Water Canvas
Chapter 11 – Proposition
Evening fell, a slow-dropping veil of blazing indigo over the city. Seen through the incident room windows at Cowley nick, stripes of greying shadow gave way to shimmering bicycle wheels and regulation shoe buckles as the remnants of the day shift made their way home. Inside, the twin soffit lamps enveloped the detectives in a pale halo as they gathered around the incident board.
"Three out of three, Matey. Congratulations and all that, eh?"
Morse bit back a smile.
McNutt, passing by the open door, poked his head inside. "Football pools?" He asked interestedly, "who's the lucky beggar?"
"No Sir; lines of inquiry. Morse it is."
"Ah, a bit more than luck then," said McNutt, shooting Morse a look, and sidling inside. He made his way to the far wall and leaned back, out of their immediate circle, but close enough to listen.
"You reckon he was lying?" Strange asked. "About the trophy? Could have been him after all."
Peter hesitated, ash crumbling from the cigarette end between his fingers, flakes cascading down his suit. "No," he said at last, "No – if he's lying, he says he knows nothing about it. But this time – he said no flat out, just like that."
On the board, a photo of the trophy caught Morse's eye. The delicate wash of porcelain, the brush strokes cradling the swell of the body, left-to-right, left-to-right, visible clearly even in the black and white print. "Maybe it is the dog after all," he added hopefully.
"That's too far-fetched, Matey, even for you."
McNutt shifted, moving fractionally forward. "A dog is your culprit?"
"Morse thinks so, Sir." The bite in Strange's voice, though slight, was clear.
"He's got it right so far," McNutt countered.
Morse shot McNutt a look of gratitude.
"Harry Rose recovered the world cup trophy – not the dog," Peter pointed out.
"Maybe it's the other way around – I've said this before – Harry Rose, the puppet master, pulling the strings. The actual theft was carried out by the dog, trained by Edgar."
"Brilliant," Peter said, "just the nice, straightforward solution I'm looking for."
"Or it's Jack Edgar behind the theft after all," Strange said. "You're spinning in circles on this one. Flashes of insight and all them brains trust theories are all very well, but look at the simplest line first."
Heat ignited in Morse's stomach, snaking up his lungs and throat in thin, shear tendrils. "Right," he gritted out, "let's leave that open for the moment."
Peter's eyes were on him again, pinning him in place with that peculiar, inexorable weight that was never far from his shoulders, or his mind. A quick flick to gauge Strange's expression; his brows were smooth, jaw set, but his eyes, like gems in the yellowing glow, were warm. "Next on the docket," Peter said, turning with his hands in his pockets, "bringing in Harry Rose. We've got the written statement from Nellison, so we must move fast."
"No."
Peter swung around to face Strange. "What was that, Jim?"
"No point," Strange said solidly, "he's on his bed; took to it after Bixby died. Bringing him won't be useful. He's as likely to plan things in here as he is out there. At least, that way, we can keep an eye on the comings and goings – and get a heads up on who's next in line."
"Morse? What's your say?"
"I don't see the point," Morse said wearily. Lucy's bloated blue face rose up in his mind's eye, as did the icy moist fingers of water grabbing at his clothes, pulling him down as he fought to float her to the riverbank –
Roddy Farthingale, lonely and desperate, stuffed into the trunk of a car –
And that dark, harrowing night; strains of wailing music taunting him as he ran to the lake –
Trapping a man in a police cell simply contained his physical presence. To bring him to book, to lay the mark of human justice upon his head, was mere mockery, a speck in the face of a sandstorm. The deep and insidious world of Harry Rose was a vortex, a spinning inferno that spread its ravening tongues of flame afar. "Strange is right," he said, shoulders sagging. "We'll get more out of him by letting him loose, anticipating his next steps."
Peter's eyebrows rose, and he blew a foul-smelling cloud directly at Morse. He gagged and moved nearer to Strange.
"Harry Rose?" McNutt put in. "The Belvedere tycoon?"
"The very same, Sir," Strange answered. "King of the slot coin business, and behind the Chinese heroin business too, by the looks of it."
"We've been after him for years, both city and county. Are you saying Thursday's team has got a lead on him at last?"
"He's just out of the quad – unrelated offences."
"I see," said McNutt. He addressed Strange, but he looked at Morse, eyes mere hooded needles, piercing through his coat and scratching his skin like nettles.
Peter shuffled the notes on his desk, moved a cold coffee cup off a paper file, and scrubbed surreptitiously at the mark it made with a handkerchief. Morse frowned. It was his handkerchief. "Can I have my linen back?" He asked.
