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I
It’s richly October: the trees rusted oranges and browns; the streets and roof slates shining with drizzle; cars sluicing through cool puddles and drifts of fluttering dead leaves. The cold creeps in through the thin window panes and the radiators wouldn’t be able to beat it back even if he had the money to keep them running; his bed is a mess of blankets and sheets and thick duvet behind him as he bends down to slick back his hair. A particularly strong wind rushes past at that moment, seeping through the cracks and through his shirt.
Morse wanders in, he always unlocks his door first thing in the morning now, it’s like leaving the backdoor open for your cat. “Why’s it so fucking cold in here?” He glares mutinously at the windows.
“The wind’s coming this way,” says Peter, turning away from Morse to check the sides of his head. “Genius.” It annoys him how half-hearted most of his insults are now. “Can you go check on my toast, I can feel it burning.”
He drifts out again calling over his shoulder, “Have you got any ties I can borrow?”
He rolls his eyes, grabbing his suit jacket and an extra tie out of his wardrobe. “How the hell do you run out of ties?”
Morse turns around from where he’s grabbing the jam out of Peter’s cupboard. “Yesterday’s was my last one and I was going to do a wash last night but there was that paperwork…” He waves the plate at him before dropping it and the jam on the table. “Bit burnt, sorry. And then my pen exploded so now – Have you got any extra pens?”
“It probably burst because of the pressure built up by you clicking it all day long.” He chucks Morse the tie. “Don’t let that get stolen by anyone planning to plant it at a crime scene and frame you for murder.” He sits down to butter and jam his toast (he hands one of the slices to Morse while he’s preoccupied with the tie – Morse puts it in his mouth for safekeeping – before he can realise what he’s accepting) and takes a large bite. “Do you know how to tie one of those?”
Morse says something muffled by the toast in his mouth, scowling down at it.
Peter sighs, dropping his almost finished toast on the plate and wiping his fingers on the kitchen towel. “Jesus, you’re so fucking annoying.” He does Morse’s tie for him the way he used to do back at one of the many orphanages and homes for wayward boys he had attended some time after Blenheim Vale for a boy who couldn’t tie a tie to save his life. “Is it so hard?”
Removing the toast from his mouth now his hands are free, Morse glares at him. “It’s silk and it’s frustrating. Why can’t you have normal ties?” He turns the force of his glare on the toast. “This is supposed to be your breakfast.”
“Eat up.” He slides the knot of the tie up to Morse’s throat and flattens his collar. “There, sort of presentable.” He finishes the rest of his toast and coffee and cigarette breakfast while Morse pokes around in his drawers for a pen. “You aren’t going to find any in there with the clicky bit on top,” he warns, grabbing his coat. “Come on, there’ll be some at the station, you’re going to be late to pick up the old man.”
Morse looks like a fucking idiot in his cheap almost translucent shirt and faded beige car coat with Peter’s maroon silk tie around his neck walking backwards in front of him asking if he has jam around his mouth, it makes Peter’s fucking day.
*
Carcester House is an imposing sandstone monolith at the centre of its very own Carcester Park with a wide gravel drive and wide lawns stretching out to a red blaze of oak trees round the edge of the land, obscuring the road and the high stone wall around the property. The cold wind striking off Lake Silence, only a few more miles down the road, forces its way even through the palisade defence of the trees. Peter hates houses like this, they make him want to burn them to the ground. He smokes, watching the shining black Jag winding down the road.
“Good morning sir,” he says, as Thursday swings out of the passenger seat, staring up at the building.
“Jakes. What’ve we got?”
He starts leading them up the steps towards the front door. “Bloke in his early twenties, DeBryn says. He’s just arrived and he’s doing the preliminary now. Apparently a load of students from Jesus live here, five of them including this one whose popped it. One of their mates, Jasper Coates, is the son of some lesser earl, pays for the whole lot of them. It’s Jasper, Connor Avery, Dominic Hearnes, Marcus Barbrook, and our vic Eric Forrest. They were all here tonight as well as Jasper’s girlfriend Poppy Westfield and Dominic’s sister Frances who’s up for a shopping trip. They found the body this morning before they set off for class at eight and rang the police immediately. He’s in there,” he says, gesturing to the library door. God, they have a fucking library, he wonders how jealous Morse is.
The library is beautiful, with long windows facing out onto a bright garden and gold embossed book titles ringing the room, there’s no wall space only shelves from floor to ceiling with sliding ladders. There’s a thick Persian carpet on the dark hardwood floor and a few study desks with wide lamps like they have at the colleges. Eric Forrest lies face down in the middle of the room, half under one of the desks like he was trying to escape. His white blond hair is matted with blood on the left temple and he’s been stabbed multiple times to the back, though no knife is to be found.
“Jesus College, that’s pretty far from here,” says Morse, hanging back by the doorway as they watch DeBryn.
“As I understand they stay at the college during the week and come back here over the weekend. Imagine that, two homes.”
Morse smiles at him slightly. “We basically do have two homes, I’m living out of your cupboards.”
“You’re just a thief.” He tugs Morse’s tie slightly as he squeezes past, grinning, to stand by Thursday and look down at the body. Morse starts his patrol around the edge of the room, staring at everything but the body. “Oh, should’ve mentioned, they’re all still upstairs in the drawing room, they’ve decided not to go into college today.”
