Inspector Morse 12 Death is Now My Neighbour

Upstairs, in the front bedroom, he looked down at the double-bed that almost monopolized the room, and noted again the two indented pillows, one atop the other, in their Oxford blue pillowcases, whereon for the very last time Rachel James had laid her pretty head. The winter duvet, in matching blue, was still turned back as she had left it, the under-sheet only lightly creased. Nor was it a bed (of this Morse felt certain) wherein the murdered woman had spent the last night of her life in passionate lovemaking. Better, perhaps, if she had...

Standing on the bedside table was a glass of stale-looking water, beside which lay a pair of bluish earrings whose stones (Morse suspected) had never been fashioned from earth's more precious store.

But the Chief Inspector was forming something of a picture, so he thought

Picture ... Pictures...

Two framed pictures only on the bedroom walls: the statutory Monet; and one of Gustav Klimt's gold-patterned compositions. Plenty of posters and stickers, though: anti deer-hunting; anti export of live animals; anti French nuclear tests; pro the NHS; pro the whales; pro legalized abortion. About par for the course at her age, thought Morse. Or at his age, come to think of it.

He pulled the side of the curtains slightly away from the wall, and briefly surveyed the scene below. An almost reverent hush now seemed to have settled upon Rachel's side of the street. One uniformed policeman stood at the front gate - but only the one - talking to a representative of the Press - but only the one: the one who had lived next-door to the murdered woman, at Number 15; the

one with the pony-tail; the one whom Morse would have to interview so very soon; the one he ought already to have interviewed.

Then, from the window, he saw his colleague, Sergeant Lewis, getting out of a marked police car; and thoughtfully he walked down the stairs. Odd - very odd, really - that with all those stickers around the bedroom, the one for the party the more likely (surely?) to further those advertised causes had been left in the boot of her car, where earlier Lewis had found it. Why hadn't she put it up, as so many other householders in the terrace had done, in one of her upper or lower windows?

Aware that whatever had been worrying him had still not been identified, Morse turned the Yale lock to admit Lewis, the latter carrying the lunchtime edition of the Oxford Mail

'I reckon it's about time we interviewed him,' began Lewis, pointing through the closed door.

'All in good time,' agreed Morse, taking the newspaper where, as on the previous two days, the murder still figured on page one, although no longer as the lead story.

POLICE PUZZLED BY KIDLINGTON KILLING

THE BRUTAL murder The murdered woman was

of the physiotherapist seen as a quietly unobtrusive

Rachel James, which has member of the community

caused such a stir in the local with no obvious enemies,

community, has left the and as yet the police have

police baffled, according to been unable to find any

Inspector Morse of the plausible motive for her

Thames Valley CED. murder.

Neighbours have been by a ghoulish if natural curi-swift to pay their tributes, osity, once police activity is Mrs Emily Jacobs, who scaled down and restrictions waved a greeting just before are lifted. Rachel was murdered, said A grim-faced Sergeant she was a friendly, pleasant Lewis, after once again resident who would be sadly examining the white Mini missed. still parked outside the prop-Similar tributes were paid erty, would make no comment by other local inhabitants other than confirming that who are finding it difficult to various leads were being come to terms with their followed, neighbourhood being the Rachel's parents, who live scene of such a terrible in Devon, have identified the murder and a centre of body as that of their daugh-interest for the national ter, and a bouquet of white media. lilies bearing the simple For the present, however, inscription 'To our darling Bloxham Drive has been daughter' lies in cellophaned sealed off to everyone except wrapping beside the front local residents, official gate of No. 17. reporters and a team of The tragedy has cast a police officers carefully dark cloud over the voting searching the environs of No. taking place today for the 17. election of a councillor to But it seems inevitable replace Terry Burgess who that the street will soon be a died late last year following magnet for sightseers, drawn a heart attack.

'Nicely written,' conceded Morse. 'Bit pretentious, perhaps ... and I do wish they'd all stop demoting me!'

'No mistakes?'

Morse eyed his sergeant sharply. 'Have I missed something?'

Lewis said nothing, smiling inexplicably, as Morse read through the article again.

'Well, I'd've put a comma after "reporters" myself. Incidentally, do you know what such a comma's called?'

'Remind me.'

'The "Oxford Comma".'

'Of course."

'Why are you grinning?'