"My shirt for your cloth," Peter countered swiftly.
"It's been two years," Morse protested.
"Then you'll get this back in two years too," Peter retorted. "To the matter at hand, Edgar's still missing. We wired Metro, but not a whisker. Mark my words, he's our man."
"Night's got a watch on his place. If he comes back, we'll be the first up there."
"He won't be back if he's got any sense at all."
"Might go round to that other bloke in Cacklebury – that posho with the loft" –
Morse's head began to pound, Peter's and Strange's voices blurring into one harsh, discordant crescendo reverberating in his ears. "Michael Brierley," Morse supplied, wincing at the rasp in his throat "and no, he won't be taking sanctuary there."
Strange turned, solid bulk rearing up a foot from Morse's face. "How's that, Matey?"
Morse maintained eye contact. "Brierley and Edgar aren't on good terms, the way Brierley says. He won't speak against Edgar, but there's something there, in the undertones" –
"Undertones of what?"
"He didn't say it directly, but I got the impression that they weren't tight."
"Impressions count for nothing. Why didn't you bring him in?"
"I had nothing concrete," Morse snapped. "They're artists – they aren't going round leaving obvious evidence for us to find."
"I wager he's not involved," Strange added. "Edgar's the one we've got to watch."
He could have argued then, pointed out the too-neat trail that led to Edgar; Nellison's deliberate testimony, the Meadowfield student's observations, the disdain in Brierley's tones as he spoke of his colleague, and then Staines, and Hathaway, who played alongside him, and knew him from service at the houses on the lake –
Morse paused. Houses. Lakes, fences –
Pubs, gardens, silver platters, transporting boxes, vases –
Knickers –
"Didn't catch that, Matey."
"Never mind," Morse mumbled, even as the thought died. "We're done here for now."
.
.
"A word, Morse?" McNutt asked, as soon as Strange and Peter's goodbyes faded into the blue haze of twilight. Somewhere in the front hall, perhaps at Complaints or Enquiries, the telephone began to ring. "In private, please?"
He followed the senior detective out into the corridor, where the boxes containing Bixby's dissembled hydroplane stood, forgotten and gathering dust, past the evidence room, and past Bright's office, cold and empty, shutters drawn. Morse bit his lip and turned into McNutt's office at the end of the corridor.
McNutt eyed him, steadily, appraisingly. "I suspect you'd have heard that the position for my bagman is opening up."
Morse looked blank.
McNutt sighed. "Clearly not. Well, Morse, there'll be an influx of C.I.D into Cowley nick soon. Some of our lot will be transferred to County, and others still further afield to Metro. DC Parrish will be among them – he'll be moving up to Sergeant, and as a result, I'll be short a bagman." He looked expectantly at Morse.
Morse wrinkled a brow. "Sir?"
"I'm impressed with the work I've seen you do today. Getting onto Harry Rose like that – and this business of the dog – not many detectives think the way you do. There's a chance of quick promotion if you work with me. The position is yours, if you want it."
The blow was keen, and caught him off-guard, wobbly at the knees, knotty in the stomach. A fresh start, his methods unconstrained, no subtle pulling of strings to hold him back –
His feelings and thoughts accepted, unquestioningly –
Soft light spilled from the office into the main room, where the typewriter and towering pile of files on Morse's desk stood like lonely boulders, onto the adjoining desk, Peter's scattered cups, some still half full, and further onto Strange's lair, where a new coat lay spread over the desk.
"Take you time, of course," McNutt added, seeing his hesitation, "I don't expect an answer straightaway."
"Right," Morse said, tearing his eyes from the half done crossword on his desk, and back to McNutt's gleaming burnished tiepin. "Right," he repeated, "I'll just…." He sighed. "Sir." He turned away from McNutt's thoughtful face, strode past the desks, past Thursday's office, dark and bolted, the occupant long gone, and out into the swelling blackness of the night.
Behind him, the telephone rang incessantly.
.
.
The cul-de-sacs of Oxford shone best in winter, when pale sunlight illuminated townhouse facades, their climbing ivy frozen to a crunch, curling into yellowing stone and brick like ink into rice paper, when chimneys smoked gently, spiralling blue and grey into the blanketing clouds, and railings stood out like pikes against the sea of snow. In summer, the houses were swathed in brown dust, as smoke after battle; a thick haze that settled low on the ground and choked up lungs and nostrils with its searing particles. Every house looked the same, sulking monsters with half-shut eyes. Morse walked up thrice, and down twice before he found what he had come to see.
He descended the short flight of steps perilously, and rapped on the door.