Thursday nods, eyes fixed on Forrest, not really listening . “So young.”
DeBryn snaps off his gloves and gets stiffly to his feet. “Well, stabbed multiple times to the back, not sure which was fatal, and knocked out with a large, blunt object, neither of which are at the scene,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’ll be able to tell you more after a full postmortem, shall we say three o’clock?”
Peter follows DeBryn out into the hall past the blokes with the body bag and pulls one of the PCs standing by the door aside. “Adams, is it? Call back to the station, we’ll be wanting to search the house and the grounds for two weapons at least, fingertip search, maybe have some divers on standby, I think there’s some kind of pond at the edge of the lawn.”
“Yes sarge,” says Adams, stepping out of the door and pulling his radio to his mouth.
From behind him Thursday says, “Good. We’ll need to find that as soon as possible.”
“Know if anything was stolen?” asks Morse.
“They said they couldn’t be sure, said they’d have a think about it.”
“Access?”
“Back door was open, crime scene boys are trying to work out if it was forced.” He waves up the stairs. “Talk to them now or leave them to stew for a bit longer?”
“Now,” says Thursday decisively, going up the dark wooden stairs ahead of them. “How many did you say?”
“Six: Jasper Coates and Poppy Westfield, Connor Avery, Dominic and Frances Hearnes, and Marcus Barbrook. Do them together or separate interviews?”
They reach the landing where a PC is standing outside the closed drawing room door. Thursday says, “We’ll do the first bit as a group, get a feel for the dynamics. After that we can pick out one of these rooms to do solitary interviews.” With that he’s striding towards the door and knocking on the door before pushing it right open. “Detective Inspector Thursday and this is Detective Sergeant Jakes and Detective Constable Morse from Cowley, Oxford City Police. We’re very sorry for your loss but we’ve got some standard proced ure questions to ask you.”
“Where are they taking him?” asks Poppy Westfield from the sofa in a shaky voice. “I saw them putting him in a – a van.”
“Sorry miss, he’s being taken to one of our hospitals to be looked at by one of our doctors to help us with our enquiries,” says Thursday.
Jasper Coates looks up, his smooth dark hair twisting with artful mourning out of its careful styling. “Will we have to find somewhere else to stay?”
“You just won’t be allowed in the library. We’ll leave a PC outside the door and we’ll be in and out but otherwise you’re free to stay here,” he says, sitting down in the free armchair.
He and Morse drift around the room, Morse to the windows as per usual and Peter leaning against the wall beside the fireplace. He regards the group: Poppy with her perfect icy blonde hair; Jasper with his dark widow’s peak, arm around Poppy’s shoulder; Connor with his rugby shoulders and smooth boyish face sunk into one of the armchairs closest to Peter; Marcus Barbrook with his stony, thin, and sallow face silhouetted against the window of light autumn clouds, spiky russet hair ruffled; Dominic and Frances with matching wet eyes and freckles sitting very close beside each other on the other sofa. Something about them seems comic book, clearly defined by simple characteristics and facial features. He can see the exact spot where Eric Forrest should be, like this is how they sit every day after dinner (although it can’t be often that Frances and Poppy join the party), sitting on the sofa beside Poppy’s tucked up legs, both of their light hair ivory to Jasper’s ebony.
Morse is watching them all too, something about his gaze is unfocussed, like he’s remembering a different scene with different people. Peter wonders if he ever went to Anthony Donn’s or the Belborough’ s like this. He can almost imagine Kay Belborough as Poppy and Bruce as the brooding Jasper.
“Last night,” says Thursday, “when was the last time any of you saw Eric?”
Jasper whistles between his teeth. “We were all reading in the sitting room for about an hour after dinner. Frances was the first to go up, then Dominic –”
“– our mother always set early bedtimes,” Frances cuts in, smiling a little shakily. She seems sort of out of place, even pressed up nervously next to her brother, not as in tune with the group. She’s like the string of an instrument that hasn’t been tuned.
“– and then Connor. I suppose after that it was Eric, I don’t remember.”
Poppy raises her head from where she was burrowed into Jasper’s shoulder, she has mascara smeared on her cheeks. “It was. I remember when we went up after him I could hear music coming from his room and I was hoping he’d stop it soon.”
“Who went up last?” asks Morse, tweaking the window sash to stare outside, like he doesn’t much care about the answer.
“Me,” says Marcus Barbrook. “I got a glass of water, checked the doors and went upstairs. I don’t remember any music but I didn’t hear anyone come back downstairs while I was down there so I guess Eric was still up there.”
“Why might he have come downstairs later?”
Shrugs from around the room. “Thirsty, hungry?” guesses Connor, his voice is slightly strained and hoarse. “He was always one for a midnight snack.” He chokes and stumbles over the past tense like it shreds his vocal chords.
“Did you have a think about anything that might have been stolen?” asks Peter, playing the pleasant but ultimately unpolished city policeman.
“You think a robbery gone wrong?” Poppy does a theatrical gasp that has Peter grinding his teeth. “You don’t think they’ll come back?”
“We’d get the bastard,” Marcus mutters from the dark shadows of his chair.
Jasper smooths her hair down and says, “Dom had a thought.”
Dominic lifts his head, blushing. “There’s some expensive books in the library, we’d need to check but maybe one of those… or maybe Jasper’s pocket watch.”
