For AstridContraMundum and Mud_Lark.
'Addio al passato' means 'farewell to the past' in Italian. It's a voluntary play on words with 'Addio del passato,' La Traviata's last aria, sung when Violetta, the dying courtesan, is waiting to see her lover Alfredo one last time.
'Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti, (Farewell, smiling dreams of the past,)
Le rose del volto gia sono pallenti ; (The roses in my cheeks are already pallescent;)
L'amore d'Alfredo perfino mi manca, (I'm also missing Alfredo's love)
Conforto, sostegno dell' anima stanca. (Comfort, support for my tired soul.)
Conforto ! Sostegno ! (Comfort! Support!)
Ah, della traviata sorridi al desio ; (Oh, smile at the desire of the forsaken woman;)
A lei, deh, perdona ; tu accoglila, o Dio ! (To her, oh, grant forgiveness; welcome her, O God,)
Ah ! Tutto, tutto fini. Or tutto, tutto fini !' (Ah! It is all over.)
All my gratitude goes to Mud_Lark who went above the call of friendship and Beta-read most of this fic. Thank you so much for your edits! Your eagle eyes and detailed comments improved this fic tenfold!
All the standard disclaimers apply: Endeavour doesn't belong to me, and I'm just borrowing it for a while. Some dialogues are Russell Lewis' and Julian Mitchell's (Masonic Mysteries).
No man ever steps in the same river twice
for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.
Heraclitus
The reggae rhythm flowed from the turntable, valiantly unfazed by the scratches on the LP adding to its beat. Its staccato sound wove an ironical counterpoint to the blond WPC's footsteps strolling by the street.
Her pace slowed down as Shirley Trewlove neared the second-hand records stall.
The Brennan Street Market mostly offered clothes, new and second-hand, a few pompously labelled 'antiques' carefully organized on trestles by an overeager dealer, and an assortments of books sellers favoured by College youths. But it was the records that drew the most attention from the passers-by, thanks to the background music.
Closer to the turntable, several wooden crates offered rows of second-hand LPs to the prospective buyers. However, there were few people in the open-air market, and even less in front of these offerings.
Perhaps the music advertising the stand wasn't appropriate for selling classical music records. The current customer openly disdained the row of opera LPs, focusing instead on the farthest crate full of reggae and pop records; however, from his disappointed sneer, it appeared that the vendor would be disappointed in him, too. However, unfazed by this probable forthcoming frustration, the bulky man busied himself with stuffing a crate roughly with additional records, at the risk of breaking them.
Making the rounds wasn't Trewlowe's favourite duty; still, she did it with a slight smile on her lips, her hands loosely holding the strap of her handbag, seemingly half lost in her thoughts.
A casual observer would have labelled her an attractive girl, wondered if she were thinking of her boyfriend, or even asked himself why she hadn't chosen modelling as a job. A more astute one would have dismissed her outward shapely loveliness and noticed the acuteness of her gaze and the way her roving eyes seemed to file all the details in her surroundings for future use.
As the WPC's gaze flitted over the stand, she stopped in her tracks, her eyes drawn to a tantalizing offering. As it were, the upper side of a record barely visible above the rim of a crate, beckoned insistently for her attention. Displayed on the record sleeve, a name asked to be recognized once more by the casual observer. In that ordinary morning, it drew as much as much astonishment as the singer had gathered laurels during in her life.
Rosalind C—, it spelled.
The portrait on the mint-condition cover was faintly smiling through the planks of the crate, the woman's eyes arrested Trewlove's. When, flaunting her most innocent expression on her face, the WPC pulled the record out, the brown coloured photograph, staring back at her from the cream-coloured background of the record cover, confirmed her first impression.
The woman's face was good looking in an understated way; not aggressively beautiful, but with a penetrating charm. Posh, indeed, but not in a stuck-up manner. Brown hair framed an oval face, a soft halo pushed back in a natural style that bespoke of a meticulous styling; the very same qualities that had endeared her to countless music loving admirers and made her a diva whose name was both a delightful secret exchanged between opera connoisseurs and a 'name' guaranteeing a full house to concert impresarios.
