at his 21
superior officer.
"What you're telling me is that the recording equipment packed up, and
there's no trace."
"Anything mechanical packs up occasionally."
"Both occasions?"
"Both occasions."
"So all you've got to rely on is the duty-sergeant."
"Right."
"Atkinson, was that?"
"Er, yes."
"Isn't he the one who's been taken off active duties?"
"Er, yes."
"Because he's become half-deaf, I heard."
"It's not a. joke. Morse! Terrible affliction, deafness."
"Would you like me to have a word with him myself?" For some reason Morse's
smile was broader now.
"I've already, er .. ."
"Were you at home, sir, when this anonymous caller rang you
Strange shifted uncomfortably in the chair, finally nodding slowly.
"I thought you were ex-directory, sir."
"You thought right."
"How did he know your number then?"
' 'ow the 'ell do I know! "
"The only people who'd know would be your close friends, family . . .
"" And people at HQ/ added Strange.
"What are you suggesting?"
"Well, for starters ... have you got my telephone number?"
Morse walked out into the entrance hall and returned with a white-plastic
telephone index, on which he pressed the letter "S', then pushed the list of
names and numbers there under the half-lenses now perched on Strange's nose.
"Not changed, has it?"
'dot an extra "five" in front of it. But you'd know that,
wouldn't you? " The eyes over the top of the lenses looked shrewdly and
steadily up at Morse.
"Yes. It's just the same with my number."
"Do you think I should get a tap on my phone?"
"Wouldn't do any harm, if he rings again."
"When he rings again."
"Hoaxer! Sure to be."
"Well-informed hoaxer, then." Strange pointed to the paper still on the arm
of Mors
e's chair.
"A bit in the know, wouldn't you say?
Someone on the inside, perhaps? You couldn't have found one or two things
referred to there in any of the press reports. Only the police'd know. "
"And the murderer," added Morse.
"And the murderer," repeated Strange.
Morse looked down once more at the notes Strange had made in his
appropriately outsized, spidery handwriting: Call One That Lower Swinstead
woman nickers up and down like a yo-yo - a lot of paying clients and a few
non-paying clients like me. Got nowhere much with the case did you
incompetant lot. For starters you wondered if it was one of the locals,
didn't you? Then for the main course you wasted most of your time with the
husband. Then you didn't have any sweet because you'd run out of money. Am
I right? Idiots, the lot of you. No! Don't interrupt! (Line suddenly
dead. ) Call Two Now don't interrupt this time, see? Don't say a
dicky-bird! Like I said, that woman had more pricks than a second-hand
dart-board, mine included, but it's not me who had anything to do with it.
Want a clue? There's somebody coming out of the clammer in a fortnight
listen! He's one of your locals, 23
isn't he? See what I mean? You
cocked it all up before and you're lucky bastards to have another chance.
(Line suddenly dead. ) Morse looked up to find himself the object of
Strange's steady gaze.
"It's incompetCT<, sir, with an " e"."
"Thank you very much!"
"And most people put a " k" on " knickers"."
Strange smiled grimly.
"And Yvonne Harrison put an embargo on knickers, however you spell 'em!"
He struggled to his feet.
"My office Monday morning first thing!"
"Eight o'clock?"
"Nine-thirty?"
"Nine-thirty."
"Now get back to your Schubert though I'm surprised you weren't listening to
Wagner. Just the job, The Ring, for a long holiday, you know. Especially
the Sold recording."
Morse watched his visitor waddling somewhat unsteadily towards the police car
parked confidently in the
"Resident's Only' parking area.
(Yes! Morse had mentioned the apostrophe to the Chairman of the Residents'
Welfare Committee. ) He closed the front door and for a few moments stood
there motionless, acknowledging with a series of almost imperceptible nods
the simple truth about the latest encounter between two men who knew each
other well, both for good and ill: Game, Set, Match, to Strange.
Or was it?
For there was something about what he had just learned, something he had not
yet even begun to analyse, that was perplexing him slightly.