“I never wear it. Ghastly thing, a ‘family heirloom’ which means I can’t sell it and it sits rotting away in some bottom drawer in the library, I’ve been told it’s valuable though.”
“If you never wore it how would anyone know you had it,” says Morse acerbically from the corner, poking around silently at the side table.
Jasper scowls. “I might have worn it once or twice to big dos, used to wear it along to Bixby’s but…” (Morse stiffens at that.) “I’ve probably told some people at Jesus as well, it’s hardly a state secret.”
“Can you think of any reason anyone would harm Eric?” Peter asks.
“Not a thing,” says Connor stoutly, “he was the best of us. Always a kind word. He was on a scholarship and from some London-hellhole so he got some looks from others but he was never cruel back and some of that lot can be Godawful.” It was unclear whether ‘that lot’ meant the bullies or people on scholarships or people from London but the definite disgust on ‘others’ put Peter’s back up, there was something very close knit about the group, almost cult-like, which wasn’t sitting right with him. Surveying them, he could imagine that without the presence of Frances they could very well have kept the secret of Eric’s murderer. “No, he didn’t have any enemies.”
“I’m sure people always say things like that all the time,” says Frances, “but it really is true. He’s so lovely, is Eric. Always. Even when I’m being a ditz he doesn’t get cross – didn’t…” She starts crying and her brother rubs her shoulder, affectionate but awkward. He finds himself trusting Frances by default, she seems the only one unaffected by the group mentality and her judgement seems sound.
Peter runs through the general, comic strip caricatures he’s got of each of them so far: Poppy the glitzy, glittering prima-donna with her crocodile tears and her plastic facade masking true sadness; Jasper with his iron-fisted control and the father-like awe he inspires in his insipid followers; Marcus with his harsh face and promise to ‘get the bastards’ if they came near the house again with his gaunt little weasel face; Connor with his loyalty and staunch defence of Eric obliterating the truth behind that overgrown puppy demeanour, some darker belief in the group defending its own, not any actual personality trait of his to be loyal but to be indoctrinated; Dominic with his eager to please eyes and blushing cheeks, the uncomfortable patting to his sister’s head, probably a genius in literature or whatever he took at Oxford; and finally Frances with her head in the clouds, bumbling along with this group for a few days while she wanted to go shopping. All of this he marks out clearly in his notebook as alarm bells ring for something he can’t see quite yet.
“We’ll talk to each of you individually now,” says Thursday, standing up, “if there’s a room we could use?”
*
The interviews are quiet, scattered with questions about Eric and bouts of fresh tears over imagined robber thugs sneaking into the house with their balaclavas. The ancestral watch did turn out to be stolen so questions about who might have seen it or known of its exact location (as Morse had noted, no one had gone searching every room for it) were important. An ancient candlestick and knife from the kitchen also turn out to be missing.
Peter’s bad feeling about Poppy, Jasper, and Connor grows and grows. Marcus just appears to be angry that ‘some bastards’ were in his home, Dominic too unfocussed and dreamy to be a murderer. The other three have some odd magnetism, like they’re drawn close together by something unseen: by secrets.
They peruse Eric Forrest’s room before they go: large, with massive windows on two walls, it was a room at the corner of the manor with a view out over the same garden as the library and out across the drive which, Peter notes, would have been perfect for seeing if there was a light on in the library or if someone came down to the house. His bookshelves are packed with the classics but hidden under his bed like dirty secrets are Agatha Christie novels and other such cheap paperback murder mysteries. His sheets are messy and slept in. Clothes for the day he would never live laid out neatly on the chair beside the chest of drawers.
He sits in the back of the Jag and he can feel the truth floating, tantalising, just out of reach in the cool blue skies.
*
Morse stands in front of the board, frowning at the names and images, balancing a cup of hot tea between his fingertips. Peter leans against the desk behind him, sipping his own tea.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, staring at the crime scene Polaroids, the dark smudge on Eric’s smooth white hair.
“I’m thinking that the robbery is odd,” says Morse, walking backwards to sit on the desk beside Peter. “Someone either knew exactly what they were looking for and where or someone wanted to stage a robbery but couldn’t even make it look like anyone had been looking, no drawers torn open or papers on the ground, all the other drawers in the desks firmly shut…”
Peter nods, it had been tearing at him too, he says, “You think someone in the house…?”
“Possible,” he says, chewing on his lip. “But why not make it look like there had been a proper robbery, make it look like someone had been searching for the watch?”
“Didn’t want to wake anyone else up?”
“That’s the other problem: why was Eric awake and why was he in the library? Why was someone else in the library?”
Peter shrugs. “Maybe it was a genuine robbery on Eric’s part. They said he was on a scholarship, maybe he hears Jasper bragging about this watch and decides to steal it, gets caught with it and whoever kills him in anger decides that’s a great idea, make it look like a robbery?”
He contemplates that for a moment. “Possible. Another question: where did the knife come from? The kitchen is a ways from the library.” He pauses, cocking his head on one side and staring up at the board, chin hovering over his steaming mug. Peter watches Morse, the brief calculations and thoughts breezing sharp and fast in his cool blue irises. “Someone came into that room with the intent to murder.”