Yet Trewlove didn't have to read the full name featured next to the face to identify it.
Rosalind Calloway.
Her father, Dr. Trewlove, who prided himself on his cultured tastes between house calls to his patients, treasured her records. All the more, since Miss Calloway had cut her career short. 'Got married or some other blunder,' Dr. Trewlove usually grumbled, his disappointment obvious.
Privately, Shirley Trewlove agreed with his assessment. Why should a woman like Miss Calloway stop a fulfilling and successful artistic career just because her husband had so decreed? After all, in marrying her, the man knew what he was doing…
So, it wasn't the face or the name which nonplussed Trewlove. It was the inscription signed in a bold hand on the sleeve, 'To Morse, Un bel di (One fine day).'
Distorted as a faraway echo, Trewlove recalled Morse's stoic answer to DS Strange when he had assessed the damage done in his bedsit some weeks before, after the burglary. Besides his record player and radio set, the unknown perpetrators had deprived him of his 'signed Rosalind Calloway LP.'
Morse had puffed a tiny, derisive laugh without joy, Trewlove remembered. 'Beside that, there was nothing worth taking,' he had added.
And she had thought that it was a pitiable testimony for his life so far, to have so few worldly goods to claim for his own. It was as if he had chosen to jettison every baggage of his as disenchantments came his way, and to retain merely his brain and his records for company.
Considering the LP, Trewlove slipped the vinyl from the inner cover and made a show as if she were considering the pristine condition of the grooves, thinking hard.
Then she saw it, as she slipped the record back into its protective antistatic cover: a tiny marking on the lower right corner of the white cover. A small 'EMorse,' written with the distinctive cursive which she had seen several times before on various police reports. It also punctuated, with angry exclamation marks, several of Fancy's reports, the handwriting's stern efficiency conveying the editor's helpless fury at Fancy's usual lack of attention to spelling.
Quickly, Trewlove laid the record flat carefully on the crate, and picked up a few LPs at random, all classical music or opera selections, most of them featuring Rosalind Calloway. She was met with the same hieroglyphic doodles written on the corner of the inner covers.
Her lips tightened in a thin line and she thought harder. Should she leave the records there as evidence? Should she buy some of them and give them back to Morse?
Trewlove knew from her father's ramblings on how Calloway's LPs were becoming an expensive collector's item. After her sudden and dramatic demise, her record company had discontinued her recordings, unwilling to be stained by association by the murderess' fall from grace. Only those already issued and still around in shops or collectors' holdings were still available. As for her signed records, they were becoming more than a rarity, Rosalind Calloway never being one for endless signing sessions after her recitals.
The young WPC was halfway making her decision when another element added up: stuck into a nearby case, the remain of a small board bearing a 'Kilorran' marking served as a price tag for the records stashed in it. She fingered it pensively before letting it drop back into the case.
'Looking for anything in particular, Officer?' a harsh male voice asked suddenly from behind, making her jump a little.
'No, just looking, thank you,' she replied smilingly to the West Indian seller who walked past her, carrying another crate of records.
On her left, a man exhaled with something like relief. She turned her head and noticed a middle-aged man focusing with a feverish gaze, not at her, but on the signed Rosalind Calloway record lying flat on the case.
Instinctively, she put a protective hand on it. 'Sorry, sir, it's not available. I've already set it aside.'
The faint sigh of disappointment of the avid collector wasn't feigned. Not taking no for an answer, he tried to put her off by trying to convince her that she'd rather buy another mint copy without any inscription, but she politely stood her ground. Determinedly, she made a show of verifying the records before selecting what seemed to her the rarest Rosalind Calloway LPs from Morse's former collection and leaving enough evidence in the seller's crates.
Fortunately, she had enough with her to purchase the records, as the seller had obviously no knowledge of classical music.
How Morse would react at having to pay for his records twice, she couldn't guess, but she knew he would refund her back to the last penny. But she could fairly presume what he's say, if told that his most treasured LP had been snatched up under her eyes by another collector…
As Trewlove strolled away, her acquisitions stashed under her arm, she casually turned her head and made a quick mental note of the number plate of the blue van. 'LLY 994 D.' She would remember that one easily.
