Chapter Text
The first thing Thursday notices when he gets into the office is Morse’s empty coat peg. It’s a tiny detail in the face of Morse’s empty desk, but there are plenty of tasks that might take the DC elsewhere in the building. No coat on a cold spring morning means no Morse, and Thursday’s never yet beaten his on-again off-again bagman to the office.
Thursday glances at Strange, seated behind his own desk with a file open in his hands but his eyes on Thursday, and nods towards the unoccupied desk: “Morse ill, then?”
Strange shakes his head. “Don’t know, sir. He hasn’t rung.”
Thursday looks to the empty coat peg again, then the clock overhead. 8:25. “Give him another fifteen minutes, then ring around. Who knows, maybe he’s having a lie-in.”
Behind him, Jakes snorts quietly. Thursday ignores it, but the facts behind Jakes’ scepticism are real enough. Morse opens and closes this office most days, and he’s not one for self-indulgence.
Raising alarm because a man isn’t early to work is ludicrous, though, and Thursday forces himself to believe as much as he starts his own day’s work. Checking through the overtime chitty, Thursday tells himself there are a hundred perfectly reasonable explanations for Morse being later than usual – a hundred things that could bring him to walk through the CID door any minute now, rather than fifteen minutes ago as usual.
But at 8:45, Strange is standing firmly planted in his doorway, shaking his head. “No answer, sir.”
“He didn’t say anything to you last night?” It’s a wasted question. If he had, Strange would have reported it immediately; the new sergeant doesn’t have Morse’s sparking brilliance, but he has his own steady glow of perception and deduction.
As expected, Strange shakes his head again. “Nothing, sir. We didn’t go out last night – laundry night for him. He seemed the same as always when I left.”
Thursday nods; it agrees with his own recollection. In his mind’s eye Morse wishes him a good night, his face all sharp curves and shadows in the strong light cast by his desk lamp, just as he’s done a hundred times before. “We’ll give him ‘til nine to make fools of us,” he says, with a forced smile. Strange doesn’t return it; he uproots himself silently and drifts out of sight.
At nine o’clock, Morse’s coat peg is still empty. Thursday glances at it as he tells Jakes to fetch the car, before ducking back into his office to pocket the spare set of keys to Morse’s flat. They’re still in the same unmarked, dusty box they’ve been in since Morse gave them to him after the business with Vic Kasper and Mrs. Coke-Norris. “In case I fall in the shower,” he said with a wry smile when he handed them over, but Thursday heard “In case of Mickey Carter,” and didn’t smile back.
Jakes says nothing on the short drive to Morse’s building: an unusual show of self-restraint, considering Jakes usually has none where Morse is concerned. He confines his comment to an upturned lip at the sight of the sloped and cracking stone slabs leading up to the building door. The first key on the ring gains them access to a narrow stairway; at the top of it Thursday knocks on the door on the left. No answer.
The second key grants them entrance to Morse’s flat, the old lock needing some cajoling before reluctantly turning under Thursday’s hand. The doorway opens right into the side of a bookcase; Thursday stares at it for an instant before throwing the door open wider and stepping around it. Awkward at first sight, but doubtless upon examination well-reasoned and practical – like man, like home.
Jakes follows and closes the door as Thursday drifts into the open sitting room while examining the walls – kitchen to the left, bedroom and bath to the right. The bookcase, indeed placed against the only wall space big enough for it, is crammed tight with books, records and a turntable. On the other wall a heavy cabinet serves as closet stands close beside a fireplace, Morse’s rain coat hanging from its door.
“Doesn’t go in for high living, does he?” comments Jakes, critical eye skating over the card table and single crooked chair, then up to the kitchen implements stored in cheap bowls on top of a cabinet.
Thursday ignores him and strides into the bedroom; Morse’s single bed is unmade, the sheets and pillow rumpled – it’s been slept in. A wardrobe stands at its foot, heavy and ancient with a crooked floor. The inside is divided into an open top and drawers on the bottom. On the top are Morse’s two work suits, hung haphazardly on their hangers, a handful of wrinkled shirts and an ancient blazer. The top of the drawers below is partly open, rolls of socks peeking out through the crack.
In the other room, Thursday hears Jakes open the bathroom door and make a noise of disgust, doubtless unimpressed by either Morse’s toiletries or his hygiene. He sighs and turns his back to the wardrobe, glancing again around the gloomy bedroom. No pictures or photos on the faded walls, only books for company. A pile of them are stacked beside Morse’s bed, towering over his wristwatch.
Thursday stops, frowning. The morning light, filtering in through threadbare curtains, is playing oddly off the watch’s face. He crosses the creaking floor with slow steps, chest tightening. The glass of the watch is broken, smashed to pieces with slivers lying on the table beside it, while the now-naked hands have stopped at 6:00. Underneath the ruined watch sits a folded piece of yellowing paper. Thursday reaches out slowly and slips it free, tipping shards of glass onto the table before unfolding it.
It’s a scrap of musical composition paper, crossed with mostly-unfilled musical staffs. Written in thick, red ink over the centre line of two of the staffs are a series of dots and dashes:
••--- ••••- •••• --- ••- •-• •••
••- -• -••• • •-•• -•• ••
Thursday’s eyes flash to the wardrobe – still holding Morse’s clothes – and to the coat hanging in the living room.
“Jakes!” He storms out into the main room, scanning the table, walls, and shelves before settling on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. On it sit Morse’s wallet and keys.
He didn’t come in because he never left his flat. Not by his own choice.
Thursday turns at the sound of footsteps and sees Jakes pull up at the look on his face, the question dying on his lips as he follows Thursday’s gesture and sees the mantle.
“Where’s his phone?” demands Thursday.
“In the kitchen.” Jakes tears his eyes away from Morse’s effects and points.
Thursday strides in and jerks the receiver free from its cradle, dials through straight to Strange’s desk and hears the sergeant answer on the second ring. “Strange? Ring through to Broadmoor. Make them find Mason Gull, find and verify his identity. Do it now.” He slams it down again before Strange can question him.
Turning to see Jakes staring at him, Thursday unfolds the note and holds it up. The paper is shivering in his grip, and he realises that it’s because his hand is shaking.
“Bloody hell,” whispers Jakes.
END PROLOGUE.