I don't own or profit from the Endeavour television characters or series; original story and characters are mine.
…
And wait Endeavour did. Once indoors, Monica primly kissed his cheek. "Dev, please eat something with protein in it and have a lie down."
"And you?"
"I'll be ready at half past six. Come and get me." With that, she winked at him and closed herself away inside her flat before he could protest.
Alone in his own flat, Endeavour put his notepad down by the telephone and exhaled. What the devil's gotten into Monica? That sly nipple pinch had surprised him, and oh, the way her breath warmed his ear for a bare few seconds as she told him he'd have to wait…she was playing with him.
Although Monica's actions hardly compared, Endeavour knew about sex beyond the missionary position. Police work, the Army, and even academia were places where one could hardly avoid hearing about them, whether it was through boasting, lies, half-remembered facts, or criminal cases. Little about the physical part of sex surprised him. Indeed, he'd learned useful things: what not to do, what pleased him and others. Above all, to make certain the desire was mutual before anyone undressed.
Endeavour knew something else, too. He'd never be so vulgar and common as to brag about it, but he knew how to lead a woman to the height of pleasure with his hands or tongue. Sometimes both at once. These practical skills produced satisfaction for the women, and a gratifying confidence in his own abilities. Out of the blue, Endeavour wondered how it would feel to do it out of affection instead of power.
"She'll probably melt," he said aloud to the empty, cold room. Endeavour liked the way Monica shivered whenever he licked and bit her neck. Her face took on a soft expression whenever he kissed her hello or goodbye. What would she do if – no, when he -
The telephone's ring seemed pointedly loud, as if to scold him about the direction of his thoughts. Work came first. Shouldn't it? He shook his head as if to clear it, and grabbed the receiver.
"Morse."
…
Early Saturday afternoon, Oxford
Outside Club Crastino, on a street in a barely respectable area
The lines around Fred Thursday's dark eyes crinkled along with his anticipatory smile. "Not easy to keep a private club private when the members are subject to foul play." He braked and parked the car at the curb of a narrow street that looked dark even in the daytime. Facing Morse, he continued. "Someone stole that business card? Small beer now, because a chap from upper management at Reynolds' company came in to tell us what the victim can't. Reynolds has at least one friend."
"Any other oil company businessmen belong to this Club Crastino?" Morse's sharp gaze swept the area as he got out of the car. "Doesn't seem like a place for the university set; they'd have made the management get the Latin right."
Two other cars from Crowley Police Station and a van were parked nearby. "Look at this!" Morse said. "They're nearly broadcasting our plans." The tallest and stoutest members of the police force stood beside a large, arched door, which looked as sturdy as Police Constable Jim Strange's biceps. "Any viable suspects will be out the back door by now."
"We'll see," Thursday replied. "Reynolds' colleague said that they pursue the usual vices here: drink, women, and light gambling. Just organized enough to maintain the proper licensing."
Morse frowned. "Any link to established gangs?"
"None that we know of yet. They court a posher trade," Thursday said dryly. "Social climbers, boys unable to enter the old boys' club, no matter how much money they earn."
Thursday and Morse greeted Strange and Parry, a new PC, with a nod.
"Better hope they open to our first knock," Strange said, assessing the door, "or we'll be here all day trying to break it down."
Thursday strode forward. "Save your shoulders, lads." He pressed a button mounted above a speaker set into the door.
A voice crackled through the little box. "Who?"
"D. I. Thursday, Oxford Police."
More crackling noises, and a pause. Thursday raised his arm and pounded three times on the door with the side of his fist. "This can go hard or it can go easy."
Metal scraped, the sound of someone pulling back a bolt, and the door swung inward. A fiftyish man dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit looked back at the Oxford Police. "Good afternoon, Detective…gentlemen," he said, with a nod.
"And you are?"
The man sighed. "Expecting you. Timothy Lansford. Come in."
If Morse had thought the interior of Reynolds' home displayed internal conflict, Club Crastino took it to a curious new level. Long narrow windows at the end of the room were uncovered to allow daylight, their heavy black curtains pulled back. The daylight illuminated dark wood furnishings with conservative lines, a serviceable bar with a row of gilt-framed mirrors behind it, and framed reproductions of mock-Gainsborough-era paintings of women and a few young men each figure nude or nearly so.
