Free The Secret of Annexe 3 by Colin Dexter

matter.
    Lewis himself had never spent a Christmas or a New Year away from home since his marriage; and although he knew that family life was hardly prize-winning roses all along the way, he had never
felt the urge to get away from his own modest semi-detached house up in Headington over such holiday periods. Yet now – most oddly, considering the circumstances – he began to see for
the first time, some of the potential attractions: no frenetic last-minute purchases from supermarkets; no pre-feastday preparations of stuffings and sauces; no sticky saucepans to scour; no
washing-up of plates and cutlery. Yes! Perhaps Lewis would mention the idea to the missus, for it seemed perfectly clear to him as he spoke to guest after guest that a wondrously good time was
being had by all – until a man had been found murdered.
    Exactly where Morse had been during the whole of this period, Lewis had little idea, although (Lewis had heard part of it) the chief inspector had interviewed the woman on Reception at some
considerable length – a woman (as Lewis saw her) most pleasingly attractive, with a quiet, rather upper-class manner of speaking that contrasted favourably with the somewhat abrasive
questioning she was being subjected to – with Morse obviously still in a tetchy frame of mind after his altercations with the luckless Phillips, and apparently quite unconcerned about venting
his temporary ill-humour on anyone and everyone, including Sarah Jonstone.
    It was just after 10 p.m. that the police surgeon came back into the main building again, the inevitable long-ashed cigarette dropping from his lips, his black bag in one hand, two sheets of A4
in the other.
    ‘My God, you do pick ’em, Morse!’ began the surgeon as the three of them, Max, Morse and Lewis, sat down together in the deserted games room.
    ‘Get on with it, Max!’ said Morse.
    The surgeon looked quickly at his notes – then began.
    ‘One – he’s a wasp, Morse.’
    ‘He’s a
what
?’
    ‘He’s a WASP – a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant – though he could well be a Catholic, of course.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Two – his age is about thirty to forty, though he could be twenty-nine or forty-one, for that matter.’
    ‘Or forty-two,’ said Morse.
    The surgeon nodded. ‘Or twenty-eight.’
    ‘Get on with it!’
    ‘Three – his height’s five foot seven and a half inches. You want that in metres, Morse?’
    ‘Not so long as it’s accurate in inches.’
    ‘Can’t promise that.’
    ‘Christ!’
    ‘Four – he’s dressed up as a Rastafarian.’
    ‘Very perceptive!’
    ‘Five – he’s got a wig on: black, curlyish.’
    ‘Something several of us could do with!’
    ‘Six – he’s got dreadlocks.’
    ‘Which are?’
    ‘Long, thin bits of hair, plaited into strands, with cylindrical beads at the end.’
    ‘I saw them! It’s just that I didn’t know—’
    ‘Seven – these strands of hair are stapled to the inside of the hat he’s wearing.’
    Morse nodded.
    ‘Eight – this hat is a sort of baggy, felt “cap”, with a big peak, a black-grey-white check pattern, filled out with folded toilet-paper. You want to know which
brand?’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Nine – his face is darkened all over with what’s known in theatrical circles as “stage-black”.’
    Again Morse nodded.
    ‘Ten – this stage-black stretches down to the top of the shirt-level, just round his neck; the backs of the hands are similarly bedaubed, Morse, but not the palms.’
    ‘Is that important?’
    ‘Eleven’ – the surgeon ignored the question – ‘his light blue shirt has got six buttons down the front, all but the top one done up, long-sleeved, obviously very
new and probably being worn for the first time.’
    No comment from Morse.
    ‘Twelve – his white trousers are made of some cheap summer-wear material, a bit worn here and there.’
    ‘And nothing in the pockets,’ said Morse; but it wasn’t a question.
    ‘Thirteen – he’s got three