As the sun slanted its feeble rays by the river, the shimmers of the late afternoon light were briefly broken up by the oars of the passing boat. The young men enthusiastically rowing in time paid no heed to the solitary seated figure in shirt sleeves hunched on the embankment.
His morose eyes focused on the troubled water nearest the bank, George Fancy didn't pay attention to them either, and only raised his eyes when Shirley Trewlove's faintly ironical voice reached his ears. 'Just so you know, I won't be diving in after you.'
He didn't have any energy left for banter, so he merely said despondently, 'Don't tempt me.'
He glanced up briefly at her, his brown eyes filled with a blend of despair and weariness, then resumed his obstinate gaze at the Isis. The river silently passed by, offering no comfort and no clues; merely another metaphor of Heraclitus' advice—if Fancy had even heard him mentioned.
All attempts at levity suddenly left the WPC. 'As bad as that?'
The glance she shot him was mischievous, and the supple ease with which she turned brought an appreciative glimmer in Fancy's eyes, despite his low spirits. Then the consciousness of the dead end he had reached came back to his mind with a vengeance.
A mirthless smile stretched his mouth, and he spat, 'Try sitting in a motor for half a day with two sarky Charlies who don't want you there and aren't too polite to let you know it.'
He added, his tone dripping faint astonishment, 'They treat me like I'm bloody invisible.'
Trewlove felt like laughing. In all his tender years, the young DC must have found few indifferent looks. 'Imagine,' she commented, betraying her mounting irony.
Fancy didn't quite get it. 'I guess you get that a bit being in uniform?'
This time, her sarcasm showed through the quick glance she flashed at him. 'Uniform, of course,' she falsely agreed. 'I wondered what it was,' she added, her tone saying clearly what a twit she thought him.
Fancy looked up at her. Primly standing beside him, not a hair out of place, her eyes shining with an icy sheen, she sparkled with an armoured self-possession which made him wince despite himself.
Dropping this useless line of conversation, Trewlove sat down next to Fancy and got to the point.
'You might want to take a look at Lloyd Collins,' she tersely suggested. 'West Indian, Jamaican possibly.'
She articulated her report unemotionally, as if she were doing it before a DI, without any hint of subservience or friendship; as if in a regular chain of command. However, the situation was well night different, and such was her professionalism that it took a few seconds for Fancy to process that her doing so was highly unusual.
The next information came to Fancy's ears with the same clear, unemotional tone. 'He's got a record stall in Brennan Street Market. Running an MOT failure of a van registered to 43B Hartford Road.'
'And?' he said a little too brusquely.
Not really connecting the dots, Trewlove thought, her face still impassive.
She went on. 'You asked me to be on the lookout for Kilorran whiskey.'
Faint puzzlement spread out over Fancy's face.
As concisely, Trewlove finished her recounting. 'Collins is using a bit of cardboard from a case of the same on his stall. His prices are written on the back.'
She smiled wryly. 'Too expensive, considering where they came from. Too cheap for what it's worth.'
Fancy's eyes widened in sudden understanding.
They were brown with little specks of gold when astonishment enlarged them, Trewlove noticed, and this 'little boy lost' look didn't hurt his attractiveness one bit. For once, she didn't castigate him for trying to ensnare her, as, focusing on her demonstration, the thought went unheeded through her brain.
A tentative smile blossomed on his face. 'Well…I can't put that to Robbery!'
She looked more squarely at him. 'Collins is also not above dealing in stolen goods.' She smoothly stretched her legs before her, feeling the soles scrape against the pavement, and slyly noted Fancy's interest. 'There are some LPs on his stall from Morse's flat. He was burgled last autumn.'
Morse's face as he stood disconsolately stooped in his devastated flat came back to haunt her. She added, 'I bought several back for him. A customer was a little too interested in those.'
'Ah!' Fancy looked at her suspiciously. 'You compromised evidence for Morse?'
As the outburst issued from his lips, he suddenly turned his head back towards the Isis, focusing instead on the rowing boat gamely going upstream rather than on her reaction.