“Did they? Maybe they knocked him out and then decided to kill him,” says Peter, “the candlestick was in the library.” (God, he feels like he’s playing fucking Cluedo.) “I see what you’re saying though, there’s something premeditated about it. Knocking him out and then going out of the room to grab a knife, if it was on the spur of the moment, an angered frenzy –”
“– they’d have just used the candlestick,” says Morse. “From what Jasper described it as, it was a large, heavy object that could have easily killed Eric on its own. Who knows, DeBryn might tell us this afternoon that he would have died from the blow to the head.” He places his teacup carefully on the desk behind them and fiddles in his pocket for a moment before bringing out a new pen with a clicking top.
“Where’d you get that?”
Morse smirks and says, “They have a load on the front desk.”
He tugs on Morse’s – Peter’s – tie again and snorts. “What did I say? You’re a thieving little toerag.” He watches Morse scribbling in his notebook for a moment, before asking, “Where do you think the weapons are? Knife is easy to hide, that candlestick…” He sighs, looking up at the names of the Carcester House residents. “If it was an inside job that watch is going to be hard to hide too, whoever did it would want to keep something like that, either because of the money or because it’s important to them.”
“And if it’s an outside job it’s going to be hard to sell,” says Morse, still jotting things in his notebook. “They might have a private buyer already and we’ll never see it again.”
“That or we’re going to be trawling pawn shops all weekend.” He stands up with his empty cup. “I’m heading to the information room to see if they’ve heard anything back from the fingertip search.”
Morse nods distractedly and fumbles for his cup of tea without looking.
*
Strange arrives later in the afternoon looking grim about his string of car thefts around the city centre. “What’s all this?” He gestures to the board and takes the proffered sports pages from Morse.
“Murder up near Lake Silence, bunch of kids from Jesus College,” says Peter. “We’re heading out to the postmortem in fifteen.”
His eyes narrow. “Carcester House?”
Morse’s head shoots up from his crossword, though Peter was sure he wasn’t even listening half a second ago. “Yes, why?”
Strange shrugs, sighing at the look on Morse’s face, knowing this is about to make every case about a hundred times more difficult. “They had a car stolen,” he says. “About a fortnight ago, I think. They’ve been pestering me for updates every few days, pissed off for having to take a taxi into town every time they go back to that big house.”
“Where was it stolen from? That big house?” asks Peter.
“Nah, they had it parked near Jesus because they stay down here during the week. Whole bunch of them in this car, definitely not enough space for them all, mind. These five blokes and a girlfriend. Which one of them popped it?”
“Eric Forrest.”
“Shit,” says Strange. “Nice bloke.” (Strange thinks everyone is a ‘nice bloke’.)
“Whose car was it?” Morse has completely forgotten his crossword.
Strange screws his forehead for a moment. “… Jasper Coates, I think.”
Peter writes down the car model and where and when it was stolen in careful slanted capitals while Morse shoots questions at Strange. He smooths his hair back with one hand and gets out a cigarette. Car theft and, two weeks to the day, the death of Eric Forrest. Link , demands the detective part of his brain, the part of his brain that’s been more insistent and changed voice ever since some little prick with big ideas about opera waltzed into Cowley. What does Eric Forrest have to do with a car theft? Immediately, his brain supplies the link he had already found: Eric might have taken the watch, Eric might have taken the car.
“What’s the connection between these car thefts?” he asks, distractedly staring up at the wall.
“Stolen at night, leaves a single red rose,” says Morse, tapping his nails on the edge of the table.
“We need to get to that postmortem, go and grab the old man, will you?” He can’t help but think that invisible letters written in lemon juice and thieves who leave romantic calling cards and the cavalier poor man beating the rich blokes he’s schmoozing off and the devil may care theft of his (basically) landlord’s car while they were all at school together was absolutely the type of thing a man who kept paperback detective novels under his bed would enjoy.
*
DeBryn’s magnified eyes alight on them with their usual pleasant twinkle, holding back any of his sarcasm and waiting for one of them to make a rookie mistake for him to ridicule in a way only Morse will understand. There’s something undeniably mole-like about his appearance, he looks like the bloke out of The Wind in the Willows that one of Peter’s matrons had read to them once, he remembers the bit about Mr Mole doing his spring cleaning, for some reason, and sometimes he likes to imagine that DeBryn does a spring clean of the morgue, it makes him smile like a soppy idiot.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” says Thursday. They’d filled him in on the car thefts on their way up, Peter hadn’t yet told them his theory, preferring to use Morse as a soundboard later over dinner (God that sounds –) so he can tell if he’s just being fucking stupid.
“Inspector,” says DeBryn, with a thin smile. “Down to business. Quite a brutal attack, four major stab wounds and several smaller, partial incisions indicating a frenzied attack. All of these in the back by a large knife I would expect to find in a kitchen – bread knife, simple vegetable knife – and would have left blood spatter on our assailant. He was knocked out by a heavy item matching the description of a candlestick which fractured his skull and caused haemorrhaging, he would have died without medical attention even without the stab wounds. I believe he died of blood loss and severe head trauma.”
“Anything else interesting?” asks Morse.
DeBryn shakes his head. “Until you find the weapons, Morse, there’s not much else I can tell you.”
*
Thursday growls something under his breath and forges out of the garage. He says something like “No peace!” before he disappears up the concrete stairs.
Miss Frazil smiles warmly at Morse. “It’s starting to feel like he doesn’t like me.”