The following Sunday was a pleasant summer's day; and along with
three-quarters of the population of Hampshire, Morse decided to go down to
Bournemouth. It took him over an hour to park the Jaguar; and it was a
further half-hour before he reached the sea front where car-loads and
bus-loads of formidable families were negotiating rights to a couple of
square me tres of Lebensraum. But moving away from the ice cream emporia,
Morse found progressively fewer and fewer day-trippers as he walked towards
the further reaches of the shore-line. He'd always told himself he enjoyed
the changing moods of Homer's deep-sounding sea. And he did so now.
Soon, he found himself standing alongside the slowly lap- ping water,
debating with himself whether the tide was just coming in or just going out,
and staring down at the glass-like circular configuration of a jellyfish.
"Is it dead?"
Until she spoke, Morse had been unaware of the auburn- haired young woman who
now stood beside him, almost wearing a bikini.
"I don't know. But in the absence of anything better to do, I'm going to
stand here till the tide comes in and find out."
"But the tide's going out, surely?"
Morse nodded somewhat wistfully.
"You may be right."
"Poor jellyfish!"
"Mm!" Morse looked down again at the apparently doomed, transparent creature
He'd sounded a comparatively interesting man, and the woman would have liked
to stay there awhile. But she forced herself to forget the intensely blue
eyes which momentarily had held her own; and walked away without a further
word, for she felt a sudden, slight suspicion concerning the sanity of the
man who stood there staring at the ground.
25
chapter five In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is King
(Afghan proverb) it was on Tuesday the 14th, the day before Strange's visit
to Morse, that Lewis had presented himself at the Chief Superintendent office
in Thames Valley Police HQ, in punctual obedience to the internal phone call.
"Something for you, Lewis. Remember the Lower Swinstead murder?"
"Well, vaguely, yes. And I've seen the bits in the paper, you know, about
the calls. I was never really on the case myself though. We were on another
' " Well, you're on it now from next Monday morning, that is once Morse gets
back from Bermuda. "
"He hasn't left Oxford, has he?"
"Joke, Lewis." Strange beamed with bonhomie, set ding his chin into his
others.
"The Chief Inspector's agreed?"
"Not much option, had he? And you enjoy working with the old sod. I know
you do."
"Not always."
"Well, he always enjoys working with you."
A strangely gratified Lewis made no reply.
"So?"
"Well, if it's OK with Morse . . ."
"Which it is."
"I'll give him a ring."
"No, you won't. He's tired, isn't he? Needs a rest. Give him a bit of time
to himself you know, crosswords, booze ..."
"Wagner, sir. Don't forget his precious Wagner. He's just bought another
recording of that Ring Cycle stuff, so he told me."
"Which recording's that?"
"Conductor called
"Sholty" , I think. "
"Mm . . ." Strange pointed to three bulging green box-files stacked on the
side of his desk.
"Little bit of reading there. All right?
Chance for you to get a few moves ahead of Morse. "
Lewis got to his feet, picked up the files, and held them awkwardly in front
of him, his chin clamping the top one firm.
"I've never been even one move in front of him, sir."
"No? Don't you under-estimate yourself, Lewis! Let others do it for you."
Lewis managed a good-natured grin.
"Not many people manage to get a move ahead of Morse."
"Oh, really? Just a minute! Let me hold the door for you .. . And you're
not quite right about what you just said, you know. There are one or two
people who just occasionally manage it."
"Perhaps you're right, sir. I've just not met one of 'em, that's all."
"You have though," said Strange quietly.
Lewis's eyes turned quizzically as he manoeuvred his triple burden through
the door.
That same evening, Lewis had just finished his eggs and chips, had trawled
the last slice of brown bread across the residual HP sauce, and was
swallowing the last mouthful of full-cream cold milk, when he hear
d the call
from above: "Dad? Da - ad?"
Lewis looked down at the (presumably problematical) first sentence of his
son's A-level French Prose Composition: "Another bottle of this excellent
wine, waiter!"
27
"Easy enough, that, isn't it?"
"What gender's " bottle"?"
"How am I supposed to know? What do you think I bought you that dictionary