Trewlowe's supposed error seemed to upset him some, considering his not quite serene professional relationship with his senior officer. Well, the olive branch she was about to offer would probably take care of that…
Was there also a hint of jealousy? No doubt any suspected…consorting with officers would earn Fancy's disapproval… She swallowed a tiny smile. In Fancy's book, flirting with a DC might be her only acceptable move. Himself, specifically.
She hastened to reassure him. 'No. There are enough left at Collins' stall,' she said quietly.
Seeing Fancy's renewed puzzlement, Trewlove explained. 'Markings on the records inner cover. It will make identification easier.'
Suddenly, a smile that finally reached his eyes burst through. 'A collar like that, you can make a name for yourself.' His smile widened, taking a teasing turn. 'So why tell me?'
She couldn't help answering him with a smile of her own, but mischief and a hint of something else were the main ingredients.
'Because I'm all heart!' she finally dropped, throwing her head back and slanting it towards the sun. 'You're the detective. I'm just a uniform, remember?'
She nimbly got up, and passing by him, threw him a glance that defied him to follow her.
When she disappeared from his line of view, Fancy's shoulders slumped once more. But this time, it was with the beginning of a plan. He bent eagerly forward, focusing on the river with renewed energy, his mind picking and discarding several possibilities.
Couldn't he contact the fella, saying that he had to keep the bar stocked—for a—a party, at one of the Colleges? He could look the part.
The more he played the scene in his mind, the more brilliant it seemed to him.
As soon as the reverberation of the front door slamming behind him quietened, Morse recognised the far off comments of the turf commentators blaring on the box for what they were.
Turf. Dear God. How he hated turf!
It brought vividly to mind Cyril's endless betting, his endless losses of tin he couldn't afford to do without, Gwen's endless recriminations, the myriad ways she impressed her displeasure on the youth he had been and the debts it took him months to pay back. Whoever said teenage years were among the best of one's life obviously didn't have to spend them at the Morses'.
The view that greeted him when he reached the doorway to the kitchen was enough to make him lose whatever appetite he felt. Morse froze, utterly nonplussed, gaunt frame quivering with displeasure.
Seated before the kitchen table and slumped in front of Strange, Fancy was munching energetically on his dinner, totally engrossed on the galloping horses shown on the telly set, his forgotten fork half-raised towards his mouth. Strange was shovelling food faster than his guest, peeping at the riders between mouthfuls, his brow creasing as they neared the finishing point.
When he realised that Morse was standing near the door, Strange announced, 'I stopped by the Chinese,' as if the smells weren't enough to broadcast the source of their culinary delights.
'So I see,' replied Morse, his nose scrunching with faint disgust.
To add insult to injury, at that very minute, Fancy darted a glance above his shoulder, looking at his Governor as if complimenting him for a smashing deduction. Morse's irritation jumped sky-high.
'Plenty if you want a bowlful,' offered Strange. 'Sweet and sour pork. Chicken chop suey. Beef with black beans. Spring rolls. Egg fried rice.'
At each dish offering, Morse's queasiness rose higher. He gestured vaguely with the file he twisted in his hands. 'I'll be fine with a drink, thanks.'
Determinedly not responding to Strange's faintly reproaching look, Morse focused on the countertop, and, to his surprise, didn't find his expected treat. His brow creased, a sure sign that his irritation was rising up at a gallop.
'I had a bottle of Radford's,' he pointed out.
Chewing with determination, Strange directed, 'In the fridge.'
'In the fridge?' yelped Morse. The left corner of his mouth crinkled resolutely down. 'It's bitter, not lager.'
Safely hidden from his view, Fancy risked a tiny smile, certain that Strange wouldn't betray him. The sergeant raised his eyes to the sky, betraying an unusual annoyance, while Morse opened the fridge door. With brisk, economical gestures, he found his bottle of beer, then a bottle opener and a glass.
The too cold alcohol slid into his throat. Unpleasantly fresh, but not as icy as he feared. Strange must have filed it away when he came back tonight, then… A small mercy, the first in a wasted day.