The policemen's heavy footfalls were dulled by the imitation Aubusson carpets underfoot. Garish by daylight, they probably looked rich enough after the various frosted glass lighting fixtures were switched on at night. It all fit someone's idea of what was respectable, except for the flocked velvet wallpaper visible behind all the mirrors and gilt. Morse frowned; it was a deep, bloody red with fleur-de-lis patterns, and looked as though it would peel itself off the walls and chase people during their nightmares. A young man in shirtsleeves stood near a stack of cigarette cartons on the bar, glancing nervously from Thursday to Lansford.
Spreading his hands open wide, Timothy Lansford stood in the middle of the large room. "Come on, ask me your questions."
Thursday nodded towards the young man. "Not going to introduce us?"
"Smith works for me, orders supplies and sometimes tends bar. I own the place. Ask me," Lansford said a bit defensively, straightening his well-cut suit jacket. Only Lansford's hair betrayed his line of business. Such hair it was! It swooped skyward into a quiff held in place by a gravity-defying pomade. Morse doubted it would melt in heavy rain or fly out of place in a high wind.
Thursday asked the usual questions while Morse and the other policemen made a sweep of the club, some looking behind the bar, others checking the storeroom and staff areas.
"Admission to Club Crastino is limited to members," Lansford said, speaking quickly. "Our clientele? The best of our city's business class, though we have visitors from London too, and as far north as Birmingham. Been working in clubs fifteen years, I have – so I know about you, D.I. Thursday, though you've never met me. Oh, no; I'd remember. What's that? Women? Never any women members, it's not the done thing, is it? No! any young ladies on the premises are not for sale, if that's what you're implying. I wouldn't let a ponce in here. Rings down the tone. The ladies are admitted as dates. I may introduce some of them to members but… no. Any financial arrangements, well, that's personal. I'm never involved…
"…No, sir, everyone liked Reynolds. Never a chatty fellow, but he kept his accounts with us current. He did bring…dates. Same girl for the past year or so. Reynolds took his wife on holiday this summer, so we didn't see him. Tried to keep his trouble and strife, I mean wife, satisfied! Yes, Mr. Thursday, our members do confide in me…they trust me as you would a friend. I'm very careful with information."
"Indeed?" Morse asked. "Careful enough to use it to your benefit?"
Lansford scowled. "I resent the implication that I would lower myself to blackmail. Why, if anyone should have been stabbed it was me, out of anger at my discretion." The club owner's eyes quickly shifted towards a door at the far end of the room. The other policemen hadn't reached it yet, and Morse hadn't noticed it earlier. He strode over for a closer look; the narrow door was covered with the dreadful wallpaper, neatly lining up to fit the pattern so that it blended into the wall.
"What's in here?" Morse asked.
"Uh, leads to my office." Lansford's voice rose sharply as Morse walked over and pushed against the door. "Oi! Those records are private, young-fellow-me-lad!"
Morse stepped inside the small room and halted, making eye contact with a different man in shirtsleeves. The man bent over a metal rubbish bin, also covered in flocked wallpaper. Lansford was consistent about décor, if not the truth. The bin was filled with torn and cut pages from ledger books that lay open on the desk. Cold air streamed through the tall, open window. Morse spied a heavy, ornate glass lighter on the desk. He'd interrupted something. "Oxford Police. Name's Morse. Got questions for you."
Slowly, the man straightened up, narrowing his eyes. "Nothing to tell."
Metal shone in the man's clasped hand, and Morse glimpsed the pointed ends of a pair of scissors.
"Listen, sir," Morse said, trying to keep thing calm. "This will go easier if you just tell me who you are and what you're doing."
The man looked roughly Morse's own height and age; he also looked angry. Raising the scissors, he held them at waist height, elbow bent, and took one step back towards the window, which faced onto an alley. "Get back."
The way that the man held the scissors suggested that he was no stranger to knife fighting. "Come on, you don't want to do this." Morse edged closer to the desk, within reach of the heavy lighter.
"Don't be so sure, mate," the man sneered, shifting his weight. Any second now.
"Did you attack Reynolds?"
For a moment, the man looked less confident. "No, I didn't get him. You lot will never sort that out. Sod off!" And he lunged.
Morse leapt jerkily aside, just far enough away from the blades. Both men turned in a half-circle; Morse felt for the lighter, seized it, held it, tried to deliver a roundhouse blow to the man's head with it, but the man bobbed and weaved like a boxer.
A wave of feeling – not anger, but a sense of being fed up – washed over Morse. Not this time. Driven by reflexes and a flash of anger, he kicked, hitting the man's hand so that he dropped the scissors, following through with fist to the man's chin. Before the man could punch back with his left, Morse seized his right forearm, twisted it behind his back, and used his weight to push the man against the flocked-velvet wallpaper with a satisfying thud. It was messy schoolyard fighting. He didn't feel guilty or cowardly in the least.