“Don’t take it personally, Miss,” says Peter, shaking a cigarette out, “he’s a bit tetchy at the moment. Anything we can help you with?”
“Sergeant Jakes,” she says demurely. “I heard you’d stopped giving tips to my competitors, much appreciated.”
Morse shoots him a dark look, Peter offers his cigarette by way of apology. He just rolls his eyes and turns back to Miss Frazil. “If you’re after a quote we can’t give one just yet.”
“Carcester House, though,” she goads, with a mysterious raise of her eyebrow.
He stares at her flatly. “What?”
Peter snorts. “What is it? Kidnapping? Unsolved murder? Stolen goods? A century old –”
“Alright.” She taps Morse’s chest with her booklet of documents. “But I want the first scoop.”
“Always, Miss Frazil,” says Morse, eyes fixed on it like a dog with a bone. “As soon as we have anything to tell you.”
She sighs and hands it over. “Sergeant Jakes was right, unsolved murder. Well, I say ‘unsolved’. I’d say it was more a cover up. The Coates family are more than rich enough. Ten years ago, just about, one of the servants turned up dead on the grounds.” One of her sharp eyebrows lifts even further and that delighted little smirk is back. “They suspected one of the sons for it from the off but then, suddenly, the case is dropped. Right in the middle of investigation.”
Peter leans over Morse’s shoulder to read: ‘1957, Harvey Mason, Carcester House… head wound… large, heavy object’ and the newspaper cutting ‘CASE LEFT COLD AT CARCESTER… the body of Harvey Mason found on the 16 th of May… not a month after opening the case… officers at a loss…’
“Wouldn’t say you were wrong about it being a cover-up,” says Peter, turning his head to blow the smoke away from Morse.
“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Sergeant.” She turns to Morse. “I know after Blenheim Vale your superiors won’t be happy about opening a cold case with suspected corruption, but… Do you think it might be linked?”
Morse glances at him quickly at the mention of Blenheim Vale but Peter keeps his face impassive behind the cloud of smoke, he’s gone too long hiding things to get thrown by the casual mention of the place. “Could be,” says Morse. And it really could because it was Eric Forrest – the poor scholarship boy – who had died, the others all sleeping safe and warm upstairs. “Thank you, Miss Frazil.”
“Goodbye Morse, keep out of trouble.”
As the sharp tap of her heels disappear behind them and they take the stairs two at a time, Peter turns to Morse and says, “I need to talk to you. Locker room?”
He pauses in tapping the file against his lips and blinks at him for a moment before following him. “What is it?”
They stand by the frosted window, Peter gives himself a once-over in the mirror. “Alright, I have a theory but I’m not about to have it torn to shreds by you when there’s witnesses around.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he says, unconvincingly. He darts a look at himself in the mirror and pulls a face before turning away and leaning against the wall, looking at Peter’s face.
Peter leans back against the tiled wall in front of Morse, the sides of their shoes pressing together. “I think Eric Forrest was stealing Strange’s cars. I think he was going to steal that watch.”
“Alright, the thought had occurred to me,” says Morse.
“It’s those detective books in his room.”
Morse raises an eyebrow. “What about them?”
“Leaving a rose after he’s stolen a car, seems pretty out of left field for a car thief, doesn’t it? Sounds to me like the type of thing a bloke who reads murder mystery paperbacks would enjoy. And stealing from his rich mates, Connor seemed a bit condescending about it at least, I bet if we ask Frances Hearnes about it she’ll say that was how they treated him. Fuck, I wouldn’t mind making friends with a bunch of rich pricks and getting to live in their big house and then stealing their car off them… After he sees them getting all bitchy about the car – Strange said they were calling all the time for updates, didn’t he? – he gets a bit edgy, he wants to feel that power over them again. Only this time, he gets caught.”
Morse hums, tipping his head back against the wall. “I wouldn’t have torn you apart for that. It’s a good theory, we’ll need some evidence… this case Miss Frazil gave us might help, if this servant was suspected of stealing from the estate…”
“Yeah, well.” He stubs his cigarette on the wall by his leg and chucks it in the bin. “Oh fucking score, did you see that? That was a great shot. Only doing what you would do, Mr Batshit-Theory.”
He smiling at him, head cocked on one side. He looks like a ridiculous spaniel. “I am the better detective, keep following in my footsteps and you’ll go far.”
And maybe once that would’ve made him sour and jealous and cruel, but now it just makes him snort and punch Morse’s shoulder as he stands up and makes to leave the locker room. “Shut the fuck up.”
“D’you want a cuppa?” asks Morse as they go back out into the corridor.
*
“A student… y’think?” Strange accepts one of the cups Peter is carrying and stares at his mountains of paperwork. “Really?”
“Presumably, if it was Eric Forrest.” Morse sits down at his desk, raising a sarcastic brow over the edge of his cup. “Could you go round Jesus’s and see if you can get an alibi for him around any of the car thefts?”
Strange takes a long drink. “I’ll ask around.”
“Don’t talk to Jasper Coates, Poppy Westfield, Dominic Hearnes, Connor Avery, or Marcus Barbrook,” says Morse. “They’re our suspects.”
“I’ll be discreet. Cheers for the lead.” He gulps at his tea. “You getting somewhere on this murder then? Killed for this car theft? Stealing off his own friends?”