His mind somewhat relieved, Morse answered Strange's queries about his case less gruffly than the latter expected. Feeling more agreeable by the minute as his beer went down, he even repaid his housemate's courtesy with questions about the hijack case.
To his openly-expressed surprise, it was Fancy who replied that he had made some progress at last.
'There might be a connection to a fella on the market. Lloyd Collins. Jamaican.' The younger man shook his head deprecatingly. 'But it's early days. I don't want to jump the gun.'
In his voice, a gleeful note sparked Morse's fleeting interest. Fancy directed an intent look at him, but it was gone so fast that Morse thought he had imagined it.
Fancy went back to his rice; Morse took another swallow of his beer, thinking that Fancy wouldn't jump the gun, if he knew what was good for him.
Still, he'd have to keep an eye on him.
Another swig didn't make him swallow the metaphorical pill.
At least, he had Miss Thursday's flat warming to look forwards to.
Trewlove slipped the five Rosalind Calloway LPs under two stacks of files on Morse's desk, next to his typewriter, taking care not to place them in plain view where they would draw unwelcome attention. She had waited for a moment where the room was empty to do this, so a sudden footstep ringing in her ears made her peek over her shoulder with a deer-in-headlight startled look.
Entering the office at this very minute, Strange looked up from the file he was perusing, frowned at her furtive movement, and saw the new addition to his colleague's tidy corner.
'What's this, Shirl?'
She exhaled in relief when she realised who the newcomer was. 'Morse's LPs. I found some in Brennan Street Market yesterday. Plenty of them left where they came from.'
'Morse's?'
She nodded. 'No chance of error,' she said, retrieving the signed LP then proffering it under his nose.
Strange humphed. 'Sure is. Shirl, I hope you know what you're doing.'
She took care of putting the record protectively back between two others, before answering, Oh, I am. There were at least fifteen of his LPs in Lloyd Collins' stall. Enough to pin "receiving" on him again.'
'Good job, Shirl.' Strange sat down at his desk. 'Well, may I have the results on the vehicle tracks from the Waddington Junction hijack?'
She nodded, and came back some minutes later, offering a file. 'There you are.' She drew back a little, and added searchingly, resting her hands uncertainly on Strange's desk, 'Said you were to be on the lookout for a van with one odd tyre on the rear offside.'
'Cheers, Shirl,' replied Strange, already browsing through the photographs.
Trewlove turned around, preparing to exit the room. She had paved the way enough for Fancy. If he played his cards right, he might even impress Morse.
However, she had lingered too much in the office. DI Box was now standing in the entrance—obstructing it, rather. Hands in pocket, he leaned on the door in a parody of ease, bristling with tension. It echoed in his voice, as he snapped in her direction, 'Hey! There you are.'
'Sir?' Trewlove said respectfully, all her senses on the alert.
Her outward docility wasn't enough to deflect Box's overt rage. He advanced on her leisurely, his steps rendered more ominous by the sudden appearance of his shadow, DS Dawson, at his back. Strange raised his eyes from the file, his massive frame bracing against he knew not yet what.
'Don't bloody "sir" me,' Box warned. 'I want a word with you, girlie.'
'What's this?' In the guise of Strange's, the voice of reason tried valiantly to butt in. It was ruthlessly rebuffed by Box with a sneering 'As you were, tubby. This is the one I want.'
Box took two more steps into the room and Trewlove was hard pressed not to recoil before him. She raised her chin a tad higher.
'Who do you think you are? Some sort of detective?' he said, as Strange slowly got up, his bafflement turning into an intent look. 'Throwing out your little theories.'
However, as Box advanced relentlessly on her, Trewlove had no choice than to back down physically before his barrage of insults. 'I'll tell you what you are.' A pause. 'A woodentop. A plonk.' Another pause, dripping with contempt. 'A person of limited or no knowledge.'
Swallowing hard, head still raised high, Trewlove fought back, 'I know enough not to park on double yellows.'
Her spunk didn't please Box one bit. 'Keep your tits out of my operation,' he sneered. 'Got it?'