"There you are, then," said the woman when she answered, "you're late."
Morse smiled disarmingly. "I was working."
She looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his too-large coat, the dusty shoelaces, and the crumpled shirtsleeves. "What's it you do then? Tax Inspector? Librarian?"
"I'm a policeman."
Her eyes cleared. "Well, that's different then, ain't it?"
He sincerely hoped it was.
"You're fortunate to get it at this price," she continued, turning and leading him inside, "it's a prime bit of land, it is, and everybody's wanting a foot in the door." Prime it may have been, but dreary it certainly was. Their first stop was the living room off to the left of the poky hallway, all nondescript cream wallpaper and stained white floorboards. The only redeeming feature here was the large, roomy fireplace with its ornately carved mantel. It was empty now, but wide and potent enough to light up the dull room in an incandescent glow on a cold day. Moving closer, he tripped on an errant fragment of carpet that had come loose from its parent body, legs twisting in a desperate effort to prevent his knees from hitting the floor.
He caught himself on an armchair, hitting his shin painfully. A plaintive meow came from the cushion on the seat.
"Watch it," the landlady said sharply, "that's genuine Turkish Kasbah, it is."
"It's nylon," Morse pointed out. He nudged a cigarette burn on the carpet with his shoe.
She drew herself up to her full height. "Are you questioning my expertise?"
"Obviously."
"Mr Morse," she said frigidly, I don't think you're the right person" –
He held up an apologetic hand.
The cushion moved; a cat slithered out and came to rub against his ankles.
The rest of the house consisted of three square rooms with pink and beige walls and heavy furniture, and a tiny kitchen and toilet off a corridor towards the back, where grey light would stream in though tiny, high set windows in the morning. No matter; he wouldn't be spending much time in here anyway. He trailed the landlady as she completed her tour, nodding occasionally with half an ear out as she extolled the virtues of the single – creaking – four-poster bed, the cracked china, the paint, the aging, mildewed moulding on the kitchen ceiling.
The air was thick, strangely fuzzy after the sharp, cutting keenness of the woods.
From the living room, the cat hissed.
When Morse returned, he was seated on the window ledge. He turned at the sound of Morse's tread, eyes like green lamps in the inky dark. Four feet beyond the row of inadequate windows, Japanese knotweed, with dead yellow fingers, clung fast to the wrought-iron railings. Still further on, a single streetlight threw a sputtering pool of light across the road. He inhaled, lungs searing with a sharp, sudden fire. Out over Lake Silence, his breath came easier, rolling into the skies above, and the trees, like well-beloved friends, bent to hear his every whisper. Even on the city streets there was company; spires and roofs of slate, gleaming in the summer rains, and the accumulated stories of centuries, dogging his footsteps from the shadows.
But here, all was sterile, as though its lifeblood had been vacuumed away, leaving a lacuna in which nothing grew, smothered to death by the heat and the low ceilings.
The landlady was silent, watching him with shrewd eyes.
"I expect my property to be treated with respect," she said at last, but her tone was gentle. "The place is yours if you want it."
The cat jumped down and drew nearer, sat on his foot before he could move.
"Shoo," Morse said.
The cat glared.
Morse sighed. "Right," he said, "I'll take the place."
.
.
A light drizzle followed him as he walked along the path to the dachas, cooling the heavy layers of air. Here in the deep woods, the greys and blacks of the city gave way to blues and greens, and the waters stretched from bank to bank like a sheet of thin, clear paper. Through the gaps in the pines, florescent headlights, like eyes in the night, wound their way on the distant motorways. Three shortcuts through the thickets took him to the junction where one road turned off towards Carson Downs, another snaked its way past a row of gated houses towards Cacklebury village, and the third, a winding narrow footpath, went right past the dachas, and down to the lake.
During the day, the hum of insects was constant, a pleasant, formless buzz that filled his ears and soothed his agitated mind. But now there was silence, and the silence was loud.
If he strained his ears, the purring of the far away cars would rise to a crescendo, and if he stretched them still further, he could see them; the glowing headlights of an imagined Klipspringer Continental, turning the bed, streams of light dipping as the car hugged the curve, then amping up speed as it roared along the immense gravel drive, sweeping up past the pond and the fountains, into the garage –
Beneath his feet, the ground vibrated.
And then, out of the darkness, a car swung into view.
He jumped back, fighting for footing on the narrow path, arms thrown up to shield his eyes from the cruel glare –
Any minute now, and just like Jeannie Hearne –
His ears rushing with a wild cacophony of wind and machine, body mere feet from the gleaming bonnet of the car –
Morse turned and ran.