“Presumably.”
“Rotten business. I’ll look into that for you.”
“Thanks Strange.”
Peter watches Morse flick out the tail end of his crossword. “What’s next to prove this?”
He muses, tapping his stolen pen on the newspaper. “Find the weapon. See if there’s anything in this unsolved. Talk to Frances Hearnes.”
He pinches the file of newspaper clippings and notes from the edge of Morse’s desk. “If there is something in this, it’s Jasper Coates, isn’t it.”
“I was leaning towards him anyway,” says Morse. “Maybe the girlfriend as his accomplice, but he seems able to convince any of them to help him cover something like that up.”
Peter flips through the newspaper cuttings. “I’ll dig out the old police reports, if it was a cover-up they won’t have told anyone that this bloke –”
“– Harvey Mason –”
“– yeah, him – Mason was stealing from the estate, wouldn’t want a motive for the papers to dive in on.” He leans over the desk, taking a sip of tea, trying to read Morse’s crossword clues. “I swear they get harder every week.”
Morse snorts and starts penning in an answer.
*
“So, this Harvey Mason,” says Bright. “Closed case, you say?”
“From 1957, sir,” says Peter. “Some evidence the coppers involved were paid off to keep it quiet. There was heavy suspicion on Jasper Coates, the lad who lives up at Carcester now with the rest of his friends.”
Morse says, “It was alleged that Mason stole from the estate, which is probable motivation.”
“And we think that Eric Forrest was murdered for much the same reason. Strange is chasing it up, but we think he might have been responsible for those car thefts he’s been chasing, with the roses?”
Bright frowns, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingernails on the edge of his desk. “So he stole his friend’s motor vehicle then? Jasper Coates’s aunt plays bridge with Mrs Bright, she’s been asking after that car.”
He suppresses a smile, Mrs Bright knows everyone under the sun. “We think so, nothing certain yet.”
“Sergeant Jakes thinks that maybe Eric Forrest tried to steal this missing watch, which is what lead whichever of those in the house – if it was one of them – to decide to stage a burglary.”
“You haven’t completely ruled out an outside element? Make sure you do before you go chasing the Coates family,” says Bright. “We don’t want another – Well.” He smiles at them. “Very good, keep me informed.”
*
Trewlove catches them as they enter the incident room. “Sergeant Jakes, the search didn’t turn anything up in Carcester Park.”
“Damn.”
Morse says, “Divers searched the stream and the pond?”
She nods.
“Damn,” Peter repeats. “Division won’t pass a warrant on the house, not with it being a posh set.” He pats the door frame, gnawing on his lip. “Thank you, Trewlove. I’ll think on that.”
“No problem, good night Sergeant Jakes, Morse.”
He blinks and looks past their desks to the window where the sun is indeed setting. Morse walks onwards to his desk and turns on his lamp so his face is awash with that alien, dirty glow. Thursday’s office is shut up and dark, obviously Strange or some constable had driven him home while they were talking to Mr Bright, who always stayed until five sharp before leaving his office.
“Question,” says Morse. “What does Forrest do with the cars once he’s stolen them?”
He follows Morse to his desk and sits on the edge of it beside Morse, sitting in his chair. “Sells them, I guess. Did Strange ever find any of them?”
“No, I suppose someone could be changing the plates.” Morse rocks back in his chair, looking at Peter with a thoughtful frown. “But Strange had been ‘round all the usual places and couldn’t find them.”
“Could be someone new on the scene, or maybe he was taking them up to London, Connor mentioned he was from there originally, didn’t he?”
Morse narrows his eyes. “Old connections, you think?”
“We can give that to Strange too, I’m not chasing car thieves to London.” He catches Morse’s eye and grins. “Come on, we can discuss this over dinner.”
He grouses about leaving the station but grabs his coat anyway, Peter thinks he has Morse quite under control, thank you very much.
*
At home over bags of fish and chips they talk about the case, sitting at Peter’s kitchen table. It’s one of those sleepy evenings where Morse thinks too hard and Peter muses quietly, every so often one of them throwing an idea out onto the table. Peter remembers what these nights used to be like: leaving Morse at the office in the amber pool of his desk lamp, Peter alone in his flat feeling jealous and cruel and lonely. He prefers these nights, tempting Morse to have another cuppa, stay a little longer, watching him work something out so his eyes burn like the brightest beacons.
When Morse finally drags himself away from Peter’s with the next day planned meticulously, he says, “I’ll see you in the morning then.” And for some ridiculous reason he wants to –
“Good night, Morse.”
II
After unlocking his door he goes knocking about the kitchen, making coffee and humming along to the radio. He probably looks like a right tit, he hasn’t even done his hair yet and it’s flopping in his eyes and his shirt is unbuttoned and he has butter on his fingers. It probably says a lot that he doesn’t give a shit, probably says too much. He’s supposed to be a peacock, he’s supposed to be proud, that was his character, the polished facade he’s been playing since coming into the police. And now he’s just unlocked his door for fucking Morse and –
There’s a noise behind him, a sort of amused snort, and Morse is there. His hair is just as wild as Peter’s, which isn’t saying much because that’s its usual state. He’s leaning against the fridge, smiling at him. “Morning,” he says.
Peter descends on him swiftly and shoves a buttered crumpet in his mouth, patting Morse’s chest with his hand. “Morning. Is that still my tie? Use the damn washing machine downstairs, it’s free if you kick it right .”