From the corner of her eyes, far off, Trewlove saw Fancy coming behind the Robbery men. He strolled as leisurely as Box did, hands folded in his pockets, but the DC's smooth gait was laced with enough stiffness to send strident alarm bells ringing in her head. For God's sake, someone keep the White Knight up on his steed! she thought. If he joins the row…
Resolutely, Trewlove tightened her lips and swallowed her instinctive retort, as it would push Fancy into reckless action.
Box mistook the stretching of her mouth. 'There. You can run along now and have a little cry.'
His careless, scorning turn of the head finally urged her to reply with a little toss of her head. 'I'm not the crying sort.'
'Oh, I know your sort,' Box sniggered, doing a slow once-over of Trewlove's body, his eyes lingering on her feminine assets, as his acolyte chortled. 'Good for two things. One of 'em typing.'
The only answer opened to the WPC was very tempting and she seized it with alacrity, filling it also with double entendre, 'I believe you're unfit for duty through drink, sir,' before she mock commiserated with a 'Go home and sleep it off' even more damning.
'You mouthy little—' Box began.
But he never specified his intended invective or even completed his gesture, as several things happened at once.
Box raised his right fist, preparing to slam it frontward, but before it landed on his intended target, Fancy threw himself at him and grabbed that wrist, twisting Box's arm back against his back; while Strange—who had purposely sneaked near the WPC—whisked the thunderstruck young woman away, out of range of the now twice infuriated Box.
Morse, who had entered the office through the other side just in time to hear Trewlove's retort, immediately leaped into misguided action. Taking advantage of the opening created by Strange, he instinctively grappled Box, who had just managed to escape Fancy's hold.
Without hesitation, Box cannoned into Morse, latching onto his shoulders. With irresistible momentum, he spun Morse around, his greater weight and ruthlessness distinct advantages against his hapless assailant.
In the blink of an eye, Morse was slammed violently onto the corner of his own desk, his only advantage—surprise—dissolving as he made sure that Trewlove was safely out of the arena. His last minute chivalrous glimpse was his downfall, as Box pinned him down effortlessly as if he had been a child. The blow brought a wave of pain in the small of Morse's back, and he couldn't help crying out loud.
So seeing, Box pressed harder, and Morse felt the wedge of the desk imprint itself deeper into his skin. The carriage of his typewriter brushed his shoulder blades and he pushed back harder against Box's grip, feeling it giving way a little. Morse squirmed with more energy, trying to dislodge Box, but to no avail. Under the shoves to the desk, the typewriter was pushed sideways and fell to the floor with a loud clatter, propelling some of Morse's files and miscellaneous office supplies onto the same journey, as he vainly tried to push away Box's hands from his shoulders, his hands locked onto the man's arms.
'Oh, no!' Trewlove exclaimed.
She slipped out of Strange's protective hands, and sprang towards the desk. But instead of coming to Morse's aid as Strange half expected her to do, she pulled the half-hidden LPs from under the imperilled files, overturned pencils holder, memo pads, and paper clips, and placed them safely away on a file cabinet.
His mouth hanging comically half-open and befuddlement written all over his face, Fancy stayed put, further held in check by Dawson's menacing glare.
So the hands which tore out Box's weight from Morse were not his, but Thursday's. Pulling him off his bemused Sergeant, he slammed Box against the nearest wall, growling, 'Try that again.'
What he would have done after that preliminary word of advice was left to the onlookers' imagination, as Bright's voice held them all in thrall with a clear cut, precise query, 'What's the meaning of this?'
Swift as lightning, Thursday released Box, the glint in his eyes an expressive answer to the question of his superior.
Freed from these unrelenting hands, Box straightened his collar, his eyes weighing Thursday with a reluctant, grudging respect. He took his time, hastily flattening the wrinkles in his shirt, then replied, 'Just giving the WPC a few words of advice, sir.'
The 'sir' was dropped carelessly, as if only second thoughts had judged it necessary.
Still rubbing the small of his back, Morse snorted audibly, and Box's scowl came to rest on him with all its previous derision. His former opponent met it glare for glare, as Dawson carefully placed himself, as unobtrusively as he could, behind his chosen leader.