P.C. Strange's boots clattered on the bare floorboards. "Sir!"
Breathing heavily, Morse let Strange grab the man and take over. "Take him out of here, P.C. Strange. I'll have the lads box these papers up. That window was open when I came in – someone else may have already gone through it."
"Right. I'll get Parry out to check the block, sir."
"There is never any violence at this club," Lansford was shouting as Morse returned to the main room. "Never! Grudges, maybe but we don't allow fighting! Whoever had it in for Peregrine Reynolds, well, it ain't one of us. This is a club for gentlemen."
Fred Thursday spoke sternly. "Someone tried to gut Mr. Reynolds like a fish. It may not be homicide yet, but if he doesn't pull through, believe me: this place will shut down quick and the police will take this place apart down to the floor boards. The next time you tell such tales, it'll be in court."
…
It was nearly four when they emerged from the flocked red velvet womb of Club Crastino. A pretty woman turned the corner as Morse waited on the curb for Thursday. Fashionably cut tan wool coat, matching hat perched atop strawberry blonde hair of a color likely unknown to nature. She held a key or some other metallic object in her hand, pointed forward as though ready to run someone through – not a bad idea in an area like this one. Her jaw was tense as though she held back some strong emotion; then her expression changed as she saw the police vehicles, and she froze in her tracks.
Just then Timothy Lansford, flanked by D.I. Thursday and P.C. Strange, emerged from the club. Lansford blinked in the pale sunlight as though entering an alien atmosphere, and turned his head towards the street corner. As their eyes met, the woman's shoulders jerked. She turned and ran.
Morse didn't wait. "Miss, stop! Police!" Shoes pounding along the stone pavement, he gave chase.
Her light-colored coat was easy to follow for half a block. Morse hadn't run full tilt for a while, and either desperation or strong legs gave the young woman an advantage. Still, Monica's insistence on vitamins and balanced meals had paid off, because Morse was gaining ground just a lorry drove in front of him.
Gasping, Endeavour didn't know whether to thank God or his reflexes; he jerked backward onto the curb just as the shocked driver stopped the vehicle with a cacophony of squealing brakes and metal.
"Gunna meet yer maker early, ya git!" the young man bellowed, pushing open the door and leaping down to the pavement.
Morse had enough breath for a retort. "You were going faster than the legal limit!"
The younger man roared, "It was you as ran into the road! I coulda squashed ya flat! Maybe I should -" his hands balled into fists.
Heavy footsteps signaled the arrival of Jim Strange, who had followed Morse. "All right, Morse?"
"Yeah," Morse panted, gesturing in the direction the woman had taken. "Find her." P.C. Strange ran off, leaving Morse facing the lorry driver.
"Sorry, gov," the young man said, blushing crimson. "Didn't know it was police business. Are ye hurt, sir?"
"No." He rounded the end of the vehicle and looked the length of the street, his mouth open as he gulped air. "Just glad you hit that brake." He saw neither the woman nor Strange.
"Are ye going to arrest me and take me to Cowley Station?" the young man continued. "Usually I'm careful, but got behind schedule, and –"
Morse held up his hand. "We aren't looking for you!"
Words kept tumbling from the lorry driver. "I really can't get the sack. I've got my mother and sister to look after."
Morse stopped looking up the street and made eye contact with the young man, who looked barely eighteen. "Nobody's sacking you." He tried to reassure the man. "Not unless you really thrashed the life out of those brakes."
"What will you do? I already gave this week's pay packet to my Mum."
"It was an accident. No need to worry." Morse wondered how Monica could bear it day in and day out, people wanting to unburden themselves and show their feelings. Where was Strange? Earnest people unsettled him. It was so easy to hurt them, even unintentionally.
Morse sighed with relief. Strange was returning with a reddish object dangling from his hand. Strange jogged up to them and Morse extended his arm. "Wig, sir." His broad chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. "Thought she ran into an alley. Found this hanging on some fencing instead."
The young man looked at Morse. "Uh, may I go, sir? Got customers waiting."
"Right, of course. Drive more carefully from now on," Morse replied absently; he was mentally labelling and assembling pieces of information, and he knew that he could do little more at the scene. Strange gave him a knowing look and was quiet as they rejoined their fellow police.
…
"Do what I say, lad. Keep your Saturday night." A fatigued Thursday was quiet while he drove Morse home, but it seemed important to him to say this much.