He scowls and tries to say something around the crumpet but it comes out as muffled angry bleating as he waves his occupied hands in the air.
“It’s not illegal.” He reaches out a hand and grabs the crumpet.
Morse tears of a bite and glares at him, munching steadily. “My hands are full .”
“So’s your mouth, didn’t anyone ever teach you any manners?” He proffers the crumpet again as Morse swallows. “Come on, eat up.”
“I am not eating out of your – Oh for fucks sakes.” Morse leans in and takes another bite. He probably could put his documents on the counter, or flip his jacket up onto his elbow rather than holding it in his hand, but he won’t, Peter can tell. Morse wants to know how far he’ll take this. “Pretty good actually.” He’s got butter all around his mouth. Morse takes another bite. Peter finds himself watching with more than a degree of interest.
“Sleep well?”
Morse shrugs and, through crumpet, says, “Fairly. I was rereading the Mason file. I really think that Jasper –” He takes another bite. “– did kill him, it’s the same motive as we think we’ve got for Forrest as well: theft. It makes sense .”
“Just because it fits the pretty pattern your brain wants to find doesn’t mean it’s true.” He shoves the rest of the crumpet in Morse’s gob and tries not to memorise the feel of his lips under the pads of his fingertips. “You should’ve been sleeping, anyway.” Morse is staring at him and Peter realises how close they’re standing and moves back a little to lean against the kitchen counter and button his shirt.
“It’s your theory,” says Morse. “And it’s probably true.”
He grins, buttery fingers fiddling with his buttons. “I’m clever, that’s why.”
“Definitely.” Morse moves closer to him again, leaving his papers on the counter and his coat over the crook of his elbow, he knocks Peter’s hands away and deftly buttons him up to the throat. Peter can’t tear his eyes away from the look of quiet determination on his face, the auburn twists to the curls near his eyes catching in the early morning light. When Morse is done he looks up and catches his gaze. “I think your coffee is done.”
They stare at each other for a moment longer before bursting into activity, Peter eating his own crumpet and drinking his coffee so fast he burns his mouth, Morse darting into his bedroom to grab his already tied tie to swing around Peter’s neck, Morse talking quickly and with extravagant vocabulary about the 1957 case.
He tries very, very hard not to think about Morse or Morse’s lips or Morse’s fingers or Morse’s anything as he does his hair.
*
After Morse arrives with Thursday, Strange gives them a debrief on what he found the day before. “I spoke to people at his college and no one could say where he was on days or at those times, doesn’t mean conclusively it was him, but there’s no definite alibi. He didn’t have much of a social life outside those up at Carcester, supposedly.”
“We had a thought about the cars,” says Peter. “Eric Forrest’s home turf was London, we’re thinking he might have sold them on there, that’s why you haven’t found them here.”
Strange narrows his eyes, knuckles tapping on the edge of the table. “I’ll talk to the old man, see if he can’t help me with that. I’ll keep you posted.”
Morse nods. “Alright, thanks.” He turns back to Peter, eyes glowing with that truth pursuit, the hot blood of the hunt rising. “Let’s speak to Miss Hearnes.”
*
She’s alone at Carcester. “The others have gone back to school,” she says, “I think they just wanted a bit of normality. Just an awful day yesterday… Poor Eric.”
“You knew him well?” asks Morse from the window.
“Not really, wish I did.” She smiles, rubbing the edge of a throw pillow with her thumb. “Lovely guy, always making you feel welcome.”
Peter says, “He got on well with everyone then?”
“Yes. Well, obviously they had some falling outs, but all friends do!” She sighs and nibbles on a lock of her long dark hair. “I feel like he was a little jealous sometimes. I went out to dinner with them a few times and he seemed to get embarrassed when someone else would offer to pay for him… They were only being kind, he was from somewhere a little… dodgy – shall we say? – in London, I think.”
Peter nods with all the understanding he can muster. “How did he pay rent on this place?”
“I don’t think he did… I wouldn’t know. I think he paid less than the rest of them anyway, Dom told me that they had to convince Jasper to let them pay anything at all, he was set to let them live here for free.” She looks up from fiddling with her pillow. “Why?”
“Just following enquiries,” he says. “We need to rule out any possibility of Eric being killed for money reasons. He might have set up to help someone steal that watch of Jasper’s…?”
She gasps, a little affected thing. “No, Eric wouldn’t – Well, he – Don’t get the wrong idea, Sergeant, he wasn’t like that, really – Once Dom and Marcus caught Eric going through some of their things and they didn’t tell anyone else because he felt rather embarrassed about it. It’s only because he came from a rough background and they told him as much and that he didn’t have to do that now he was in with them. Anyway, he promised not to any more.” She looks perfectly serious as she says it.
Peter can imagine it all too well. The condescending cadence of Dominic and Marcus, the embarrassment at being caught; the desire to be like a thief in one of his detective paperbacks who is always two steps ahead, the desire to show them up. “Best not mention it to the others then,” he says, “wouldn’t want to tarnish his memory.”
“Of course,” she says, smiling sadly. “He was a great friend, even if I didn’t know him well.”
*
The ex-butler from Carcester House in 1957 glowers at them when they tell him why they’re there. “Come to make sure I’m not saying anything, are you?”
