Free Last Seen Wearing by Colin Dexter

brown-painted door.
   'I'll be downstairs when yer've finished.'
   Morse contented himself with a mild 'phew' as the door closed, and the two men looked around them. 'So this was where Ainley came.' They stood in a bed-sitting room, containing a single (unmade) bed, the sheets dirty and creased, a threadbare settee, an armchair of more recent manufacture, a huge, ugly wardrobe, a black-and-white TV set and a small underpopulated bookcase. They passed through a door in the far wall, and found themselves in a small, squalid kitchen, with a greasy-looking gas cooker, a Formica-topped table and two kitchen stools.
   'Hardly an opulent occupant?' suggested Morse. Lewis sniffed and sniffed again. 'Smell something?'
   'Pot, I reckon, sir.'
   'Really?' Morse beamed at his sergeant with delight, and Lewis felt pleased with himself.
   'Think it's important, sir?'
   'Doubt it,' said Morse. 'But let's have a closer look round. You stay here and sniff around—I'll take the other room.'
   Morse walked straight to the bookcase. A copy of the Goon Show Scripts appeared to be the high-water mark of any civilized taste in the occupant's reading habits. For the rest there was little more than a stack of Dracula comics and half a dozen supremely pornographic magazines, imported from Denmark. The latter Morse decided to investigate forthwith, and seated in the armchair he was contentedly sampling their contents when Lewis called from the kitchen.
   'I've found something, sir.'
   'Shan't be a minute.' He thought guiltily of sticking one of the magazines in his pocket, but for once his police training got the better of him. And with the air of an Abraham prepared to sacrifice an Isaac upon the altar, he replaced the magazines in the bookcase and went through to his over-zealous sergeant.
   'What about that, sir?' Morse nodded unenthusiastically at the unmistakable paraphernalia of the pot-smoker's paradise. 'Shall we pack this little lot up, sir?'
   Morse thought for a while.'No, we'll leave it, I think.' Lewis's eagerness wilted, but he knew better than to argue. 'All we need to find out now is who he is, Lewis.'
   'I've got that, too, sir.' He handed the inspector an unopened letter from Granada TV Rental Service addressed to Mr. J. Maguire.
   Morse's eyes lit up. 'Well, well. We might have known it. One of the boyfriends, if I remember rightly. Well done, Lewis! You've done a good job.'
   'You find anything, sir?'
   'Me? Oh, no. Nothing, really.'

Mrs. Gibbs, who was waiting for them as they reached the bottom of the stairs, expressed the hope that the visit was now satisfactorily terminated, and Morse said he hoped so, too.
   'As I told yer, 'e won't be 'ere much longer, the trouble 'e's caused me.'
   Sensing that she was becoming fractionally more communicative Morse kept the exchanges going. He had to, anyway.
   'Great pity, you know, that Inspector Ainley was killed. You'd have finished with this business by now. It must be a bit of a nuisance . . .'
   'Yes. He said as 'ow 'e 'oped he needn't come bothering me again.'
   'Was, er, Mr. Maguire here when he called?'
   'No. 'E called about the same time as you gentlemen. 'Im' (pointing aloft) '—'e were off to work. Well, some people'd call it work, I s'pose.'
   'Where does he work now?' Morse asked the question lightly enough, but the guarded look came back to her eyes.
   'Same place.'
   'I see. Well, we shall have to have a word with him, of course. What's the best way to get there from here?'
   'Tube from Putney Bridge to Piccadilly Circus—least, that's the way 'e goes.'
   'Could we park the car there?'
   'In Brewer Street? Yer must be joking!'
   Morse turned to Lewis. 'We'd better do as Mrs. Gibbs says, sergeant, and get the tube.'
   On the steps outside Morse thanked the good lady profusely and, almost as an afterthought it seemed, turned to speak to her once more.
   'Just one more thing, Mrs.