"Yes, but –"
"As I said earlier, we've done what we can do for today." Morse heard the tone of finality in Fred's voice. He watched Oxford pass by the window. People walked quickly, perhaps intent on going home to a welcoming table, or to dress for dates, parties, nights out with groups of friends. Everyone looked as though they had a reason to hurry, someone waiting for them, someone wanting to be close to them.
Endeavour remembered something. "Say, mind if I dash into the chemist's?"
"Quite all right." Thursday looked lost in thought.
Morse bought sticking plasters for his knuckles and two packets of three condoms each: one for his flat, one for Monica's. Months might pass before they used them all, considering his and Monica's work hours.
Upon seeing the condom packets, the young shop clerk cheekily wiggled his eyebrows. "Busy Saturday night, mate? Leave a few birds for the rest of us."
Frowning, Morse jerked his head sideways to remind the clerk of the respectable-looking housewife browsing a nearby cosmetic display. "Mind who's in the shop. And think women, not birds, if you want their company," Morse said in low voice. The lad had the decency to blush.
Thursday gave a start when Morse opened the passenger side door. "Ah, there you are. Off we go! I'm looking forward to seeing my Win. She won't have to wait dinner on me for once."
Morse's fingers toyed with the condom packets in his coat packet. Despite all of Monica's flirting earlier today, he honestly didn't care what happened, just that he didn't end the day alone. Again, he imagined the cozy bedroom with its bed large and comfortable enough for two. Sleeping, entwined. Talking before sleep with someone who understood him and wanted to listen. Sometimes, Monica did strange things in her sleep. She cried, especially when she was tired from work. At other times, she pushed at the air as though defending herself. Occasionally she stroked his hair and murmured unclear words. Sometimes Endeavour remembered to ask about her dreams, but she only looked away and said they were all nonsense.
As far as he knew, it was the only thing she lied about.
…
A series of rhythmic taps sounded against the door to Monica's flat: the melody of the Grand March from Aida, as Endeavour had insisted. She opened the door before the last note.
He looked up and took a breath. Monica wore a simple, short sleeved V-neck dress in deep pink, with dangling silver earrings in abstract, mobile-like shapes. The color and subtle shine of the metal flattered her smooth, dark skin.
"You look absolutely lovely," Morse said. What would he do to please Monica, if she still wanted to be with him after the party? After he gently removed Monica's dangling earrings, he would suck her earlobe and kiss her neck, then her mouth. If she agreed, he'd unzip her dress, push her slip off her shoulders and kiss those too. Then he'd lick a hot trail along her spine before he knelt, clutched her hips, and turned her around to face him. Feeling heated, Endeavour pulled at his collar. He knew better than to make any suggestions to Monica, whose expression glowed with excitement about a rare party night.
She suspected something, though, because she caressed his freshly shaved face. "Ooh, Dev. So handsome." His eyelashes lowered for a moment, brushing his skin as he leant into her hand.
"How shall we get there?" Endeavour asked. "Bus or scooter?"
"It's cold tonight. My friend Patience and her boyfriend Charlie will stop by in his van at a quarter to seven to offer a ride. We don't have to take the Vespa."
Morse groaned internally. Discomfort aside, going by scooter would give him time to mentally prepare himself for social stress of the party. But Monica was pulling off his coat and taking his hand, examining his bandaged knuckles. "Dev, you've hurt yourself."
"It's only a scrape. Thursday called me back on duty after we returned from Shakespeare's. had to take care of something." Feeling her go tense, he said, "I wasn't hurt, truly, and Thursday insisted I take the rest of the night off."
Monica raised an eyebrow. "All right. So your fist bumped into somebody's chin?"
"Excellent guess." Endeavour grinned. "Precisely what happened."
Surprised, she laughed. "And?"
"Can't say more than that yet." Endeavour changed the subject. "Why'd you ask me here so early, if your friends are coming at six forty-five?"
She smiled and led him over to her compact hi-fi set, a combination record player and radio. She pulled a 45rpm single song record from a colorful sleeve; the label read Eastern Standard Time.
"Sometimes it's hard to meet new people, go into new situations," Monica explained. "To make things easier I wanted to introduce you to some of the music and dancing you can expect tonight." Facing him, she held out her hands as a rhythmic instrumental began to play.
Endeavour listened, picking out a sweet, lilting melody and a strange, shifting rhythm – not quite shuffling, not quite ragged, quite unfamiliar. There was a horn section; the saxophonist played a wistful solo, improvising on the melody.
"How do you dance to this? You may need to leave me at home." Seeing her crestfallen face, he quickly added, "It's not the party, or the people at it, Monica. I don't dance much. Maybe a little waltz and the fox trot."