“Not at all, Mr Kettle,” says Peter soothingly. “We’re reopening the case, hoping to convict Jasper Coates for it.”
Kettle freezes from ushering them out of the door. “What do you know about it?”
“Someone else has died at Carcester House,” says Morse, pressing forwards urgently. “We think he might have been stealing from Coates as well. It’s the same MO, it’s the same situation. No harm is going to come to you now, we’re not about to get bought out by those up at the House.”
He stares at them, unblinking. He’s not old but grey tints his temples and his eyes are lined and creased. “I’m sure that lot from before would’ve said the same.”
“We’re not that lot from before,” says Morse in that same soft voice he uses when talking about Blenheim Vale. “We’re going to make it right. I just need to hear from you: do you believe Jasper Coates killed Harvey Mason?”
Kettle blinks for a long moment, eyeing them with a decade of mistrust. Finally: “Yes. Yes and there was proof. They probably never threw it away. My brother’s in the police up north and he says murderer’s keep trophies, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” Morse whispers.
“You’ll find it in the stables where they keep the cars,” says Kettle. His eyes are bright like the treasure of truth they seek.
*
Back in the Jag they get through a message from the information room from Strange, he’s found Jasper Coates’s car and got the information (no doubt with fists) that it was Eric Forrest who was selling the cars.
They sit in silence for a moment as the case falls into place steadily, after only one day. “We need to get a warrant,” says Morse. “Right now.” And he’s shining like the truth, so dazzling he has to look away.
*
“See how easy it is when corruption is burnt out, root and stem?” Bright stands beside them, watching Strange and Thursday drill Jasper Coates. “The fastest solve we’ve seen in a while, congratulations gentlemen.”
They had found the ‘stolen’ watch, the candlestick, the knife, and a bloody hunk of metal (which probably killed Harvey Mason) just where Kettle had said it would be. Sitting and waiting for them like a faithful and well-loved dog waiting at the gate for them to come home. Jasper Coates had been ivory and ice when they’d picked him up from Jesus College, eyes flinty and dead as Poppy hung off his arm, stricken. It’s over so fast, a flash of lightning. He wants to be in the interrogation room with Morse, their voices and words flinging from left to right, speeding and slowing at the right points. Jasper had been refusing to talk to them though, the people who outsmarted him. Peter feels a vicious stab of delight that Eric managed to steal the prick’s car without being caught.
“Yes, very well done,” says Bright.
“Thank you, sir,” they say in unison.
*
As they wander home Morse says, frustration bleeding from every hissed consonant, “It feels so… anticlimactic. I wanted him – I wanted to crack him.”
Peter wants to crack his skull open, thinking about that decade old cold case. “Well, Thursday and Strange will get him.”
“Bad news,” asks Miss Frazil from behind them.
Morse’s mouth twitches as he turns around. “We got the bastard, if that’s what you’re asking. Jasper Coates. Your 1957 case was very helpful.”
“I live to serve,” she says, smiling gently at him. Peter thinks they’re alike, all three of them, in the pursuit of truth and justice, he supposes that’s why Morse likes her. “Neither of you seem very happy about it.”
“He won’t talk if we interview him,” says Peter bluntly.
“We’re the ones who caught him.” Morse breaths sharply between clenched teeth. “So now he’s wallowing in self-pity and only answering Thursday’s questions because Strange isn’t a high enough rank for him.”
She purses her lips. “The punishment of the intelligent? I shall be sure to write of you glowingly.”
He pauses, turning back around to head home, Peter already beginning to move away from her and Cowley and Jasper Coates. “Make sure you add that Sergeant Jakes was the one who had the idea.”
It makes him smile for some stupid reason he shouldn’t think about. “Shut up, Morse.”
“He did,” says Morse to Miss Frazil, who only watches them with some inexplicable pride in her eyes. “Not as stupid as I first thought.”
“Always a comfort,” says Miss Frazil to Peter, “to know you aren’t as stupid as you look.”
He snorts. “He’s such a charmer. Be sure to mention that in your article.”
*
The case being over sets Peter a little adrift. That sharp crackle of the new case barrelling through his veins snapping out, like pain medication at the hospital suddenly being cut out. It’s irritating how much he wants to be out there chasing someone who didn’t kill for money and the betrayal of a loyalty never won.
He sits at Morse’s table eating something Morse insists is an omelette and tries to forget about it. About that house gleaming and shimmering on the horizon at the end of a long, hazy gravel drive. Of the people in there now, staring off into the middle distance, thinking about Eric and Jasper and what had happened under their roof that night. He wonders if any of them already knew. He wonders if any of them will stay.
Morse puts on a record and it’s fucking opera but Peter can only smile at him. Morse closes his eyes and sways in his chair, a thousand miles away and the closest he’s ever been.
“I never hated you,” he whispers.
His eyes flicker open. “Really? I think I’m quite easy to hate.”
“I was just jealous.”
A small quirked smile. “There’s a lot to be jealous of.” Peter thinks teasing and happiness suit Morse. He thinks smiles suit Morse. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he agrees.
A moment of drifting music. “I never hated you either, even if you were a dick.”
Peter closes his eyes. “It’s the hair, makes it impossible to hate me.”
Morse starts chuckling tiredly under the swell of music. “Want a cuppa?”
“Gasping.”