Thinking you're John Wayne? Morse sneered internally, his glance betraying his open contempt.
As he was about to proffer an additional explanation, Strange beat him to it, spitting, 'It was a bit more than that.'
Morse shook his head in violent denial, but his loosened collar enlightened him of his less than pristine state. Automatically, his hands went to his tie and adjusted it, as Box expressed obviously false excuses. He didn't even try to make them ring true, as the amused glint in his eyes and his thinly disguised snicker showed.
Nor were the others decided to accept them. Trewlove looked elsewhere but at him. Strange took a step forward with the nearest thing close to open rage that Morse had ever seen him display. As for the latter, he openly disdained the explanation, focusing on Thursday's anger, and slowly getting closer to his elder, as if to ward him off the mistake he had made.
The DCI pulsated with anger, the hands clenching into fists by his side held in check with an obvious reluctance. Another minute and he would resume what Bright's intervention had interrupted.
Again, Bright's dry tones prevented another escalation of violence. 'A reprimand is one thing. Humiliating junior ranks in front of senior officers is quite another.'
Box's face expressed plainly for all to see what he thought of such lenient maxims. With a curt gesture, Bright invited Box to precede him into his office.
Their footsteps receded into the silence then Bright's office door closed with a loud bang.
Left to their own devices, the players of the little drama slumped like puppets whose puppeteers had cut their strings.
Cautiously, Fancy and Dawson, in agreement for once, ambled out, leaving the battlefield to the main players. After a last visual check on Morse, Thursday went back to his office, still shivering with rage.
'Alright, Shirl?' asked Strange.
'Yes—yes. Thanks to you.' With a sweeping glance, she included Morse in her gratitude.
He nodded curtly, acknowledging her thanks, and got closer to his desk to survey the damage. Wordlessly, Morse bent and began to gather scattered files, pencil sharpener, pencils and pens, carelessly throwing into the bin those who had not survived the fall, and stacking papers back on the desk.
Trewlove checked Morse's typewriter lying wrecked on the floor, straightening a few type bars which had been torn when it fell. 'It'll do,' she said, placing it back on the desk, 'but you'll have to type it again,' she added, showing Morse the half-torn sheet hanging from the carriage.
'Mmm' was his only reply. He froze suddenly, his eyes narrowing in surprise, and went to the file cabinet nearest to his desk, frowning. 'What's this?'
The moment of truth, thought Trewlove. 'You can see for yourself,' was all that she said.
'Yes. But—how?' Morse pressed on disbelievingly, holding his prized signed Calloway LP with reverent hands. He raised it before him, revelling in the sight of it for a second before placing it carefully on his desk and absently tracing the soprano's face with his forefinger.
'Chance, that's all. I happened to spot it,' Trewlove explained.
'And…'
'Shirl bought those back for you,' Strange said.
Morse's head turned sharply. 'Where?' he said savagely. 'Where did you find them?'
He sounded as if he would take off at any minute and confront the fella who had torn them from him in the first place. A very bad idea, thought Strange, who was observing them both. Stupid, even, when one remembered the results of his last brawl.
Ungrateful bloke, Morse, was his additional thought. No thank you, no nothing.
'One could spend 25 years building up a collection,' lamented Morse. 'Some of these LPs, they're irreplaceable, even if they don't have any real monetary value. Even more so with 78rpms.'
'I know,' Trewlove said. 'My father's a record collector, too. But Jazz's more his cup of tea.' An affirmation which wasn't entirely a lie when she reflected on it.
'Ah.' Morse raised his eyes for a second then went back to checking his records lovingly. He heaved a deep breath. 'They're alright.'
A tiny smile graced his face before being replaced by some belated embarrassment. He looked squarely at Trewlove, his eyes strikingly blue against the paleness of his skin and for once, without aloofness. 'Thank you, I appreciate it.'
'You're welcome' she replied, and to dispel the mood, told him how much he owed her for her repurchase.
Such was his joy to recover some of his lost treasures that he didn't even flinch. Or insist to know where they came from. For the time being.