Monica reached across the gap between them and moved their bodies into partner position. "There's no need to be nervous; I can teach you. When was the last time you danced?"
"Last year…holiday party. Luckily it was a slow pop song, but too modern for my taste. I held her hand and moved my feet for three painful minutes."
"Dev, this is a slow one. 4/4 time. Lead me in the fox trot if that's comfortable."
Uneasily, he did. Monica kept a slight rigidity to her arms as required in partner dancing where one person led and the other followed. She swayed a little, not so much that Dev lost control, but enough to help him locate and follow the beat. Growing confident, he raised his arm and she did a slow turn, stepping gracefully and slowly in time. "Ooh, very nice, Dev!"
Like so many popular songs for the commercial market, Eastern Standard Time faded out with no real ending. This was just one of the reasons that Endeavour disliked popular music. However, the song had been pleasant enough in its own, way, both sweet and melancholy.
"What's this called?"
"Ska. It can be slow or fast. Other types of Jamaican music are called rocksteady or bluebeat – those are the newest sounds. The selecter – that's what we call the disc jockey at parties – will probably play all three types, along with some pop numbers." Monica said. "I don't want you to feel obliged to dance. Nice thing about dancing at this party, I won't require a partner."
"And what am I to do while you're on the dance floor?"
"Drink lager. Word is that Shakespeare's got some Red Stripe in." She giggled. "You'll see. Now let's try something a bit faster. No partner position for this one."
Endeavour squinted quizzically as the next song began. An odd sound of someone shaking something, then two notes blasted by a horn section, and an unusual sort of drum roll. Smiling, Monica began moving her shoulders and hips. "This is an old song, but it's one of my favorites!"
Bang! a man's voice said, and the band began a fast, driving rhythm even more foreign to his ears than the previous one. The horn section took over with a vaguely martial-sounding melody. The man speaking – he wasn't singing, so Endeavour didn't know what else to call it – punctuated the song with excalmations and sounds. It wasn't the scat singing one heard in jazz but seemed imrpvised. He realized that the shaking sound at the beginning of the song was actually one the man's vocal tricks. Motuh agape, Endeavour looked at Monica.
"What on earth?"
"Ska. The song's called Guns of Navarone," she explained, still dancing. "The band is the Skatalites." She improvised steps as freely and creatively as a jazz singer might improvise sounds. Dev tried to back away, but she grabbed him by the hips. "Follow me."
Nothing in Dev's life had ever required him to tilt his hips up and down or side, so he allowed her to lead. "Like that, Dev. More hips, less head." Monica smiled encouragingly, moving her shoulders and hips in rocking, simultaneous movements.
"I didn't know hips could do this. How do you move your hips and shoulders at the same time?"
"Relax, and let the music lead you naturally." Bass notes swung the song into a break, and Monica bent her knees, as though lowering her body with the notes.
Morse tried to follow, but his own shoulders and hips moved as though each belonged to different people. "Looks easy when you do it."
"Oh, like anything else it takes a little practice. You do have the right idea. Slow down, bend your knees, feet close to the floor." Monica restarted the record. "Lead from here –"she rested her hands on his hips – "and relax your shoulders. Take your time. Be easy, calm."
Or cool, to use the slang term for what this sort of dancing looked like. Morse had never cared about being cool. So many different instructions! Morse took a deep breath and tried again. This time, Endeavour matched her movements. Her playfulness relaxed him, and soon he was moving with her. Such a surprising feeling, being so physically close to someone, fully dressed and in harmony.
Braaap! An auto horn sounded from outdoors. Monica pushed aside the curtains and waved through the window at someone down on the street. "Patience and Charlie are here in the van! Let's go down and I'll introduce you."
"More preparation before this party?" Morse asked, helping Monica don her coat. "Surely you don't think I'm a complete social misfit."
"Of course not. I just thought…" she looked up at him uncertainly.
Morse shrugged on his own coat. "It's all right. I know you mean well." At least nobody at the party was likely to go after him with scissors.
Monica still looked worried as she locked her door. Endeavour took her hand and they made their way to the street.
Thanks for taking time to read! Constructive critiques welcome. Again, this story isn't following Inspector Morse canon particularly closely. Original characters are the intellectual property of Zizi West.
The Skatalites are a real band, and are legendary, with devoted fans around the world. There are too many wonderful ska and rocksteady bands and artists to squeeze into one chapter, so I only included two of my favorite songs from the era (no, I wasn't born yet, but enjoy ska anyway).
